Today would look great on his resume. Worked at AlgerTech for six months. Reason for leaving? Mass shooting at his last job.
He’d hadn’t been able to call Monica because his cell phone had died. He’d been meaning to charge it all day.
He idled in the driveway for a few minutes and stared at his front porch. The rocking chair had been a gift from his father, handcrafted and treated for inclement weather. When his father passed away, Bradley’s mother had told him it was the last thing his father had made. The old man knew he was dying. Cancer of the liver, but he refused treatment and died six months later. That was how the old man had always lived. No regrets. Live for today, drink for today, and damn the consequences.
They had painted the house in the last summer, hoping they would be able to sell it and move to a smaller place. Then the housing market had crashed and values had plummeted. Now, he and Monica paid for a house that was worth twenty-five thousand dollars less than they had bought it for. There was no way in hell the home would sell now unless they took a massive loss.
Andy Pierson hovered over a waist high hydrangea with clippers in hand. He stood and waved at Bradley.
Andy had lived in his two-story home for over thirty years and had purchased it brand new. His wife had passed away a few months ago due to stomach cancer, and Bradley had spent a few days helping him recover because sometimes people just needed a friend to talk to. Andy wore a pair of dark blue overalls, and his mustache and beard were trimmed, which was a nice change. After Annie had passed, he’d let himself go.
“Hey, Brad.” Andy waved.
“How are the hydrangea’s looking?”
“Good. Got some bugs. Ate up a bunch of leaves so I hit `em with some pesticides. Little bastards won’t be around for much longer.”
“Good to hear. Gotta keep on top of those things,” Bradley said.
Andy dropped his gardening shears and crossed over into Bradleys’ yard.
“You look rough. What’s that on your shirt?”
“Long story,” Bradley said. “It’s blood, but not mine. Let’s have a beer tonight or tomorrow, and I’ll tell you a story that will make your balls shrivel up.”
“Yeah? I have a six pack in the fridge. You stop by around seven or eight and we’ll toast something or other. You sure you’re okay?” Andy asked, his eyes roaming over Bradley’s shirt. “You look like you went a few rounds.”
“I’ll be all right. Probably start looking for a new job in the next day or two, though.”
Bradley recognized that he was in a daze. The shooting, the cops, paramedics, the fact that they had sent him home. He went through the motions of chatting with his neighbor just to feel something, no matter how mundane.
“Well, that’s okay. Working with those liberals has to be hard.”
“There are days,” Bradley said.
“Looks like the economy’s about to change. Heard on the tube today that the unemployment rate is dropping. Just takes time for these things to happen,” Andy said.
“I think you’re right. I wish my son would see this. He’s got no common sense sometimes.”
“Yeah? He giving you grief like the rest of this state?”
“He’s fallen in with a crowd at school. He said he wants to go to some of the protests in the city, but I said no. Told him that, when he’s eighteen in seven months, and he has his own car, which means getting a job, he can go wherever he pleases, and that includes college.”
“How’d he like that?” Andy pushed his ball cap up.
“Not much. Just grumped around.”
“Kids are like that. Mine lives in Seattle. I don’t know how he survives that place with all those hipsters, granola eaters, and pot smokers. It’s a wonder they get anything done in that city.”
“I don’t get it either, Andy. I supposed you gotta live somewhere. I couldn’t stand it myself.”
“Did you hear about the incident at the Target yesterday?”
“No, what happened?” Bradley asked
Bradley knew he should go inside, but he had always liked Andy, and they could chat for hours if given the chance. It was good to talk to a friend after his messed up morning. The image of Ed and Jessica, not to mention Garry and the other accountants, lying dead on the floor of his office building haunted him every time his mind drifted. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to drift into a black hole that would take days to get out of.
“You okay?” Andy asked.
“Yeah, just frazzled,” Bradley said.
