by Jeb Bohn
The team that Greg had assembled was undoubtedly skilled, though very raw and badly in need of structure. He had proven to be a natural leader, able to get this team to focus their anger with little effort. The Colorado site had been their first and only real test and, despite a few minor hiccups, it had gone exceedingly well. Despite this, Melanie had seen that creeping hysteria in Greg’s eyes with more regularity. Now, two members of the team were dead, the rest left to scramble and reassess their plans. Things appeared to be heading full speed towards calamity, and she wondered again if it might not be time for her to leave.
◆◆◆
Greg Schultz stood in the doorway of the cabin and watched as the remaining members of his crew left, heading east. They had loaded everything into the remaining two SUVs, leaving Greg to make his own way. He had bought a late 90s Ford Ranger a few days earlier from a rancher nearby. He had noticed a few odd glances that some of the men had shared when he pulled up in his new vehicle, but he had remained silent. After all, this was his operation and he would carry himself however he saw fit.
The reality was that Greg could feel his mind trying to tear itself apart. There were days where headaches came on him suddenly and with such force that he was convinced that he was having a stroke. His emotions were all over the map and he had contemplated suicide on multiple occasions. All of this was worsened by the fact that he wasn’t sleeping and hadn’t been for some time. Every time that he would lie down and close his eyes he saw his wife, his kids.
At first it brought him peace. Then, one night he dreamt that he was in the house with them, watching them burn. They had been screaming, their flesh charring and hair melting as they cried out for him. The vile and horrendous image had jarred him out of his slumber and left him gasping for air. That was the last night that he had slept. Since then, he had spent his evenings thinking, running over details in his mind, and coming up with contingencies for contingencies. He was meticulous, and that fact was paying dividends now.
As he stood and listened to the engines of the SUVs grow fainter he felt a sharp pain in his temple. Sagging against the doorway, he rubbed vigorously at the site of the ache as spots began to dot his vision. Rivers of sweat poured down his face and he was sure that he was about to vomit and pass out. A light rain began to fall, its constant patter on the cabin’s roof soothing the pulsating misery in his head.
Greg.
His head shot up, the abrupt movement causing him to wince.
“No,” he said in a dry and pained croak. “NO!”
Standing in the field across from the cabin, some ninety feet away, was his dead wife. Tears flowed in tributaries down his cheeks, loose phlegm distorting his voice. “You’re not here! You’re dead!” He turned, pivoting on his left foot as he scanned the ground in front of the cabin. He found a large, nasty looking rock and cocked his arm to throw it at this ghost, this demon that came to haunt him in the form of his beloved wife. “God damn you!”
She was gone.
“What?” he asked of no one but crickets. “What?” His face went slack and his eyes blank. He was losing his mind. “Fuck!” Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed.
He spun around to face the cabin, the rock still clutched in his hand. With full force, he threw the stone through the front window, the sound of shattering glass blending in with the falling rain. His eyes drooping, he strode into the kitchen and began smashing his fists through the glass doors of the cabinets. Fragments tore into his hands and forearms, sending blood trickling out and flying through the air with each swing that he took.
Once the cabinets were destroyed, he moved on to the chairs at the kitchen table. He used the first one to smash the small window above the sink before bringing it down repeatedly on the kitchen counter. A piece of the chair’s leg flew back and struck him in the mouth, bringing more pain and fresh blood. Enraged, he smashed the remaining chairs on top of the table before flipping it over. Without pausing, he made his way down the hall and into his office.
Moving swiftly, he grabbed the poker from beside the fireplace and immediately began smashing everything that he saw. He rampaged through the cabin, swinging the wrought iron implement with complete abandon. He smashed the toilet before using his bare hands to rip the sink from the wall. When he stood up, he saw his reflection in the mirror and shrank away from it. A moment later he squeezed his right hand into a fist and smashed it into the mirror repeatedly.
Feeling the effects of his destructive binge, Greg made his way back to the door, which had been left open.
He froze when he reached the entryway, the poker falling from his hand.
His wife was back and she had brought the children with her; Evan, stood to his mother’s left while Isabel flanked her to the right. They were holding each other, crying. They looked terrified of the man who was standing in the doorway.
Greg held a bleeding hand out to his family as his breath hitched in his chest.
They flickered and faded before disappearing completely.
Greg fell to his knees, sobbing so severely that he nearly choked. A storm was rolling in, lightning flashing silently in the distance. As the rainfall intensified, he threw his head back and howled at the sky, an inhuman and wordless sound that came from the most primitive part of his soul.
Ifs and Buts
The Tall Man sat on Herman’s front porch, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the rising sun color the sky. A deep, rich purple gave way to hues of pink and finally a brilliant orange as the distant star crested the horizon. As he enjoyed his coffee (he had to admit that Herman bought some outstanding coffee), he couldn’t help but wonder how many mornings like this he had missed over the years. His line of work didn’t exactly put a premium on relishing the little joys in life, unless your little joys involved murder.
