The Tear Collector

by Shawn Burgess

  The Tear

  Collector

  Shawn Burgess

  RhetAskew Publishing

  United States of America

  Cover Illustration

  and Interior Design

  © 2019 - flitterbow productions

  and rhetaskew publishing

  all characters, settings, locations, and all other content contained within this book are fictional and are the intellectual property of the author; any likenesses are coincidental and unknown to author and publisher at the time of publication. this work and its components may not be reproduced nor stored in any electronic storage system without the express written permission of the author and rhetoric askew, llc.

  ISBN: 978-1-949398-08-3

  © 2019 Shawn Burgess and

  Rhetoric Askew, LLC

  all rights reserved

  crafted in the

  united states of america

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 01 Chapter 02 Chapter 03 Chapter 04

  Chapter 05 Chapter 06 Chapter 07 Chapter 08

  Chapter 09 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

  Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16

  Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20

  Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24

  Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28

  Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32

  Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36

  Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40

  Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44

  Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48

  Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52

  Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56

  Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59

  Acknowledgements About the Author

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my oldest son, Brooks. If not for you, it wouldn’t exist . . . your simple request—that it be written—reignited my long-smoldering passion for writing. Words cannot express how grateful I am for that, or how proud I am of you and your brother Brady. Hold on to your unwavering optimism and kind soul forever. Always protect them, and keep sharing your light with the world.

  And to my father, Kermit Steven Burgess—who we lost midway through the writing of this novel. Thank you, Dad, for everything . . . you were always in my corner. We miss you terribly every day, but you left your indelible mark on us all. I see your kindness and curiosity in my sons, and the legacy of love you left behind is ever-present.

  Chapter 1

  Reprisal

  THE SUMMER HEAT pelts the woods, the stagnant air sticky as candy glaze, but Brady Palmer and his friends aren’t fazed. Special Forces Commandos don’t surrender to the elements; they tame them. The boys sprint through the woods, BB guns raised in an intense, imaginary battle, following that all too familiar path to Copperhead Creek. They fire off wild shots into the trees, the ricochets causing birds and squirrels to scatter, before cocking their BB guns for more action.

  As the boys file into Grief Hollow, they pause for a breather. High atop the fork in the oak tree near Copperhead Creek, their beloved tree fort nestles between two sturdy branches.

  Ryan glimpses a few tent caterpillar nests in the surrounding trees and points to the high limbs. “Thought they took care of those in the roundup.”

  Jimmy gives a bunched-lip shake of his head. “Nah, only in town. Didn’t touch no woods.”

  Brady counts nine silky nests in the trees surrounding the fort. The warnings from the news chime in his mind. Largest outbreak in history. Extensive defoliation and the death of many trees if something isn’t done. But the town responded to the threat, organizing roundup parties of volunteers armed with long poles to pull down the nests.

  Ryan’s round eyes linger on the tree fort in the oak. “You reckon they gonna kill our tree?”

  “Better not. That’s our fort,” Jimmy replies, even though it really isn’t. Some older kids built it, but all the kids play there.

  Brady wanders near Copperhead Creek. Something draws his attention. He locks in, his keen ears tuned to something that drowns out the conversation of the other boys. Brady smiles and nods, but there’s no one around.

  “What you think, Brady?”

  Brady blinks his eyes several times as Ryan’s question registers.

  “Huh?”

  “So, what ya think, man? Them caterpillars gonna get our tree fort, or what?”

  “No. No, they’re not. I know what to do now. I’ll be back.” Brady hurries out of the hollow. Ryan and Jimmy exchange a lifted-lid glance before they resume playing.

  When Brady returns to Grief Hollow, he’s carrying a long pole, a metal pail, and a can of gasoline. Jimmy and Ryan chase each other through the hollow, oblivious, as Brady begins his meticulous work. Brady removes nest after sticky nest from the surrounding trees. As he lowers each one, he deposits them in the large metal pail. Eventually he clears the trees of tent caterpillar nests, and the pail brims with tangles of squirming caterpillars.