“Well I’ll give you this bit of gossip and let you go. I heard from Wilbur over at the Burger Shack that a couple of kids got into a fight in the store. Then their parents got into it. Pretty soon, it was a damn melee with people taking up sides and slugging it out. One guy pulled a gun but a cop showed up and threatened to lock everyone up. Then more cops arrived, and they hauled some folks to jail,” Andy said.
“Cubs and Sox fans fighting?” Bradley said.
“Wish it was. You know all those Facebook fights you see over the president? Well, sounds like one spilled out into the real world. Hell of a thing.” Andy sighed.
“Hell of a thing, is right. What’s gotten into people?” Bradley said.
“I don’t know, but your wife’s going to lay into you if you don’t get inside. She’s been standing in the doorway for a few minutes.” Andy nodded toward Bradley’s house.
Bradley turned his head and found she had pushed the screen door open and stood with her hands crossed over her chest.
“I’m coming,” Bradley called to her.
“Thought you forgot where the front door was,” she said.
Bradley rolled his eyes, and Andy shot him a quick and knowing grin.
“Hey, Bradley, know how to fix a broken dish washer?” Andy said under his breath
“Uh, no?”
“Smack her ass and send her back to the kitchen.” Andy grinned from ear to ear.
“That’s a horribly sexist joke, Andy.”
“I know, and you know I love Monica. Just trying to get a smile out of you,” Andy said. “Stop by later. We’ll catch up. Right now, I need to go massacre some more bugs,” Andy said and clapped Bradley on the shoulder.
“See you later,” Bradley said, turned, and made for his house.
* * *
“What are you two talking about?” She said as he made it to the front door, zipping up his jacket so she didn’t see the blood on his shirt.
Bradley had to step over a couple of little Jenny’s toys. She had apparently been setting up a tea party with her dolls He prayed she didn’t drag him into her little girl madness. He would come out later and gather them up if she forgot, which meant, he would be coming back outside.
“Just stuff. I like Andy,” he said. “Most of the time.”
“What inappropriate joke did he tell you this time? I like Andy, but he’s a racist and a homophobe. “
“That he is,” Bradley said and wondered why he gave Andy breaks when he said stuff like that joke about the dishwasher.
“I was so worried when Evelyn died. Such a sweet woman,” she said.
Bradley nodded. “Oh. I forgot something in the car. I’ll be just a minute.”
“Okay. I’m worried about you. We should sit down and talk,” she said.
“Not much to talk about. I’ll be back in a minute, hon,” he said and made for his car.
* * *
When she had closed the door, he gotten back inside the Bronco, sat in the driver’s seat, and reached into the glove box. He took out a bottle in a plain brown bag and studied it for a few seconds.
He really didn’t want to go inside yet. Speaking with Andy had taken his mind off the shooting, but it wouldn’t last long. He didn’t want to do anything except sit there and drink.
Bradley spun the top off a bottle of cheap scotch and tilted it back. It burned like the devil as he swallowed. He was already buzzed, and Monica would give him hell for that. He was surprised she hadn’t sa
id anything when he got home because he had to smell like a drunk.
He hadn’t even realized people were staring when he’d entered the store to buy the bottle. Prices had skyrocketed on sin items like cigarettes and booze, but he’d gladly paid for the luxury today. The clerk, an Indian man named Azid, handed back his change.
“You okay?” The man had asked.
“I am not okay, my friend. I’m anything but okay,” Bradley had said as he’d left.
Bradley took another long swig, and then fought his gag reflex. He was more of a Natty Light kind of guy, but when he was in the Army, his squad leader, Koch had been fond of scotch. So, one night the men had sat around drinking and Koch had put a bottle of some expensive stuff in the pool since he was out of cash. Bradley had won the hand and hauled in about seventy bucks plus the scotch.
Koch had bugged him for an hour before convincing Bradley to sample the liquor and share it.
“You mean to tell me you can’t hold your liquor, Sarge?” Bradley had broken the seal and unscrewed the top.
