Dawning (The Risen Series Book 1)

by Marie F. Crow

  “Shame about the boots,” J.D. says, in the closest thing to a playful voice he has. “Always love a girl in a good pair of boots.” He drags the words out, adding extra heat to them.

  “Well, seeing as how they are still in one piece, I guess they are still “good” boots,” I reply, ignoring his attempt to annoy me. I turn my legs side-to-side to gain a better vantage point of the damage. “I’m sure Aimes will just call them broken in.”

  “That she will. That she will. What would she call that little stunt you pulled back there?” he asks, watching me now instead of the boots. He is tipping his toes into the water of the real reason he started this conversation.

  “Suicidal gifted,” I say, smiling my best “look, I’m just a harm- less girl” smile with hopes to save myself from what I feel forming with his question.

  He chuckles with a deep laughing vibration. “That would be a good summary. I would call it a massive fuck up. What were you thinking?” The playful tones melt away as his voice lowers to a pitch warning of his disapproval.

  “That I had to save Aimes. Other than that, the truck would have been nice to have,” I reply with a shrug, meeting his gaze.

  I hold no attempt to earn approval from him. I did nothing seeking any rewards, but just the safety of my friend. Therefore, his opinion of the event is meaningless to me. I would do it all again. I may just run sooner next time.

  He not only stores the words I offer, but also the body language I hold. J.D. never wastes words. He tells you what he needs you to know only in the moment, leaving you to fill in the rest of the conversation yourself. What you fill in, is up to you. What you do with the filler is what he will be watching. It is a tightrope type of relationship with him and the truth is your only balancing tool of safety.

  He lets his silence fill the room with its own weight, waiting to see if I will cave before him. Waiting to see if I will beg for his mercy and understanding to regain any lost good graces with him. He is testing the strength of my resolve for what I have done as a doctor would test one for shock after such an event. Whatever he finds suits him and he nods before giving me his smile again. “Next time you want to go all Zombie Barbie on me, give a guy a heads up. If it wasn’t for your banging on those cars, we never would have even looked for you two. It would be a shame to lose your sweet ass. We may just need those balls of steel you are hiding somewhere. Though next time, you might want to pick an automatic if you want Blondie to drive it,” he says, waiting for what he has hinted at to settle in.

  When I roll my eyes realizing where the plan went wrong, he starts to laugh.

  His deep laughter follows him into the dark hallway beyond the room. He moves without a sound, which always amazes me for such a large man. Not even the well-worn wooden floors moan under his steps. They do not want to attract his attention any more than the living do. The darkness absorbs his form as if he is a missing piece of it. It welcomes him home.

  I have always thought of him as the Boogeyman. Until now, he was the most mind-wracking fear I have ever met with his icy- cold exterior and the limitless levels of his ruthless destruction. The fact he is now on the “good guy” side of the world shows just how far up the evil shit creek we are and I do not have a paddle strong enough to fight against the current rushing towards me with each hour that slips away.

  I make my way slowly through the same hallway with small shuffling steps. I use the wall as a guide being not as comfort- able in the darkness as the one who went ahead of me. My legs are almost a dead weight of pains and aches. It reminds me of Margaret with her swaying pigtails as another memory crashes through me, almost doubling me over. I had come close to having more in common with her today than just my mobility.

  The whole place is decorated in a retro country theme with bead board paneling in the various shades of white clichés. The wooden floor creaks under my feet even with the few well-worn runners spaced throughout in some attempt of a color scheme. Windows are covered in various plaids and have been bleached to pastels from years of sunlight. Seeing those shades, I cringe without a conscious effort.

  The furniture is sparse. Even to say “bare necessity” would not be an exaggeration of the rooms. It’s the same with any personal touches that may give a clue to the owner of this place. There are no mementos. There are no framed faces or events in well-placed spots. There is nothing here to associate J.D. with this place at all, much less any of his personality reflected upon it. No Harley décor or half naked women in ridiculous, uncomfortable poses plastered along the long walls. For a male hunting cabin, it looks more like an old woman’s knitting retreat.