Then again, he had turned a corner in his life, insomuch as the only people he intended to kill from here on out were those who absolutely deserved it. A thin smile appeared on his face but it was short-lived. Despite the drastic change in his personal philosophy he couldn’t allow himself to become soft. The people that meant to do him harm were still breathing which meant that they were still coming after him. This was a major factor in him giving any consideration to Schultz’s offer.
Of course, it wasn’t the only factor.
He lit up a cigarette and drifted off to a state of introspection, contemplating how different things would be if he had killed George Wilman without hearing him out. What if he had followed that up by murdering Herman? He would still be a nomad, roaming from job to job, never having begun the process of reconciling the tragedy that was his family history. He would still be broken, searching for something that would ease the profound emptiness that filled him. He knew that he may well never find that peace of mind, but he was on the right path; he could feel it in his bones.
Just as he finished his cigarette, the screen door opened and Ray stepped out, squinting against the early sun. He was wearing a white dress shirt, gray slacks, and red suspenders, looking the part of an old-school newsman. Steam was rising from the cup of coffee that was clutched in his left hand.
“Jeez, you always up before the retiree crowd?” There was some humor in Ray’s tone as he asked, but his face remained set and cantankerous.
“Well, I see you’re just as charming at the sun’s first rays as you are at its last,” the Tall Man declared with a grin. “How’s Herman?”
Ray took a sip of his coffee with a grimace, as was his nature. “Rip Van Winkle? He’s tossing around a bit but he’s still asleep. The lazy bastard’s probably milking this for all its worth.” He took a seat on the swing without grace, spilling a small amount of coffee onto the floor of the porch. “Shitfire.”
He took a moment to inspect his pants for any wayward fluid before speaking again. “So, I’ve reconsidered my stance on telling him about this whole Schultz conundrum, albeit only slightly.”
“Do tell.” The Tall Man leaned back and he lit a fresh cigar
ette.
“I don’t want to lie to Herman, I’m not going to go down that road.”
“But,” the Tall Man interjected.
Ray shot a crusty glance across the porch. “I am going to invest all of my energy into explaining my objections.”
“Which are?”
“For starters there’s the fact that if you hadn’t shown up last night he’d be starting to bloat in the woods along the shore of Lake Gaston.”
The Tall Man listened, his face showing no emotion.
“He’s suicidal for Christ’s sake. That is the first thing that needs to be addressed and, as far as I’m concerned, that’s the only thing that matters at this point.”
“Do you think that this might give him some sense of purpose, a reason to keep fighting?”
Ray sighed, rubbing the root of his nose. When he spoke again, his tone was somber and muted, underscored with a sense of defeat. “I don’t know, I really don’t know.”
His lips tightened as the anger for which he was known returned at full force. Perhaps frustration was a more apt description.
“I don’t fucking know. I still fail to wrap my mind around the fact that a friend I’ve had for decades, a man that I thought I knew better than anyone, tried to kill himself and I didn’t have the first god damned clue.”
His voice began to crack and there was a watery shimmer in his eyes. True to form, he reined it in quickly. “You said that Schultz has a tenuous relationship with his mental stability, right?”
The Tall Man took a drag off of his cigarette, holding it as he thought about his response. “I would say his sanity’s showing a few cracks, yes.”
Ray nodded. “Yeah, we have two mentally ill men; one had his entire family slaughtered while the other just attempted suicide. I get the distinct impression that putting them together on some revenge quest is not the most judicious route to take.”
“When you put it that way, no, I suppose not.”
“Then why is it you look like I just kicked your dog?”
The Tall Man walked towards the swing before leaning against the railing that encircled the porch. “I got a call this morning.”
“Schultz?” Ray asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Yep. He had two men scouting their next target out in New Mexico, looking for any unexpected movement. They called in, said everything looked good for them to proceed.”
“But it wasn’t?”
“Their SUV was found, shot to shit and burned to the frame with both men still belted in.”
“Fuck me running.” Ray polished off what was left of his coffee, small streams spilling down from the corners of his mouth.
“He has his theory as to what went down, and, to be perfectly frank, I’m inclined to agree.”
Ray shook his head bitterly. “QNI refusing to go gentle into that good night?”
“Bermuda’s gone. Colorado Springs is gone. If they somehow failed to see that their sites were getting picked off before, they sure as hell know after last night.”
“Yeah, and judging by their response they’re acting with extreme prejudice. Moreover, they’re watching at least some of their facilities. That, my friend, moves Schultz’s little expedition from incredibly dangerous to fucking suicide.”
The Tall Man ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, pushing it outward. “The question is whether they’re just watching their facilities or actively seeking out conspirators, because if it’s the latter.”
“Then we’re fucked,” Ray interjected grimly. “What do you reckon?”
“Well, since the head honchos are either in jail or under house arrest and awaiting trial, I reckon they’re using a hired gun to run their foot soldiers.”
“Someone like you?”
The Tall Man chuckled and turned his eyes to Ray. “Something like that, yeah.”