  “Watch this, guys.” Brady pours the gasoline in the pail. The sopping caterpillars writhe in the acrid fuel bath.

  The other boys stop playing and focus their attention on Brady’s unusual undertaking. Brady places the bottom of the pail onto the surface of slow-moving Copperhead Creek, careful to keep it upright. He pulls a matchbox from his pocket, strikes a match, and tosses it into the pail. A whoosh of air startles the boys as the bucket ignites into a tall flame.

  “Whoa.” Ryan retreats a step.

  “Now they won’t ruin our fort.” Brady wears a gratified smile.

  The floating bucket spins in a slow twirl. Black smoke billows from its top as the fire rages. The flaming pail rafts Copperhead Creek, accelerating as the creek narrows. The top of the pail jars as the base lodges against a submerged rock, stopping it there for a moment. Creek water piles on the bucket, climbing its sides, until the force becomes too great, and the bucket topples. In an instant, fire darts across the surface of the creek in different directions, setting it ablaze.

  “Oh shit!” Jimmy backpedals away from the creek.

  The fire roars, its tendrils spreading to the vegetation on the bank of the creek. The bone-dry brush by the tree fort ignites into flames like a sparking wick; the fire from the brush spreads to the oak tree that houses the fort.

  “Jesus!” Ryan staggers a step as a wave of heat from the burgeoning fire hits his cheeks.

  The peaceful hollow transforms into a war zone. Slicks of burning gasoline flow downstream, small fires litter the banks of the creek, and one large fire swells, building in intensity. Within seconds, its flames climb the oak tree and lick the bottom of the tree fort. The blaze engulfs the entire structure. A girl’s high-pitched shriek rises above the crackles of burning wood.

  “Oh no.” Brady draws a gasped inhale. His eyes swell and his lips quiver, a tear darting his cheek as the terrible shrieks emanate from behind a wall of ravenous flame and a thick curtain of smothering smoke. Oh my God. What have I done? The incessant shrieking from the tree fort siphons the air from the boys’ lungs and collapses their stomachs.

  Brady runs to retrieve the burning pail from the creek. He screams in pain as he clasps the searing metal handle. The bucket jostles, splashing flaming gasoline and molten caterpillar ooze onto his arms. With arms ablaze, he fills the bucket with water from the creek and rushes to the oak tree. He tosses the water onto the base of the tree, but there’s little effect. The stench of burning hair and roasting flesh permeates the hollow. Tears gush from Ryan and Jimmy’s eyes. The agonized screaming coming from the tree fort reaches a deafening pitch. Jimmy turns and runs from the hollow.
After taking several retreating steps, Ryan turns and runs too.

  Brady continues to refill the pail with water and toss it onto the flames. The flames on his arms extinguish, leaving behind horrible burns that cover the majority of his charred skin. The screaming subsides, replaced by an occasional pop from the dry wood above in the tree fort as it burns. He collapses by the bank of the creek, singed arms splayed out, sobbing and waiting for help to arrive.

  Chapter 2

  6 Years Later - Initiation

  PAIN KNIFES THROUGH my foot.

  “Ow!” I dance on the other foot.

  I try to navigate the darkness of the basement, my arms outstretched before me. I tiptoe so the Lego pieces don’t puncture my feet. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But joining the Markland X Crew… so worth it. A dream come true.

  “Come on, guys?” I navigate the Lego minefield. I hope they’ll spare me, but the snickering suggests they won’t. An entire bucket of Legos strewn across the basement floor awaits my bare feet. Robby showed me his handiwork before cutting off the lights.

  Tee snickers through the darkness. “Brook, you want in, or what?”

  “Brooks, my name is Brooks!”

  It makes me mad when people call me Brook. Sammy calls me Brook all the time.

  “Well?” Robby draws the word out, and there’s a smile buried in his voice.