  There appears to be four bedrooms in which bags have been placed. A wooden ladder bolted to a wall leads up to an open loft style bedroom. I can see the duffels from Lee’s gun shop stacked against one of the walls. Various smaller guns are lying out along the loft’s edge. I can’t help but wonder if that is their idea of a final desperation set up or just boys being boys with their toys. It brings me no comfort to see them already either this prepared or this on edge.

  “Hey, Zombie Barbie is up!” Rhett calls out, as I pass the door- way of what opens to a small kitchen and dining room.

  “I think I preferred Snow White,” I mutter to him, returning his mock smile.

  “Trust me when I tell you, Zombie Barbie is way better than the other things they were naming you,” Aimes says, coming to stand before me from where they had been sitting playing a random card game.

  Aimes and I smile at each other before it all melts into silent tear-filled embraces. We cling to one another in a silent affirmation of our friendship, the survival of today and the freedom of being a girl that allows us to do this.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispers over and over again.

  I hold her, knowing deep inside she is not just apologizing to me but to herself in her imagined sense of failure. I know because I have done the same thing myself when I am surrounded by true pastels, fallen Angels and the perfumes of deaths that feel like a lifetime ago. I know because I have enough of my own failures to apologize over. I hold her and let us both be okay with them amid a slow whistle from Rhett as his mind takes him to a different type of show; boys will be boys.

  Chapter 17

  Dinner consisted of canned goods and meats in various colors and shapes I had never seen in any supermarket. At the time, I was so hungry I did not think much of it. Now as I do, my stomach does a warning roll to stop.

  The conversation around me ebbs and flows with various mood swings. Each time it flows to a serious note a new tide is inserted to change its course. No one has the strength yet to talk about the day, even as long glances are being cast my way when the swings go south. We are all curious about the shadowed looks the conversations place upon each of our faces, but no one wants to share first. Who would? “Hey, I stabbed a room full of kids today. How was your morning?” is not the most encouraging of starters. Chapel decides to do it anyway. His own soul is bursting with the need of it. I wonder if all religious men are so immune to other’s efforts of avoidance of soul bearing or if ours is just super talented at ignoring it.

  “I lost them all,” he whispers, once again staring at his beer.

  His statement brings the room to a hush. Everyone at the table does their best to find something amazing on the walls around us. Everyone, that is, but J.D. He leans back in the chair as it moans in protest, giving Chapel the full weight of his blank stare. If Chapel is going to be strong enough to take the in the protest, giving Chapel the full weight of his blank stare. If Chapel is going to be strong enough to take the journey, then J.D. is going to be strong enough to travel it silently with him. It’s like a duet and I think they are both insane for dancing it.

  Lawless discovers how interesting the engraved art is on his lighter. Rhett makes an amazing find under his thumbnail and seemingly worried about what it might be, he begins to stare at it with concerning confusion. Marxx is overcome with a sudden urge to wash his plate, and Rhett�
��s plate, and even Lawless’ plate if it will take him away from not only the table, but also any involvement in the conversation. Even our lighthearted pixie begins to treat the leftover vegetables on her plate as if they are a scientific discovery of wonders.

  I, myself, am curious. Will his be as bad as mine? Will I find some redemption for my sins in his story? Will this finally open the door for all of our ghosts who have been haunting us through- out the day to storm through or are we still too fragile to open the door at all, much less speak of what haunts us in our minds? Chapel starts with a whisper, still seeking comfort from his beer. “It started with the little ones. They complained of feeling bad last night, but other than a small fever they were fine. We sent them to bed. We checked on them a few times before we went to bed ourselves. They were fine, a little warm, but fine. My wife woke earlier than normal. Trina was so sick. Her fever just kept climbing, but she kept refusing to go to the hospital. We would have had to wake the kids and all. You know, a mother’s logic being what it is. I left to get her a cool rag. She was right there in the bedroom. I could not have been gone for more than a few minutes. I came back and she was gone. Her body still burning hot, but she was gone.” With his eyes shifting side-to-side, he’s not seeing us right now. He is reliving his own projections of memories behind those eyes. “I was so confused. Who do you call behind those eyes? “I was so confused. Who do you call and?

