“She sounds pleasant.”
“Alex,” grunted West. “How long do we have, Albert?”
“It is impossible to say and,” Albert leaned backward as a preemptive response to Travis’ expected slap, “before you go threatening to torture me again, know that I am telling you the truth. MIA is a self-thinking intelligence. How quickly she discerns your intentions is entirely up to her. She was designed to listen to three people. My mother, myself, and the man who created her, but her designer is nowhere near this continent, nor is he available for a phone call and invitation to aid your pathetic excuse of a cause. That being said, I can guarantee you at least seven minutes. I can have her put on a maintenance reboot but the cycle only lasts that long.”
“Seven minutes?” Mason said, surprised. He wasn’t the only one.
“West, I'm pretty sure we are going to need a hell of a lot longer than seven minutes,” said Fikejs.
“And once MIA labels you as unauthorized, you will have fifty-five of the most ruthless, highly trained killers on top of you. Know that you will not succeed. Those of you who choose to go will be killed, that is, if you’re lucky.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We don’t enjoy killing our enemies, Corporal Ryan. It happens but it’s too easy. Not when we can spend a lifetime torturing them.”
TJ shuffled his weight nervously. “I don't like it.”
“Me neither,” added Becca.
“You don't have to go...just like every other war, New Zealand can stay outta this,” Mason replied ignorantly.
“You really are as dumb as you look, aren’t you?” Becca stood face to face with the proud Scotsman and, despite her nearly one-foot height disadvantage, contested the Marine. “New Zealand has been involved in almost every major conflict and peacekeeping mission for the last century. You’ll have to excuse us if we don’t go out looking for wars.”
Mason looked over at his cousin. “That true?”
Flenderson nodded. “Unfortunately for your pride, it is.”
Mason swallowed uncomfortably. “Well, whatever.”
"Besides, I never said that we weren’t gonna go, just that I didn't like it, eh."
Steve looked around the room. “Who else is in?”
West began to scribble notes on a piece of paper. "We are still figuring it out.”
“You mean you don’t know the final count.”
"We have the final briefing tonight. Team leaders will spread the word at dinner. Those who are in will show up for training tomorrow and the next day, and for the big dance on the 14th. That’s all for now,” West concluded, and with it, the meeting adjourned.
On his way to the exit, Steve turned around. “Alex, you’re not coming with us?”
“Not right now. I’m going with West. I have to get more blood drawn so Albert can run some tests.”
“Want me to stay behind?”
“Naw, bro, it’s cool. Won’t be long. Go with Clark, and I’ll catch up with you later.”
1202 hours
Clark pulled up to the Brason residence and shut off the engine. "Follow me.”
At first Steve was hesitant to exit the cab. The initial shock and confusion of being in Fullertown had faded, but now came the memories; the bad ones. Like a surging ocean tide they hit him one after another. Starting with the garage.
The point of departure for him and his cousins, this area represented the most pivotal of emotions. The blood stains had been cleared, but Steve could see the ghost of his father battling with his uncle David.
How Steve had watched from the RV. How he had frozen. How he had been unable to save his father from the lethal bite.
Then Steve entered into the hallway. He looked left, cringing at the thought of his Uncle Randy smashing through the door and Collin being forced to gun down his own father.
"I promised you answers," Clark started to say.
But as they passed by the entertainment room, Steve stopped. He looked to his right, into the dark, windowless room.
He remembered opening up the double doors to save the children, but there were none left to save. Their bodies had been mutilated. He could see Shawna’s black, dead eyes popping up from Krissy's body.
Even now, despite the bodies being removed, the room maintained an aura of death.
"Steve...Steve!" Clark said, repeating himself louder.
"Huh? What?"
"I said, are you coming?"
Steve nodded, took one final look at the entertainment room of death, then followed Clark up the stairs and into Tom's Office.
"Everything looks the same here," Steve noted, observing the picture frames on the walls, the dustless furniture, and unmoved decor.
"Yes, I know. Out of respect for your father we only took what we needed and left the rest untouched."
Clark pulled open a drawer and picked out a white envelope.
"Your father was convinced that you and your brother would come back one day..."
Delicately, Steve reached out and took the letter.
“I’ll fill you in on the details, but your father gave me strict instructions to give this to you or Mike. It should answer your questions, but if you still have more after you read it, I’ll do my best to answer those."
Clark pulled the door closed behind him, allowing Steve privacy.
Steve sat in Tom's leather chair and stared at the envelope. It took a full minute for Steve to muster the courage to open it. Then, he broke the seal, removed and unfolded the handwritten pages, and read the first sentence out loud:
Dear Michael and Steven,
Part of me hopes you never read this, not because I don’t want you to hear from me, or read a sad letter, but because I hope you are far away from here, safe. These last forty-some hours have been the worst of my entire life. Worse than any war, worse than losing your mother. Besides the deaths of our family and friends, I had to watch you boys go, somehow knowing I would never see you again.
After you left, I met a man named Clark. He is a good man, you can trust him. In the short while I have known him, I have come to call him friend. He will carry on our work here after I’m gone.
