The Event Series (Book 4): Filling in the Cracks

by Thomas Larson

  Finished up the open foods that I could for dinner tonight, some pasta and sauce, a slightly stale French bread, some butter. I will donated the remainder to a food shelter tomorrow on my way to Seattle.

  It is going to be a long day tomorrow, so I am calling it quits and going to bed early, 9:00.

  Captain’s Log: Day 8, Sept 25th 2016

  I am not sure why, but the night before I fly somewhere I never seem to sleep that well. I think I get my mind in a dither because I am afraid that I will miss my flight, which is really kind of silly since I always leave myself plenty of time.

  So I was off from Medical Lake early today, about 7:30 which will get me to Seattle by noon. That will work out well because my flight back home didn’t leave until 3:50. It left me plenty of time to pack up some of the extra things, clothing, books, items that I collected on the way and then ship them home via UPS. It is cheaper to do it that way than to try to bring it on the place as luggage. That way I only have a back pack with books, my laptop and a small carry-on to hold Ning.

  Once that taken care of and dropped off at the UPS location it was on to the RV drop off. On the way I saw a homeless man, I think he was a vet. He was standing at a corner with a hand lettered cardboard sign “Hungry Vet, Help Please”. What a shame the way Vets are treated, left to this life with all the resources available that could and should be available to him. Resources that are generously given to those who are ‘refugees’ or have sneaked into the country rather than those who have served it.

  I handed the guy the bag of canned goods that I had left over from the trip, some soup, cans of beans and Beef-a-Roni and of course, Spam. I handed him a twenty also. I am guessing that the $20 will end up in the till of a package store somewhere, exchanged for a bottle of cheap vodka. But if it gives him a moment of warmth or peace, who am I to judge.

  The next stop was the RV return garage. That actually went pretty well, I had pre-paid for the rental so other than a few small incidental fees I was done. I made certain that I took pictures of the van as I returned it so that I could compare them to the ones I took when I left Connecticut if the company pitched a bitch about some alleged damage. There was no damage.

  The staff there was kind enough to give me a ride to the Southwest Terminal. They had lined up another rental to drive it to LA via the coast highway and were going to pick the family up at the airport.

  I was checked in and ready to go by 2:00, and sitting at gate B-13 waiting. I had almost two hours to wait. But I was good with that and so was Ning, she was sleeping in the carry-on, although she would periodically stretch and poke her head out of the zippered slot.

  As I sat I stared out the window thinking about the trip, the things and the dreams, visits that I had.

  “That was nice what you did for that Vet,” a female voice said from behind me.

  I did not turn around, but answered with a thanks.

  “Have you ever considered that the homeless, the true homeless, the tent city homeless would have actually survived very well in your books?”

  I turned to look at the woman behind me, she reeked, and was in dirty shabby clothing, a bird’s nest of hair disheveled on her head.

  “No, I didn’t but it makes sense.”

  She nodded, “I was doing very well in Cleveland, near the airport. We had avoided the undead and the robots for a long time. A few of us had our little protected place. It was not perfect but we learned how to keep our heads down and were doing okay.”

  I knew now who this was, the woman that Tom and the crew saw at the airport in Cleveland, the one that been chased by the Hunter, the hunter that Margo killed. But the woman had run into a small horde and had not made it.

  “We homeless, we worked together, we always did. We were closer to living on the edge, finding food, and shelter than the city folk. We were used to it, we lived it,” she said, staring at me.

  I considered what she said and remembered by days in the police department and how those tent city people did work together, they shared, and survived. The rule was basically share, work together or get the fuck out.

  “So what happened to you? I asked, “Ah, I’m sorry, I never named you.”

  She laughed, “Yeah, we are generally thought of as just nameless wanderers. I am Alice, Thank you, I now truly exist.” There was a tear in her eyes.