  I admit to letting your wife die while you were getting her a rag? A simple rag? I just shut off; you know. Tucked the blankets in around her trying to make her more comfortable like I guess,” he says shrugging, “and then I just left her. I don’t know. I just left her. God forgive me, I just left her and went to sit with the kids.” His voice never cracks as the first tear escapes, forging the path down his lined face.

  “…and the kids?” I ask, earning a glare from J.D.

  Chapel inhales slowly before starting again. “Their little bodies were all contorted in their beds. The sheets were tangled around them something forceful. It’s their eyes though, all glazed over, looking right at you that tells you they are gone. I don’t remember walking into the room, but I must’ve. I must’ve because I remember touching them. Their little bodies were soaked and so stiff. Like soft plastic but still warm. I always thought the dead were supposed to be cold, you know. They were warm. Not as warm as Trina but still… warm,” he says. He keeps whispering the word “warm” like a taboo word in church. It’s as if the word should hold some damning qualities the rest of us haven’t noticed yet. “I just shut their door and sat there in the hallway. I don’t remember how long. I don’t remember how I got the pistol, either. My wife is dead. My kids are dead. I just wanted to join them. I didn’t want to be alone. There I was in the hallway with all our pictures looking at me and I could not imagine being without them. All of those damn pictures. I was just about to pull the trigger when I heard it. It was like something fell in the kids’ room. I remember just sitting there. Just listening, when I heard it again. It was the damn door. Something was hitting it. Hitting it hard.”

  It seems no one is breathing now as we watch Chapel. We know what is coming next. We have seen it. Now we get to hear it.

  His hands begin to clench into tight fists before releasing to only repeat the process as he fights for control. He seems to hunch over with his grief as he talks, his shoulders falling inward. He seems to be shrinking as I watch him.

  For the first time, I see Chapel broken and brittle before us. I look to J.D. for his reaction and those powerful eyes still set in a blank face hold mine. Like me, he is waiting for the revelations to begin. It makes me wonder what sins of his own he is measuring Chapel’s up against.

  Chapel’s beer is no longer enough comfort. His eyes bore into the wooden table, burning with his grief as he says, “I remember seeing that damn doorknob move. Just a little. It rotated so slow I thought I must have been imagining it until the damn thing did it again. I just sat there, gun still to my head, just sitting there like a damn daydream when the door started to shake. The damn fingers. Their damn fingers were under the door pulling on it. Shaking it. I just sat there, sitting through it all. God forgive me, I just sat there as they tore open their damn fingers pulling so hard against the wood of the door. I called out. Told them stop it. Kay, Ken, you stop it, I said, and they did. They just froze there, but then they started back up again rattling the damn door. They never said a word no matter what I called out. I remember the door opening finally when the knob gave way to their rattling. I think I was almost relieved; you know. The noise stopped but the door just sat there. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t close. It just sits there and me a grown man too afraid to go look. I am their father and I am too afraid to go look. They were gone. I checked. No heartbeat. Nothing. Gone. Yet here are their damn fingers under the door still. Just sitting. Those tiny little fingers bleeding and torn just sitting there.”

  I notice how he never says dead. Is the word too final or just impossible to believe? The dead do not put their fingers under the door to escape from a room. To begin with, the dead do not try to even escape a room. At least they didn’t until today. Today the dead have a completely new bag of tricks.

  “I called out again,” Chapel says, still staring at the table as if he is the only person in the room. “Hell, if I know why, but I did. Those fingers slid up the doorframe, never stopping. They just slid right around and there they were. Standing there. Staring right at me like they were as confused to see me, as I was to see them. You know, for a moment, I was so happy to see them there. My kids, you know. My kids. Something just wasn’t right, though. Their eyes. It was something about the eyes. Like fisheyes. Dead fisheyes when they cloud over like that. That’s what it was like. What they are all like. Why is it always the eyes?” he asks the room, finally looking up to see us as if we hold any answers for him.

