I peek around the corner to get a look inside the kitchen. The place is a mess—uneaten food, dirty utensils, and piles of dishes line the counter and sink. Broken glass is strewn on the floor from a shattered kitchen window over the sink. No sign of Garrett though. He must be in the living room, but I can’t hear him. Only one way to find out.
I cross into the kitchen, sidestepping the glass to avoid making unnecessary noise. With my gun trained in front of me, I advance through the kitchen until I’m a foot from the dining alcove. There’s two options here. I can crouch low and use the breakfast bar for cover to sneak up on Garrett or I can dash around the corner and start shooting. Cassidy will never forgive me for doing the latter, but either approach will catch him off-guard—
“I know you’re there, so you might as well come out,” Garret says, destroying any element of surprise I thought I had. “Did you really think you could barge in here unnoticed?”
I swallow hard, not knowing whether to answer or just run out and start shooting.
"Come out slowly and I won't shoot you dead. I already hit one of your friends, don't make yourself the next victim."
He shot someone! Was it Lela or Bill? Or Cassidy?! The thought of them lying in a pool of blood fills me with rage. I want to kill this man. But I can't. He's already got the advantage. If I go in guns blazing, my odds of hitting him are not good and he'll gun me down without question. But what if I talk to him like Cassidy asked? I might get through to him. Either way, my life is at risk, but I'm better at negotiating than shooting an unseen target. "All right, I'm coming out," I say, tucking the gun behind me.
With my empty hands in the air, I step out from the breakfast bar into the living room. I'm unprepared for the sight in front of me. Garrett is sitting in an armchair holding a pistol in his right hand. His left is clutching his midsection where a dark bloodstain contrasts his gray shirt. Multiple rifles and ammo boxes are cluttered around his feet. Behind him bullet holes pepper the boards covering the window, allowing pinpricks of light to peek into the Stokes' living room.
"Put the gun on the counter and move away to the left," Garrett says hoarsely.
"I don't have a gun," I say, staring into his bloodshot eyes.
"Don't play stupid. You wouldn't be in here without a gun," he says, then pulls the hammer of the pistol back so it clicks.
I pull my gun out, throw it on the counter, and step away. He notices the sword hanging from my side then orders me to put it on the counter as well. After I do it, he looks overly pleased with himself until his eyes squint and he recognizes me. "Dex? Is that you?"
"Yes, Mr. Stokes. It's me," I say in a nonchalant tone.
Garrett chuckles then coughs uncontrollably for a moment. "You were the last person I was expecting to walk out of that kitchen," he says.
"Mr. Stokes, I’m not here to fight with you," I say, trying to keep my voice calm even though I loathe the man. "I came for Cassidy. I know about your wife...you've been through a lot—"
"Oh, you have no idea what I've been through," Garrett cuts in. "You know what it's like to watch someone you love die? To be the one responsible for killing them?"
I bite my lip. "Believe me, I do."
Garrett scoffs.
"No one blames you for what happened to your wife. She got infected and you had to protect yourself and Cassidy. You did what had to be done. But Cassidy isn't infected. The Mindless are out there, but your daughter isn't one of them. We're not the enemy," I say, staring at him.
“Marcie wasn't infected,” Garrett says with a faraway look on his face. “That's just what I told Cassidy. A few nights after the Mindless started popping up around town, we hid in the basement and laid low like everyone else. I kept my shotgun real close at night just in case one of those monsters broke in. One night, a loud noise in the hall woke me up. I grabbed my shotgun off the nightstand. It was dark and all I saw was a figure coming towards me. I fired without hesitation. When I finally got a flashlight on the body, I saw what I'd done. It was Marcie...she was just getting up to use the bathroom.
Cassidy woke up from the noise. I felt so much guilt and grief in that moment—I couldn't tell her. I couldn't. So I lied. I need Cassidy to trust me, to know that I can protect her. She can't if she knows that I killed her mother."
A silence passes over us for a moment as I try to process Garrett's confession and twisted logic. My insides want to erupt as I look at the killer in the living room. "You didn't protect her. You locked her in a basement to starve to death! Everything you've done has made her fear you."