I wanted you to know that we took back the town and began to establish a safe, quarantined zone. In doing so, I have witnessed horrible sights, but also seen what happens when people work together. Despite the horrors, it has been inspiring.
The media are just as confused and without information. I'm not sure what exactly is going on, or how long it will last, my only fear is that I won't have enough time to see it resolved or to see your faces again.
I truly believe that you are moving to a safe place, I have to. Believing that has kept me going. I hope that no matter what, you all have stuck together. You boys are more than cousins, your bond is stronger than brothers. You are each other's strength. I know that you will have looked out for one another.
I'm not sure how much time I have. I can feel something inside me, something changing me, something taking over. My insides hurt and my skin feels like it has napalm underneath. I have watched others who have been bitten change into those things. I know it is a matter of time and I know mine is running. Despite my stubbornness, I fear I can no longer hold on.
I love you both, always and forever.
To Michael, you are so bright and such a smart, talented individual. I know you hate yourself for not being there for your mother, but I swear to you that she loved you. She told me that she was happy that you didn't see her when she was at her worst. Move on, son, know that she will forever love you and watch over you.
To Steven, I am truly sorry, son. I know you never enjoyed the military life I forced upon you. You and I share many of the same qualities, but you have ones that I never could master. Patience, understanding and an unwavering ability to see the good in people. You are creative and great at everything that you put your mind to. Your passion is writing, and I fully support you. Know that I meant it when I said you are going to make a fantastic w
riter someday.
Michael and Steven, you two were my biggest strength. The thought of you kept me coming home every deployment. You watched over me and now it is my time to do the same.
Never settle for mediocrity, strive to be great and you will. Always follow through. Always give it your all. Believe in yourselves. I can see the great men you will become, and it makes me smile as I write this.
Take care of one another, I'll be watching from the other side.
Love,
Your father.
Steve hadn't realized how many tears hit the paper, blotting the ink. He dropped the last page and wept. His head pressed against the thin stack on the desk, and he didn't stop crying for a long while.
This was the last of his purging, for with it came an emotional reboot.
Sorrow for Tom, Mike, his family, his cousins, Sarah, Nick and all those who had perished. Steve was finally letting go of all the self-hate and blame. He was resurrecting, becoming himself again.
With red eyes, he looked at Tom’s shelf, past the awards and medals. On the very top of the stained oak, was the one thing Tom prized most: his family.
Steve pushed himself up and walked over to the picture of Tom, Barbara, Michael and himself. It was a similar one Steve used to carry in his journal, but this one was more recent, just before Barbara went to the hospital.
He remembered the day at the beach. He hadn't realized how perfect, how sacred the memory was.
The summer sun was hot but not too hot. Barbara’s wavy hair hung over her shoulders, untainted by the future chemotherapy. She was happy, free from pain and in good spirits. Tom wrapped loving arms around her, making her giggle. Michael was one year from graduating. It was summer break, but he came down for the weekend, despite having a job interview on Monday. Everyone was smiling. Everything was good.
Steve returned the picture to its home, then sauntered down the stairs, into the kitchen, where Clark was waiting.
"I just want to know one thing.”
"You want to know how it happened; how your father died."
"Yes."
"This way," Clark said, pulling back the blanket to enter the backyard. He walked along the poolside, then broke right to the large lawn. "At first we burned everyone who was infected, including your family members."
"Safe play. I don’t blame you. No one knew what it was that caused this.”
"But we gave each one of them a marker," Clark said, touching the top of an unmarked cross. "We figured that was the least we could do..."
Clark stopped at the furthest one from the house. This particular cross and the dirt beneath it were different from the rest.
"This is where we buried him,” Clark continued, squatting next to the head of the grave. The cross was large and painted white. Etched delicately into the wood was Tom’s name and day of death. “It was coming up on two days. He was in pain. He knew something was happening…”
I already know that part, I read it in the letter. Fast forward, I want to know how. I want to,Steve thought but remembered Tom’s written words.Patience, Steve. Clark’ll get there, just let him tell it how he wants to.
"Tom confided in me that Barbara didn't believe in suicide. That those who took their own lives wouldn't exist on the same spiritual plane after death. Even though he didn’t believe what she did, Tom wanted to see her again, so asked me to do him a favor. He asked me to-"
Clark stopped speaking, and Steve observed him fidget with the gun in his holster.
"He asked you to kill him, didn't he?"
Clark turned his head and sniffled. "Yes. Your father was a good man, the bravest I have ever known. I understand if you hate me for it."
Steve pulled Clark around by the shoulder. "Hate you?" Then he hugged the man who executed his father's dying wish. "I don't hate you. I thank you."
Chapter 14
“The Choice”
Fullertown, New York
December 13, 2009
1636 hours
The sun was settling over the western hills, blanketing Fullertown in an orange dusk.
Most all in town had come to McMicky’s to celebrate and pay respects to the men and women who were to leave the following morning. The bar was packed shoulder to shoulder, and upbeat tunes from a jukebox allowed patrons to sing along while the instrumental band rested.