“That’s real funny,” Koch had said.
“You mean to tell me you gave up your prize for my insurgency?”
“Insurgency?”
“Yeah. Coming in here and kicking your ass,” Bradley said, which brought roars of laughter from his squad mates.
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. Now shit or get off the pot, Specialist. I can’t let my baby go to waste on a grunt like you.”
Bradley had delighted in torturing his sergeant. Koch took it in stride and gave back as good as he got. There were unwritten rules about pulling rank during a downtime unless someone was being a dick.
“That the SOP, Sarge? Give up the objective when the cards are down?” Bradley sipped from the bottle.
Then he took a swig and attempted to gargle with it, which was a complete disaster. The liquor was so strong it made him gag, his eyes watered, and he had to lean over and spit the scotch out. Then he gasped for breath while pounding his chest.
“What the hell kind of a grunt are you? Can’t even gargle properly?” Koch shot back. Tears streamed down his face as well, from laughter.
“You gotta swallow after a good gargle, Adams. Not spit it out,” Specialist Erb, a had roared with laughter.
“Damn that burns, Sarge,” Bradley said when he’d recovered.
That had been a good night. The next day his squad had been ambushed. Erb went home missing his leg. Koch had gone home in a coffin.
Bradley put a finger under his eye and found it was wet. He let the tears stream for a few minutes. He straightened up his shirt, wiped his eyes dry, and took one more long drink. Then he went in to explain what had happened to Monica.
* * *
“Baby,” Bradley called from the front door after he opened it. “Promise me you’re not going to freak. I have to tell you what happened first, okay?”
“If you got a speeding ticket, you’re going to have more than some explaining to do,” she yelled from the kitchen.
Bradley stepped inside. Jennifer had setup a doll house in the center of the family room, then put some dolls on top, presumably so they could watch cartoons with her. Probably the same dolls that should be outside enjoying tea. An old copy of People Magazine lay open on the couch, and a book sat on the dark brown coffee table that was stained with drink rings. The news was on their television, a 42” LED he’d picked up during a Black Friday sale two years ago. It was always on. Even when you changed the channel they talked about the riots all night and day.
He looked at the walls and thought about their plans to change the wallpaper. They had been putting a little money aside so they could do further home improvements, and that was the first one they had planned, after the outside paint. The flowery pattern had been acceptable when they had moved in because it could be easily fixed. Turned out, nothing was that simple.
The pattern was a mix of light blues and pinks. Bradley would have been happy with one color and a little wood, or even wood-colored trim. But Monica had been satisfied with the colors of the walls and so had little Jenny. Nothing spoke to a little girl quite like flowery wallpaper.
“Where are you?” Monica called.
Pots clanged and plates rattled.
Bradley studied the couch. It was threadbare but had been good enough to get them through the last twelve years. It was in serious danger of caving in completely where Bradley preferred to sit. Six hours ago, he thought he was never going to see this room again. He had thought he was going to die.
He unzipped his jacket and tossed it on the back of the couch.
“I’m here,” Bradley said.
Jenny dashed into the room and came up short. Normally she jumped into his arms for a sky ride. But today, she stopped and looked at her father. He looked back and nearly lost it.
His vision blurred but this time it was for a different reason. He knelt and put his arms out.
“What happened, Daddy?” Jenny asked.
She had pigtails today, and each one had a hint of purple on the tips. He hoped she hadn’t done that herself. At seven years old, Jenny knew everything about everything there was to know in the entire world and had informed Bradley of this on multiple occasions.
He knelt and opened his arms but she wouldn’t come to him.
“I’m okay, baby. It’s just some paint from work,” Bradley said.
He unbuttoned his shirt and then slid it down his arms. He looked down and found his white T-shirt looked almost as bad. Blood, not his, but from that of several people, still coated his arms. That reminded him to be careful. While he was certain that bloodborne pathogens or diseases couldn’t survive out of the body, but what if he was wrong?