The two men sat and talked for the better part of an hour, trying to work out what their next steps should be. The longer Ray thought about it, the more inclined he was to subscribe to the idea that they could be targets. He didn’t feel this way strictly because of what they had done in Bermuda, more that their foes were likely convinced that they were somehow involved in the current devastation that QNI was experiencing. He quickly countered this train of thought by telling himself that these foot soldiers would be stretched thin enough by protecting their employers’ assets; no time for road trips to kill journalists.
He could try to rationalize it, but he didn’t really believe it.
For his part, the Tall Man did believe that they had enough on their plates monitoring the remaining six facilities. There was little justification for wasting their limited resources hunting down Herman, Ray, and himself.
“At least not yet," he added, much to Ray’s chagrin.
Ray asked about the possibly of Schultz splitting up his remaining team to target two sites simultaneously. The Tall Man was doubtful of the feasibility of that proposal.
“By my count, he’s got fourteen people left, including himself. Based on what he told me, the Colorado Springs job was pulled off by the skin of their teeth, so coordinating two attacks with diminished personnel seems like a fool’s gamble. He’s not that far gone.”
Ray agreed, hesitantly. The more he thought about everything, the more likely it seemed that they had two options: they could all join up with Schultz and try to persuade him to risk a blitzkrieg strategy or the three of them could stay put, hunker down, and wait for an attack that may never come. The screen door squeaking open disrupted his thought process.
Herman stepped out onto the porch, coffee in hand, shuffling over to an empty chair and plopping himself down. Ray thought he looked like he hadn’t slept in a month.
Ray and the Tall Man exchanged a glance, neither man uttering a word. Instead, it was Herman who spoke.
“So, I see that you two have met. Worlds collide and all that.” There was no real inflection in his voice, aside from a thin film of sarcasm coating the surface. “Say, where’s my car?”
Ray’s face took on a deeper shade of red. “Probably by the edge of the lake where you left it, asshole.” He had thought long and hard about what he would say to his friend and how he would say it. He had never been a delicate man though he did recognize that Herman was in a compromised mental state. As such, Ray had sworn to be as gentle as possible.
So much for that idea.
“Good to see you, Ray.” Herman assumed an exaggerated smile that bore into the old man like nails across a chalkboard.
Ray’s face was nearly purple and he was forced to control his breathing to maintain some level of calm. “Yeah, good to see you too, Herman, and just the way I like to receive an invite, by finding out that my fucking friend tried to fucking end his fucking life. Christ almighty, Herman.”
“Thank God my knight in dusty outerwear came to the rescue.” Herman looked to the Tall Man, fluttering his eyes.
Veins were bulging in Ray’s neck and forehead. He started to speak again but was beaten to the punch by the Tall Man with a one-word question.
“Why?”
Ray braced for another smartass comment, however he was not prepared for what he saw when he looked at his friend.
Tears had flooded Herman’s eyes, weaving wide streams down his face. They weren’t tears of sorrow, nor were they tears of physical pain. They were the tears of a man who was lost and frightened. He tried to speak but couldn’t. After two failed attempts, he finally managed to push out two words.
“Why not?”
The pain in his voice hit Ray hard. Yes, Herman could be an unbearable saucebox, but Ray had never seen his friend in this way and it was tearing away at his insides.
“Do you ever think about the incremental nature of change?” Herman asked. His face was twisted into a smirk that was every bit as bitter as the coffee in his cup. When he spoke again, his voice was acerbic, matching his visage. “When change happens abruptly, it’s easier to process. You either accept it or you don’t. You
fight it or you don’t. Your favorite show gets cancelled or maybe you take a new job that’s not quite what you expected it to be. It happens. You adjust and you move on.”
He paused long enough to take a long drink from his mug. “Sometimes, though, sometimes the change starts small, barely even noticeable. You notice a few hairs in the comb, no big deal. Your forehead gains more real estate but you chalk it up to your imagination. Then, before you fully realize it, you have a bald spot big enough to land a 747.”
His lips drew tight against his teeth, making him look spiteful and mean. Ray noticed that Herman had lost weight. When he saw him the night before he chalked it up to the scraggly beard that covered his face but, in the morning sun he could see that Herman’s face looked gaunt. There were bags under his eyes that looked more like swollen bruises.
“When the shit with George started, it was like an earthquake; it came on abruptly, its violence reached a crescendo, and then it was all over.” Herman struck the arm of the chair with the palm of his free hand to accentuate his point. His voice wavered as he continued.
“You invest so much of yourself because you’re doing what you think is right. The blinders go on, you put your head down, and you go for broke because you want to get to the truth. You need to get it out. Maybe you have your own reasons for doing it, and maybe they’re selfish, but all that matters is getting it out there for everyone to see. No bias, no agenda, just the goddamned truth in all its malignant glory. Turn the stones and watch the snakes scatter.”
Ray cut in, his voice low and calm. “Herman, you’re ranting.”
Paying no mind, Herman continued. “This was huge, this had everything that you want in a story: a rogue corporation, a heroic whistleblower, a hitman who suffered a crisis of conscience, and, in the end, the bad guys lost. They. Fucking. Lost.”