  One never thinks about that as we walk by the can collectors, the shelter rats in their ragged clothes. Many of us divert out eyes and try to make them not seen. I felt a little ashamed because I have done that.

  I smiled at Alice, “I am glad, it is a pleasure to meet you Alice, I’m Tom.”

  I realized that just that little acknowledgement meant so much to her, and means so much to them. She smiled back, brushing the tears from her dirty face and tried to straighten her hair a little.

  She told me that her group had fucked up, sort of. They had a little group and were doing fine, it was a hard life scavenging and avoiding the undead and the robots. We were managing until this woman, Marcy showed up with a couple of kids.

  “We should have turned her away, she was not one of us, but the kids, poor kids, 5 and 7, and how could we do that.”

  The kids, so often it is about the kids, we humans will risk so much for children, anyone’s children, I thought.

  She said that the woman with the kids had been from a suburb and how she lasted as long as she did was a miracle. She didn’t understand the code, she became a liability, stupid, and in the end did shit that cause the undead to fall upon the camp. Alice said she was the only one to get away. And she made it to the airport and was safe for a while until the robot, the Hunter, locked onto her. When the robot was killed she thought she might make it, but then, the undead….

  “I didn’t make it.”

  We sat in silence. I thought about what she had told me, it made me wonder if the real deal happened, an apocalypse, how well the ‘homeless’ would thrive or would have the least difficult adjusting to the new world.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder, a gate attendant, “Sir, your plane is boarding now.”

  I looked around, no Alice, but then it did not surprise me.

  I boarded the plane and once we were airborne brought the carry-on with Ning down and she cuddled up in my lap as we flew back home.

  No ‘visitors’ on the flight, but there were a couple of flight attendants who hovered in the area to see and pet Ning. She was a queen on the flight and even invited to visit the flight deck today in the arms of the lead attendant. Not many cats get their little ‘wings’.

  Home Again

  I am not sure what it is but there is that point in any trip where you just want to get home to your own little bed, your own little bathroom, your own little world. I reached that point about 4 days ago, and now I am home. Thank God, or should I say Sky Father and Earth Mother.

  Anyway, I’m unpacked, and have uploaded my journal, the Captain’s Log from the trip. I am almost caught up on my e-mails and Facebook stuff and I’m pretty much settled back in. A trip to Stew Leonard’s this morning for some food and I am set.

  I received an e-mail from CCSU, my alma mater, they have a program in which authors / writers from the school are invited to do a little talk to promote their works as well as share something about their craft. I am scheduled for a 30 minute show next week.

  I miss the voices, the visits, the coloring in some sketches and filled in some gaps in the final product. It is strange how this universe or world that I have created has infused itself into my life.

  A casino trip tonight, I have free tickets to a concert, ‘The 1975’. And I am sure that while I am there I will see if my luck has changed. The music was awesome, the slot machines, not so much. I will have to find a new lucky shirt.

  Funny, no visits on the drive down, and no one at the machine next to me. I wonder if they are gone, if Asuna has sent them all to share and now we are done.

  I stopped at Carlos’ Pastry Shop near the Winter Casino for a cannol
i, and then sat I watched people going by. There is an escalator leading to the casino right there and as people walked by I would ‘see’ what I thought was some of my characters, Lance, Del, Tay, Linc, and others. I mean a physical manifestation, not the character, but kind of a caricature of what I imagined them to be. Does that make sense?

  Over the next few days there were still no visits, and I hate to admit it, but I miss them, the surprise of having some of the characters come to haunt me.

  I spent some time Tuesday night preparing and making some notes and picking out selections for tomorrow’s presentation at the college.

  It felt weird, walking into the bookstore, standing in front of the cameras, behind the podium. I was nervous, but I have spoken in front of people before.

  So I told my story, the history of how I had toyed with the idea for years, telling friends that when I retired I would write romance novels. But I never really figured I would. Then three years into retirement thought about it again.