Steve leaned against the wooden bar, waiting to be served. “So your name really is Tom Jones? Like the singer? Are you guys related?”
TJ pulled back his long hair and tied it off with a rubber band. “Yes, my name is Tom Jones, but what the fuck? No, we aren’t related, why do people keep asking me that?”
Standing next to her brother, Becca was unable to hide a look of guilt. She high-fived Steve, then broke down laughing.
“Ugh, are you serious? Bex, you told him to ask me didn’t you?”
“I admit to no such thing,” replied Becca, smiling. Then, as fate would have it, the jukebox started playing “It’s Not Unusual” by Tom Jones.
“You sassy bitch, you queued it up, didn’t you?” TJ said sternly, but even he couldn’t keep from smiling.
“No! I seriously did not, but this is amazing!”
Micky had just finished setting down another patron’s glass of vodka on the bar, but Becca snatched it, downed the glass, then shoved her way to the dance floor, singing, “It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone!”
“Your sister seems like a fun girl.”
Together they watched Becca grab a random guy and force him dance.
“Ya, she’s a GB.”
“GB?”
“Good bitch...oh shit, sorry, it’s not what you think. It’s a term of endearment. Where I’m from it means the same if you call your mate a good cunt.”
“Eesh. Ya we don’t really use the C word.”
“Believe me, I know. Found that out the hard way. Didn’t even realize I said it at a bar not one week after being in the states; got a black eye from it. It’s just funny how such a commonly used word for us is so taboo to you guys. After all, it’d be similar to if you called your friend a good dude.”
“That’s world lingo for ya, I suppose. So anyway, you were saying you worked in the wine industry?”
“Ya, back in Central,” TJ answered, but he quickly realized that “Central” meant nothing to Steve. “Central Otago. It’s a wine region surrounding Queenstown in the south Island. Awesome pinot.”
“Oh, gotcha. Never really got into wine. My family were a bunch of whiskey drinkers.”
“Fair enough. Ya, anyway, opposite harvests for us in the southern hemisphere, so I came to the U.S. to work a vintage. Everyone does the California-Napa thing, and I wanted to do something different so I looked east. I responded to this posting online, next thing I know I’m in North Fork making Bordeaux blends.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Wines were alright, but I had a blast. How could you not, being so close to New York City?”
“So Becca works in wine too?”
“Hah! Drinks liters, but no, she’s a writer. Crazy story, but check this out. She and I haven’t lived on the same Island since Uni, but when I decided to go abroad, her company was actually sending her out to New York in this journalist exchange program...musta had the twin-thing going on, like our minds made it happen.”
“That is pretty crazy.”
“Yes, but not as crazy as when the infection hit New York. Bex had Thanksgiving dinner with me and my host family, and decided to stay the weekend. Had she gone back to Manhattan, well let’s just say, she wouldn’t be dancing to Tom Jones right now.”
“So then you guys came here?”
“Not at first. Stayed at the winery for a week or two. That’s actually where I fashioned Little Beast.”
“Little Beast? Are you talking about your medieval spiked bat thing?”
“The very same, mate,” TJ replied, displaying it for Steve to examine. “It’s a wine punch that I shaved spikes into and welded a spearhead o
n. Lightweight and- Damnit, Bex,” TJ said, setting down his drink.
Across the way, Becca had slipped and fell on the grimy wooden floor. But rather than get up, she stayed on her back, continuing to dance and spin in circles.
“Looks like she’s drunk. Sorry, mate, gotta go.”
“No worries. I’ll catch ya in a bit.”
“Sweet as, man.”
Steve grabbed the two glasses he ordered, then politely shouldered his way to the back of the bar.
Alex was sitting in a booth, staring intensely into the screen of a mini-DV camcorder. “I still can’t believe they left our stuff up in your dad’s place,” he said, accepting the glass.
“What are you watching?”
“Oh, it’s a, it’s nothing. Just one of my last fights.”
“Nope, not getting out of it that easy,” Steve said, stopping Alex from putting away the camcorder. “Is this your last fight? The one you got your ass whooped in the last minute?”
“Hence why I’m turning it off and burning this tape,” Alex replied, setting the device aside. “But for the record, I was kicking that dude’s ass ‘til the third round. Guy got a lucky pin on me, nothing more.”
Steve smiled. “You know I’m just messing with ya.”
"I know.” Alex met Steve’s glass. “What do ya say? To the past?”
“To the future.”
Alex leaned back against the uncomfortable wood. "So Uncle Tom wrote you a letter, huh? That’s really cool, bro. I’m happy for you. Sounds like some good closure. Most people never get that, especially now, ya know?"
"Ya, for sure.”
"I’m sorry for saying this a million times, but you really do look better...just something different about you."
"Thanks, bro. Not to deflect, but you seem to be doing pretty well these days too. Jenny let it go that you and Lisa are officially boyfriend and girlfriend now."
The Longest Road (Book 3): The Other Side Page 70
