by Mark Tufo
He pulled the lid off the box. The smell of old garlic slammed into my nose. I intrinsically knew, it would have been impossible not to. As he pulled the white gold locket from its case a tremor of unease began in my stomach and wrapped around my spinal column. I was shaking uncontrollably like a bear had wrapped its paws around a small tree and was shaking it violently trying to make the bee hive drop its prize, only the prize in this analogy was my quivering mind.
“Don’t,” I mouthed silently as he opened the jewelry.
A bolt of power seemed to leap from Eliza’s cold eyes as she stared back at me. A small smile pulled up one corner of her lips as she seemed to take a cruel satisfaction in my unease.
“You alright?” Ron asked across a seemingly vast expanse.
“Close it,” I said breathlessly.
I’ll give him this, he didn’t taunt me with it like a big brother is apt to do with an object of fear. Like countless brothers holding a bug up to the frightened gazes of their sisters. Or the glob of spit that is repeatedly drooped in front of the younger sibling’s face to only be sucked up at the last moment, or a countless other myriad forms of minor torture. My anguished look of distress was enough to convince him that this wasn’t a game.
“That’s her then?” he said as he shut the locket.
“Where did you get that?” I asked after I was able to speak again. I reached my hand out, not sure if I truly wanted to touch it.
Ron brought it closer to my hand. “You sure? I thought you were going to pass out just from looking at it.” “Not from the piece itself, only the picture, it has power.”
Ron eyed me skeptically. He was not a big believer in what he could not touch or see, but he still reluctantly handed it over.
“Wow, it’s so cold,” I said as I gripped the chain.
Ron touched the chain to see what he was missing. “It’s cool at best, room temperature I’d say. I think it might be in your head, little brother.” “Well there’s always the chance of that, Lord knows what else goes on in there, it would fit right in.” With my right hand I grabbed hold of the locket, rubbing my thumb over the smooth surface. I pulled back instantly when I felt something prick my finger. “I’m bleeding!” I muttered, looking at the small drop of blood pooling up on the tip of my thumb.
Ron grabbed the locket out of my hands and rubbed every last bit of it. “What the hell did you cut yourself on? This thing is as smooth as buttered silk. Maybe you shouldn’t use so much anti-bacterial on your hands, it’s making them as dry and brittle as Hugh’s notes.” “Funny,” I said as I sucked the bubble of blood off my opposing digit.
“Use a different finger and touch it,” he suggested, pressing the locket back into my hand.
“Kiss my ass. Rub it on your face first.”
And he did just that and nothing happened, no scratch, no mar, no nothing.
I was feeling a little foolish, I angrily grabbed it from him.
“Hold on,” he said. “I want to make sure that you’re not pulling a scab off or something.” “Fine,” I gritted out as I showed him the index finger on my right hand.
You would have thought he was looking for trace evidence at a crime scene the way he analyzed my finger. “Alright, it looks fine.” “So I can continue?”
“Proceed,” he said airily.
I rubbed my finger over the face of the jeweled locket. “Ow !” I pulled back quickly, blood was again pooling on a previously unmarred finger.
“Crap Mike.”
“I told you the damn thing had something wrong with it.”
“I’m not ready to believe that just yet, I think you might be hitting a trigger switch or something that causes a barb to come out. Kind of like an early ages theft deterrent.” “Oh yeah, that must be it,” I said sarcastically, now cleaning blood off of my finger and thumb. “Just put the damn thing away.” Ron put it back in its box and then proceeded to hand it to me.
“No way,” I told him. “I don’t want it.” “Near as I can tell it’s yours.”
I shook my head in the negative like a six year old child being accused of stealing cookies. My face was covered in chocolate and in my hand I still had half a cookie but still I denied ownership.
“Gram Marissa was kind of vague, like she was remembering the details through a veil. But the boy with the incredible baklava told her that this locket was somehow linked to his sister, that it had some power.” Goosebumps the size of small gooses, (geeses?) rippled up my forearms. “Gram Marissa met Tommy?” Ron stopped to think for a moment. “I think she said the name ‘Tomas’ but I guess that makes sense from everything you’ve told me.” “Why is our family the center of this shit storm, Ron?” I asked in despair. Just when I adjusted to the extra weight of a particular event, I seemed to pick up some extra baggage. Eventually I would get to the point of breaking, maybe not today but I could feel it coming like a locomotive in a dark dead-ended tunnel. There would be nowhere to run and by then I don’t think I’d want to.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I wish I knew Mike. But I think we need to think of these items as weapons in this war. They were obviously important enough that Tomas came into our grandparents’ lives to keep them safe and let them know what they had, at least to a degree.” “A book of directions or maybe an instructional DVD would have been awesome.”
Ron laughed. “Let’s get the rest of your stuff.”
I could feel the chill of the locket in my heart as I gingerly rubbed the outside of the box.