  I roll my eyes and shrug my shoulders before lumbering forward. This isn’t what I envisioned. Sure, I want to join the Markland X Crew. Why wouldn’t I? Tee and Robby make friends with ease, and their popularity rivals some of the hottest girls in our school.

  “OUCH!” Another jagged plastic Lego jabs my foot.

  A chorus of belly laughter cuts through the pitch. I push through the pain of the occasional sharp plastic Lego assailing the soles of my feet. I reach the far wall and let out a sigh of relief. This is really happening. I can’t wait to tell everyone after summer break that I’m officially Markland X Crew.

  The first year of Markland Middle School surprised me with its unforeseen brutality, making it the toughest year of my life. My first couple of days there, I attracted the attention of a bully, Sammy Needles, who I would later come to discover reigned as the grand colossus of them all. I spent sixth grade ducking behind lockers and running for my life between classes and after school, enduring whatever torment Sammy could dish out before he tired of me.

  But today marks my new beginning. I’m joining the Markland X Crew, an action I hope scribes Sammy Needles into the annals of ancient history, along with the swirlie treatments I’ve become so accustomed to receiving.

  “So that’s it, huh?” I let my shoulders relax, the tension leaving my body.

  Tee turns on the lights, blinding me for a moment.

  Robby unleashes a roar of suppressed laughter “Are you kidding? We just needed to make sure you’re serious.”

  Tee grins. “Yeah, that’s just the beginning. Now, we can see if you really want to be in the Markland X Crew.”

  My heart sinks. More torture. The soles of my feet sting like I slalomed barefoot.

  “Really?”

  “Really!” Tee and Robby chime in unison.

  Robby smiles. “Just meet us at ten tomorrow morning at Jennings Bridge.”

  “And bring your swimsuit.” Tee snickers out the words.

  I flash frazzled eyes. “Okay, yeah. For sure. I’ll be there.”

  I dash out the door for home. It’s getting late and near dinner time even though it’s still light outside. Days seem to stretch into forever this time of summer, but the dwindling sunlight tells me dinner, and an upset mother if I don’t make it home in a few minutes, awaits. I hop on my bicycle and pedal furiously. I cover the two-mile distance in record time, wiping the sweat from my brow as I rush inside.

  Chapter 3

  Sammy Needles

  I WAKE EARLY intending to meet Robby and Tee at Jennings Bridge at ten. I shudder, thinking about what they have planned for me, but that doesn’t suppress my appetite. I devour two bowls of cereal before heading for the door.

  My mom intercepts me. “Brooks, where are you off to? Going to play with Mark?”

  “No, not today mom. I’m going to go play with some friends.” A big smile stretches across my face.

  My mom draws her head back, and her eyes grow wide; but after a moment, her face lights up in a big smile too. She isn’t accustomed to me running off to play with friends, as in more than one. I can tell she’s pleased. With each passing day, I find less in common with my friend Mark Crudleman, an awkward neighborhood boy who I play with on occasion. I like Mark, but he’s a fourth-grader, and he always wants to play dorky little kid games.

  “Okay, be home before dark.”

  Be home before dark. Are you serious? Mom never says that. Dark isn’t until around eight o’clock. It’s always ‘get home before dinner,’ and that’s always at seven.

  I check my watch, nine-fifteen. It’s about a thirty-minute bike ride to Jennings Bridge and that’s if I make good time. I grab my bike, pull out of my driveway, and turn onto Slippery Hill—nicknamed as such for its superb winter sledding. Racing down the hill, the wind shuffles through my hair and buffets against my face making my eyes water. I blink several times to clear my blurry vision. Two kids on bikes await at the bottom of the hill. As I approach, I recognize one of them. Oh God, Sammy Needles!

  Sammy and his friend Myron reposition their bikes to block the road. I swerve but can’t get around them. I slam on my brakes to avoid crashing into them. As I skid to a stop, Sammy hops off his bike and hustles to me. My heart’s racing.