"You’re incapable of grasping what I'm doing to save my child from the hell outside. I've seen war, Dex. I served and fought overseas. You know what instinct kicks in first during war? Survival. The desire to live is astronomically high. But the sad reality is survivors suffer more than the dead. I live with the carnage I witnessed and the pain I inflicted every day. The dead don't—" he says before grunting and jerking forward in the chair.
I glance at the revolver on the counter, but Garrett regains his posture before I can make a run for it.
"Go ahead, Dex. Grab the gun," he says, gesturing toward it with the muzzle of his weapon. I hesitate, not knowing if he's serious. "Grab it!"
I do as he says, but hold it at my side rather than aimed at him.
"Here's my point, Dex. Survival is an instinct in war, but it's a horrible approach to the whole thing. At some point, you have to weigh the cost of living versus dying. I've done that for myself and Cassidy. Better for us to die on our terms than live out our days in this wasteland," he says.
"How convenient that you failed to include her in your decision," I say.
Garrett scowls. "You make tough calls in life. Like the one you're about to make." He aims the gun down and shoots a round an inch away from my feet.
My hand flies up to aim the gun at Garrett in response, but my finger freezes before pulling the trigger.
"I tried killing myself multiple times," he admits with a blank expression on his face. "But I couldn't do it. So in a way you're an answer to prayer, Dex. God sent you to me, to do what I couldn't do myself."
"I'm not going to kill you, Garrett. You need help, okay? We can get that wound looked at and you can get through this," I say, feeling my hands become clammy holding the revolver.
"Dex, I have a bullet lodged in my liver. I'm bleeding to death. It's a horrible way to go. So, here's what we do. On the count of three, I'm going to shoot you. All you have to do is end my misery and you get to be the hero," he says, raising his gun higher so it's aimed at my head.
"Don't do this, Garrett," I plead. "Cassidy doesn't need to lose another parent!"
"1.."
I grip the revolver tight and keep it aimed at him despite how much my arms are quivering. Fifteen minutes ago, I wanted to kill Garrett. Everything he said has confirmed that he's gone off the reservation. He killed his wife, nearly killed Cassidy, and has no qualms about shooting me to get his death wish fulfilled. Knowing all that, I should pull the trigger now before his sadistic countdown ends. But I can't.
My father's voice is in my head, commanding me to leave him behind to save my mother. Only I failed to save her. Before she died, she told me to be safe. And I’ve failed her too by leaving the Grays and putting my life in danger. But my prior failures are nothing compared to what Garrett might coerce me to do. My parents were compassionate, loving people. Regardless of how strict they were, they'd never condone killing a man, especially one who is mortally wounded and out of his mind. It's the antithesis of everything they raised me to be as a Christian and as their son. I'm supposed to turn the other cheek.
But how can I just let him kill me? I can't help Cassidy, Lela, or Bill, if I'm dead. Death will rob me of the opportunity to find my uncle Richard too. And my desire—no, my need—to know how humanity became so mindless and shattered outweighs every moral consideration right now.
"2..."
"Garett...please," I whisper. His face is resol
ute like a wall of granite. One of us will die. I close my eyes and recite the Lord's prayer in my head, recalling those nights I shared with my family before bedtime. In happier days before the Mindless and Navitas. I try to hold onto the hope that my parents, Cassidy, and God will forgive me, but doubt engulfs that thought like the black smoke covering St. Paul.
"3."
My eyes snap open and I fire.
Twenty-One
When I exit the front door of the house, I find Lela taking cover behind the large tree in the yard. She’s hunched over Bill’s body. He’s been shot in the shoulder. I run over to help her and find that he’s awake and in a crabby mood. After helping Lela create a sling for his arm, they both ask me the unavoidable question.
“Is he dead?”
I nod, but give no further details, blocking out the image of Garrett’s lifeless body now burned into my brain. “Where’s Cassidy?” I ask.
“I thought she was with you?” Lela replies.
"She must be in the backyard," I say, more to myself than anyone else. I walk toward the side of the house, but Bill clutches my forearm.