  I explained that one night I was doing a Netflix and popcorn night and watched a Korean movie about a writer. It was a mystery film, kind of horror/ghosty kind of thing. It was the catalyst that told me that I had to sit down each day and just work on it, write.

  But I still had not found my muse, my inspiration, my storyline until in February of 2013 a meteor blew up over Russia. It was there that the idea, the muse arrived and work really began. It went from what was supposed to be a 200-250 page stand-alone fiction to a 1500 page trilogy, a universe.

  I shared some of my thoughts on writing, that I did it for myself, it was my story, my voice. And in the beginning writing was tough, yet as the page numbers grew it became easier, and the writing skills got better. Party of that improvement was a result of taking a non-credit writing course at my local community college and then out of that come a small writer’s group, three of us sharing our work and helping each other alone the way.

  Finally, I gave a little reading for them, and although not the best out loud reader I was able to share some of my work with them.

  I began reading, “As we rolled into Fort Plain I expected to see the same little farm town that I remembered as a kid, there were still the same old brick buildings, and shops. There was still the ‘Fort Plain Diner’ at the corner of Main Street and Flower, I remembered having breakfast there with Gramp and Mark. They had the best hash browns I had ever tasted, but there would be no breakfast stop today,

  But the town it was a mess, well part of it was, broken store fronts, and trash strewn about. As we turned onto the main drag there was a stretch of about 100 feet that was clean and clear of the debris. In the middle of the sidewalks was a sign board “Real Estate Office Open”, in front of a store front.

  We pulled up in front and stopped. As we did, a short fiftyish woman, kind of chubby, walked out of the office. She was neatly dressed in a black skirt and green blazer with a kind of badge on the breast pocket and a hair style from the 60s that matched the outfit. She had a yellow scarf around her neck and a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “Hi! Welcome to Fort Plain”, she said in a kind of whiny high pitched voice.

  We walked toward her, kind of shocked that she was there, this was just weird.

  “Hi” answered Tanya, “we were just passing through and we have not met many people in our travels.”

  “Yeah, yeah, been kind of slow at the office for a while, would you like a coffee? I can’t offer any milk, but I have some powdered creamer if you like.”

  We looked at each other, then at her, “Sure. That would be nice.”

  We walked into the office with her, it was meticulous. She poured us each of coffee in Linda Harris Real Estate mugs that matched the blazer color and logo. It was actually not bad coffee.

  “Here, here, sit down, what brings you to town? Are you looking for somewhere to move to? It’s quiet here” said Linda.

  “Well, no we are not looking, although the place looks interesting. We are pilgrims on a trip to Rome, which is what the Lord has directed us to do.”

  “Ah, I see, yeah, the Amish, the ones that survived all made a beeline for Lancaster area in Pennsylvania, a long trip in horse buggies and scooters.”

  “We saw a few of the scooters dumped on the side of the road, did some of the locals not get away?

  She looked down and shook her head, “No, a lot of them didn’t make it, when it all started they believed, well, the bishop wouldn’t allow them to hurt the re-awakened, he felt it was God giving the sick ones a second chance. But then, they realized it was the Devil’s work and they did better about it. But by then, so many, so many had died, and come back.”

  “Did they burn their barns? Why would they do that?” Tanya asked.

  “Oh, no, that was me, and my son, we did that.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, well, see, we found that the best way to stop the groups of re-awakened was to lead them into the barns, lock them in and then set fire to the barns. It worked well; the hay burned, and cleaned up the mess nicely.”

  “Where is your son? Is he at home?”

  “No, no, he was in the last barn that I burned.” It was so matter of fact and cold, it sent a chill down my spine.

  “I’m sorry, it must of have been terrible.” Tanya said slowly.

  “Well, yes, but it was okay, I did not want him to turn, to re-awaken.”

  “He was bitten then?”