  He pauses to clear his emotion-clogged throat. Aimes slides him her glass of water, still amazed by her plate. No matter how hard they have been pretending to not be here, at this moment, they are. Each of them is lost in the moment as they ingest every word he says. Only J.D. and I have the strength to be here openly. We both sit, listening to Chapel confess every moment of the memory like a sick version of truth-or-dare between us.

  When Chapel starts again, I wish I had called dare instead of asking for more of the truth. “I called out to Kay, my little girl, my sweet girl. It was almost funny really the way their heads cocked slowly at the same time. We used to own a little mutt dog that would do that same thing when it heard something. That cock, you know. It never attacked me though. They did. I swear they did. Came right at me. Still all calm-like and just walked right up to me like they needed a hug or something, but then they attacked me. Those little hands that I have held a thousand times just started to pull on me. They kept trying to bite me. My kids. Fighting me. I didn’t want to do it. God forgive me, I didn’t want to do it. Those fish-like eyes staring at me from the faces that used to belong to my kids. God forgive me, but I did it. I shot them. One bullet each, I shot them right there in the hallway. In the hallway surrounded by all those damn pictures.”

  “…and the wife?” J.D. asks, his voice showing no reflections to the story told.

  “Didn’t take any chances,” Chapel says on the matter, as his body begins to shake.

  “Till death do you part,” J.D. says, as he downs whatever amber liquid was left in his glass, “then to death again.”

  “It was my old man.” Lawless never looks up from his lighter, completely unmoved, when he speaks. If you didn’t know his voice, you would never have guessed it was him who spoke.

  “He wasn’t feeling well. Took him to the doctor just the day before. Viral they said. Gave him some shots, some new vaccine, too. Supposed to help save your life. Make you live longer or something. Irony huh?” he asks, with his words clipping short. His sentences are providing no more than the basic needs of his ideas. That warm voice I have grown so used to is now dull and
flat, tired and defeated. “So, all is good. It’s just a normal day. I go to get him up and he’s just standing there with his back to me. I thought it was just going to be another one of those days when the Alzheimer’s really gets a hold of him. I’ll go in. Put him back in bed. Turn his T.V. on and wait. He’ll wake up. Bitch at me for being in his room and want to know why his breakfast is late. No big deal. I don’t even think about it. I put my hand on his shoulder to help him back into bed when he lunges at me,” he says, and shrugs before continuing to inspect his lighter. “I’m used to it. He gets combative sometimes. No big deal. I push him off me and normally that’s it. This time he came back again. Harder.”

  Each “no big deal” was accented with a short shrug of his shoulders. The engraving is becoming more interesting now as he brings the lighter up close to his face to examine it when he pauses. He never takes his deep brown eyes off the lighter. It’s such a small object for him to use as a shield before such a large monster sneaking up on us.

  Something on my face must have shown my concern for him and again it places the full weight of J.D.’s eyes on me. His finger silently taps the glass’s rim in his hand with our eyes locked. I know what he is not saying to me. One word from me and Lawless will lose the fragile thread of bravery in the room. I will rob him of his need to release these confessions. I say nothing. Like a priest in a wooden booth, I say nothing to break the spell.

  “Chap’s right about the eyes. Never thought of fish, but yeah, it works,” Lawless says, rubbing his thumb over the igniter. “He kept coming at me. Wouldn’t answer to his name. Just kept coming. I hit him. Right in the face. He bounced right back up. His nose was all messed up, but it never even slowed him down. So, I hit him again. I thought of my mom. All those times he hit her. I thought of all the times he hit me.” He shrugs, flipping the lighter to spark its flame before shutting it again. “He isn’t going to be hitting anyone, anymore.”