"That girl just lost her father. Are you sure you should be the one to tell her, seeing as—"
"Seeing as I killed him?" I cut in. "She's my friend and doesn't know either of you. Better from me than anyone else."
"Be careful," Lela says, but I can hardly hear her. My attention is fixed on Cassidy and what I'll say to her.
As I turn the back corner of the house, I find her standing over the mound where her mother rests. Cassidy's back is turned and her arms are wrapped across her chest. Slight shakes of her shoulders give away her quiet sobbing—mourning for the parents she lost too soon. I approach slowly, unsure whether to leave her to grieve or console her. She hears my footsteps and straightens her posture, but doesn't face me.
"Cassidy.”
"My father's dead isn't he?" She asks without hesitation.
Words escape me. The guilt of what I've done crashes onto me like a tidal wave against the rocks. I see the muzzle flash of the revolver and the bullet enter Garrett's skull. What have I done?
Cassidy turns to face me. Her face is red and raw from the tears. "I told you to talk to him, Dex," she says, before her face contorts to restrain another fit of crying.
"I tried, Cassie. Believe me, I tried. He made me choose. Him or me. I didn't know what else to do. I'm sorry." Tears well up in my eyes, but they're not for Garrett. They're for Cassidy. I took away her father and made her an orphan—me, the kid who lost his parents a year ago. The irony of the situation is mind-numbing.
A long silence passes between us, interrupted only by Cassidy's sniffling. After wiping away the tears with the bottom of her palm, she gazes at me for a moment. It's a cold glance, lacking the warmth or cheerfulness I'm used to seeing from her. "Can I see him, please?"
I nod. "He's in the living room."
She looks beyond me and heads toward the house.
"Cassidy, wait," I say, grabbing hold of her arm.
"Don't!" she says, wrenching herself free from my grasp. "Please...just don't."
She brushes past me without another word and I realize that our relationship will never be the same. How could it? I'm a killer to her now.
The rest of the day is uneventful. Bill and Lela rummage through the cupboards of the house, finding enough food for all four of us to eat. Before dinner, I alone bury Garrett next to Cassidy's mother. I don't tell her about his confession of Marcie's death. Maybe someday I will, but she doesn’t look at me during dinner much less talk to me. Bill and Lela get her to talk and one of them even cracks a joke that makes her laugh. It’s comforting to see that her playfulness didn't die with Garrett. Perhaps in time she could even forgive me, but I try to keep a realistic view of things. Besides, now that she's safe from her psychotic father, my mind is focused on finding my uncle.
I’m confident he's still alive. Somewhere inside that Dronis building in downtown Minneapolis, my uncle is sheltered from the threat of the Mindless. But for how long? If the rumors are true, there's an underground facility deep below the Dronis headquarters. He might be safe from any Mindless intruders, but what about Navitas? Dronis created the Illumen implants, and that means they're responsible for the virus that derived from their own software. So even if my uncle escaped the initial outbreak, he's close to the root of it all, which means he knows something. Why else would this sword kill Mindless on impact? He built it for that purpose. I have to find him and get the truth before it's too late.
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for taking the time to read all the way to this point! I’m always thrilled when somebody new discovers my work and takes the time to read it. It’s one of the most rewarding things about being an author. With that being said, the second most rewarding thing is receiving feedback from you about my books. As a writer, I want to know whether or not you enjoyed this book. I want to continually improve my writing so that the stories I publish are entertaining, engaging, and meaningful to you. It’s hard to do that if you don’t tell me what you thought! It doesn’t matter if you loved or hated this book, the feedback you provide to me is invaluable for the next project I work on. So, I’m begging you (no, really, I’m on knees as I type this) please leave a review.
Go to the book’s page on Amazon or on Goodreads and tell me your honest opinion about this book. It would mean the world to me and you’d help an author get better at his craft. Thanks again!
Sincerely,
Daniel
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Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Free Book Offer
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fifteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Letter to Readers
Free Book Offer
About the Author
Thy Kingdom Come (Navitas Post-Apocalyptic Series) Page 15