He needed a shower, stat.
Bradley moved as if in a dream. He made for the bedroom and closed the door softly behind him. He got a glimpse of Jenny still standing there, mouth open, watching him. She grabbed one pony tail and twirled it.
* * *
Bradley floated into the bathroom and removed the rest of his clothes. He studied his shirt in the light and determined, just as he had suspected, it was a total loss. All that blood would never come out.
He turned on the water in the shower and waited until the steam rose, then he stepped inside and let the heat beat down on him.
Monica opened the door and barged in. She took one look at him, then his clothes, and screamed.
“It’s okay. Not my blood,” he mumbled over the sound of the running water.
“What happened, Bradley. What in the fuck happened to you!?”
Monica was five foot five and a firecracker. She had auburn hair that bordered on red, and it had been straight for as long as he’d known her. She kept it long so it flowed past her shoulders, which he found sexy as hell. She had a trim figure and walked a few miles with her girlfriends every morning after the kids went to school. She wore glasses, and they started to fog in the bathroom.
“Something happened at work,” Bradley said.
“Something happened at work? Did someone kill a pig and you bathed in its blood?”
Bradley wished that was what had happened. Made sense that this hadn’t even hit the news channels, and she hadn’t heard about it. A shooting in a workplace was small potatoes now compared to the current state of affairs. Just turn on the television and it was non-stop coverage of the president. The riots. The protesters. The destruction of public property. The military being called into several cities over the last few weeks because of civil unrest.
Maybe he should have called her after the police had cut him loose. He had a fifteen minute drive home, but he’d stopped a couple of times so he could stare into space. Then he had stopped and got a bottle of whiskey and thought about Koch.
The lights flickered, and then came back on.
“It’s been doing that all day. Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Bradley shut off the water and stared down at his chest. He had forgotten to use soap and blood still clung to his skin
. He grabbed a towel and rubbed his skin. He pressed harder and harder as he scrubbed.
Monica grabbed his arm and tried to stop him.
“I’ll get it off, all of it. Not my blood. Jessica’s blood. Maybe Ed’s. I’m not sure. Maybe Paul. He might make it. They air-lifted him,” Bradley trailed off.
Then he looked Monica in the eye, and that’s when he finally lost it. The tears came first, then the sobs. He pulled her body to his and held onto her like a buoy in a sea storm.
* * *
Bradley didn’t bother to get dressed. He sat on the side of the bed. She took a seat next to him and held his hand. She kept looking him over, touching his arms, legs, back, chest, checking for any kind of damage.
“Ed wasn’t much of a fighter, got me in the jaw but not too hard. My hearing is coming back, it’s slow, but it should be normal in a few days.”
“What happened when the police arrived?” She asked.
“They found me near my cubicle. I was sitting with my back to the wall and the gun was at my side, but I wasn’t touching it. They yelled at me to lay down and kick the gun away. Then people flooded in and one of the accountants, I guess he hid in a closet, said it wasn’t me. They pointed out Ed.
“I told them what happened. They took statements and wrote stuff down. A lady came in who made me repeat it all while she recorded it. All the while, a medic looked me over. They gave me an ice pack for my face,” he said and looked up.
Monica ran her hand over his cheek. “It’s going to bruise.”
“You’re in shock,” he said.
“No, Bradley. You’re in shock. Do you know how I know this? Because you didn’t even call me. What if this had been on the news, and I didn’t know you were okay! Why didn’t you at least call me?”
“My phone died,” Bradley said.
“No other phones at your place of work were operational? I see. That’s great,” Monica said, and then she started to cry.
Bradley put his arm over her shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he offered, but his voice felt like it was coming from far away.
“Come back to me, baby.” Monica whispered near his ear.
DRUMS OF WAR: A Dystopian Thriller Series (Broken Patriot Book 1) Page 4