  “Oh no, he was fine, but it was just a matter of time before the re-awakened would get us, and I did not want to see him suffer.” She said with a motherly smile. “He was a good boy, kind of slow, you know, so well, it was better that way. I just locked him in the barn with the re-awakened before I set it on fire.”

  I am sure that Tanya had the same sick feeling in the stomach that I had. I wanted to puke. This woman meant well, I think, but what she did, my God! Lord, forgive her. Both Tanya and I set our coffees down.”

  I finished the reading and looked up, in the back row was Linda Evans, green blazer, yellow scarf sitting there, smiling at me, giving me an enthusiastic thumps up. Next to her was a form of a human, but terribly burned, her son? He also was smiling, I think, or it may just have been the way the burn flesh made it appear.

  I was a little shaken, that was not what I expected. I looked away from them quickly and when I turned back they were gone. I recovered quickly.

  I answered a couple of questions from the audience, about how long it took to write, or where I would find ideas. The big thing I tried to convey to them that we all have a story or a painting, or song within us, it is getting it on paper, or canvas or musical score that is the challenge.

  The ride home was uneventful but my mind was wrapped up in the visit by my ‘ghosts’ and the presentation. I hope I did not sound like too much of a dope.

  As it turned out I did okay, a couple of days later I saw the write up in the Central Newspaper, it was positive. I am a writer and until I saw that article I had a hard time believing it. So now I guess it is time to move on to the next book, the one I was thinking about, the Past Life stories.

  Tom’s Visits

  I had promised myself repeatedly that I would take some time this summer to ride up to the area in which many of the stories in my trilogy took place. I wanted to visit Peru, Camp Romanica and some of the surrounding towns like Hinsdale and Dalton. I needed to see what they were really like in comparison to what I had made them in the story.

  But before long it was October, I had made my trip out west. I would do it now, with the foliage chance. I decided to jump on the Harley and run up past Springfield and out towards Northampton, the Hadley area. There was just too much temptation to visit the College Library Archive that had once been a Cold War nuclear command post before the towns in western Massachusetts.

  I found it easily and as I rode up and when I arrived I was not impressed. I had expectations of a Cheyenne Mountain facility, like in the Stargate SG-1 TV series. I also hoped to get a chance to visit inside and
walk around a bit, but that was not going to happen today. I had picked a Monday for the trip and unfortunately during summer break the facility was closed on Mondays, Wednesdays and the weekends. It kind of made sense actually, with school out, there would not be much demand.

  I was a little bummed out about it but I wasn’t going to let the day go to waste. I hopped back on the bike and rode down Military Road and circled around to head up the west road to the site where that B-24 crashed during the WWII era. I had been there before with a couple of my fellow retired ‘copper’ friends and remembered it vaguely.

  The road up to it was a narrow tree lined snake of asphalt, twisting and turning as you gained elevation. At the top there wasn’t much, just a small granite marker, kind of a 6 foot obelisk with a brass plate in the wooded area with a few picnic tables. The plaque had the names of the six members of the flight crew. I was kind of surprised that there were no officer’s names on the monument; it had all been NCO’s and other enlisted men. But then, I guess for the purposes of the day that was okay. On the plaque was also a little blurb of what happened, how they were flying into Westover AFB about 20 miles to the east trying to clear the mountain. The weather had been bad, with low clouds and rain. It was not much that they had missed getting home by, no, which is not right, because they did not miss the mountain, well, you know what I mean.

  I walked absentmindedly toward the northwest edge of the mountain, to the ledge, okay, near the ledge; I am really not good with heights and would not get too close to the edge. The spot gave a majestic view of the Connecticut Valley, the river winding its way through, surrounded in the green cornfields and lush trees of the summer woodland forests.

  I settled into the bench and wondered what was it like being in that airplane and having that sudden realization that you had messed up, badly. It was warm, the chirping of the birds, and the occasional gentle roar of the airliner heading into Bradley Airport not far to the south. It was a nice day. I never heard the stranger walking up on me until he spoke.