  “Brook, didn’t know you’d be joining us today. Nice of you to stop by.”

  Sammy wraps an arm around my neck and pulls me off my bike.

  Myron piles on after he moves their bikes off the road. “Yeah, Brook, what you doing out here? Selling Girl Scout cookies? Where are the cookies, Brook?”

  Myron grabs my backpack and rifles through it. He pulls out my Star Wars-themed swim trunks and tosses them off the road.

  Sammy compresses my neck between his strong forearm and bicep, using his height advantage and pudgy frame to subdue me. Sunlight glints off his short, spiky red hair, and his pasty, freckled skin glistens with sweat. My proximity to his armpit wafts his sour summer odor into my nostrils. Uniformed in his normal attire, a ratty No Fear T-shirt two sizes too small, the bottom of his belly hangs over his waistband, protruding even further with his arm raised over my shoulder. He tightens his headlock, and a jolt of pain travels my spine.

  “Let me go, Sammy!” I squirm to free myself.

  “Or what, huh? What you gonna do, Brook? Run home and tell your mommy? You ain’t gonna do nothin’, no how.”

  I muster all my strength and break free from Sammy’s grip. My momentum carries me in a backward stagger. Oblivious, Myron continues plundering my backpack. My bike and its promise of freedom beckon from a few feet away, but Sammy takes several steps to block my escape route. My eyes grow as big as silver dollars, and my heart pumps at a blistering pace.

  “Alright, turd muffin. Now you’re going to get it.” Sammy flashes a menacing smile as he steps forward.

  Without hesitation, I rear back my leg and swing it forward as hard as I can. In an instant, my foot connects squarely with Sammy’s nuts. His legs crumble beneath him, and he hits the pavement with a thud where he writhes in agony, his hands clutching his privates.

  I dart to my bike, hop on, and peddle as fast as I can. Myron turns from rummaging through my backpack to find Sammy rolling around on the ground, moaning and coughing. After a few moments, Sammy struggles to his feet, but I’m already putting as much distance as I can between us.

  “Don’t just stand there, get him!” Sammy roars, his cheeks firing bright red.

  Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus! They’re going to beat the crap out of me.

  Sammy lets out a furious yell as he and Myron jump onto their bikes to give chase.

  “You’re so dead,
punk! After I’m through with you, they’re going to have to peel you off the pavement.” Sammy’s scream sends my heart into another frantic sprint as he pedals like a boy possessed.

  I hang a hard right on Chambers Road, nearly smashing into a stopped mail truck. I whiz by it, my legs firing like pistons in a redlining engine. Before Sammy and Myron can turn onto Chambers Road, I turn on Parson Street. I race to the bottom of the hill, jump off my bike, and run it into the safety of the woods.

  I peer out through the leaves and branches to the top of Parson Street as beads of sweat roll down my cheeks and forehead. Sammy and Myron circle on their bikes at the top of the street.

  Oh my God, what have I done? Sammy’s going to kill me for sure. It happened so fast. Not like I even made a decision to kick him in the nuts. My instincts kicked in. A grin lands on my lips, a small chuckle at the ironic thought. Perhaps it’s because I’m so close to becoming part of the Markland X Crew. I won’t let Sammy stop me from meeting Robby and Tee.

  There’s no way to use main roads anymore. Sammy and Myron will undoubtedly be searching for me. No backtracking either. I can’t risk Sammy finding me. I look at my watch, 9:31. No choice now. As much as that place creeps me out, taking a shortcut through Grief Hollow offers me my only chance to get to Jennings Bridge by ten.

  Chapter 4

  Encounter with Margo

  I GATHER FALLEN tree limbs and underbrush and camouflage my bike with them. It’ll still be here. Myron and Sammy won’t see it from the road.

  I begin the long trudge through the woods. It’s about a mile to Grief Hollow and about a mile-and-a-half farther to Jennings Bridge, but I’m determined to get there.