Talbot Journal Entry 3
Day One
Outfitted with a new truck, plenty of ammo, weapons and food, Tracy , Justin, Travis, my brother Gary and I headed out to find Tommy. My previous injury to my shoulder has nearly healed to completion. I came to Maine hoping for the best and expecting the worst. The East Coast Chapter of the Talbots have suffered some losses, notably my brother Glenn in North Carolina and my niece Melanie who lives, (lived?) in Massachusetts . But for the most part, paranoid delusional Talbots or as they are now known, ‘survivalists,’ have stayed relatively strong.
My spirits should be much higher than they are, but I just can’t get it out of my head that this is a one way trip. We’ve been driving for four hours, and Tracy has yet to say one word. Her head has been resting against the passenger window, and she’s just been staring blindly out at the passing scenery. Leaving her mom Carol behind was actually a good thing. She wouldn’t be on the run any more, she’d be able to rest and find some semblance of normality, if possible, at the Talbot compound. Leaving Nicole behind was another matter. Our daughter is pregnant and Tracy wasn’t going to be there for it, and that above all else was weighing heavily on her. Well, that and the fact that some dumb ass named Michael Talbot was dragging her two sons back into harm’s way.
I didn’t quite see it that way. ‘Harms Way’ seemed to now be a main thoroughfare that intersected regularly with our ‘Life’s Path.’ The only noise in the truck was Gambo’s (my brother Gary) checking and rechecking of his magazine clips. I appreciated the thoroughness, and the obsessive compulsive disorder of it, I really did. But four or five times should be the max!
“You about done back there?” I asked Gary.
“With what?” he asked back.
“Admitting your problem is the first step to recovery,” I told him.
“What problem?”
“Forget it,” I said, too tired to even sound exasperated.
Gary started unloading and reloading his magazine clips again.
“I thought BT was gonna kick your ass, Dad, when you told him he had to stay behind,” Travis said from the backseat.
“Yeah, he got pretty close to your head with his crutch,” Justin said smiling in remembrance.
I absently rubbed my cheek where the rubber bottomed tip of the crutch had brushed across me. BT had been swinging for the fences, lucky for me he had foul tipped or I’d be back at my Dad’s nursing a concussion. Although how bad would that be, really?
“Yea
h, that was close,” I said, forcing myself to sound cheerier than I felt. It fell flat. The interior of the truck once again slipped into silence, interrupted only by the repetitive sound of bullet scraping against bullet. How the hell that became a comforting noise was a mystery to me.
“What the hell is that smell?” Travis asked, grabbing his nose.
Justin sheepishly raised his hand. “Aunt Lyndsey made me try her breakfast burrito.”
The smell was horrific but it wasn’t this which caused my already depressed mood to implode. It was the remembrance of Henry. I had felt it best to leave him behind also. Besides not having my furry friend and companion along, I no longer had a viable alibi when my lactose intolerant bowels fired off a fiery discharge. “Oh, Henry,” I mumbled under my breath.
Gary rolled down his window, the howling wind masking his sounds of gagging.
“Wonderful,” Tracy said as she rolled down her own window. I was thankful that at least now she couldn’t rest her head in that melancholy way. It was breaking my already shattered heart.
We hadn’t seen much in the way of zombies yet. I figured there were a few mitigating factors. Maine was sparsely populated, number one, number two the area was so economically depressed that if the infected flu shot wasn’t being given for free not many people here were going to spend the twenty to twenty-five bucks to get one no matter how virulent the bug. Who cares if you’re sick if you don’t have a job to go to anyway.
“How are you planning on finding Helen?” Gary’s voice came from the back seat.
Tracy slowly turned to look at him. “Who?”
“You know, the werewolf chick,” he replied, never looking up from his magazines.
“You know you’re talking out loud right now, Uncle Gary?” Travis asked in concern.
“Dad, there aren’t any werewolves, right?” Justin asked.
“Hon, do you have on any silver jewelry?” I asked Tracy .
“You can’t be serious. And even if I did have some on, you wouldn’t be making any bullets out of it to kill a beast from faerie tales,” she said, placing her hand protectively over her obviously gold chain and crucifix.
“Was that cross blessed?” I asked her.
“How should I know, you bought it for me for our anniversary.”
“You sure?”
“No, that’s right, it must have been my other husband.” Her glare should have stopped me in my tracks, unfortunately I was paying too much attention to the roadway to heed the warning.
“Well, did he get it blessed?” I asked her.
Her hand would have connected with the side of my head if the G-forces from my hard braking hadn’t flung her forward. Thank God she was wearing her seat belt.
“What the hell Mike?” she asked hotly.
Travis nearly crawled over his seat to get a better look at what had brought us from 60 to 0 in record time. A full grown two thousand pound moose was galloping full speed towards us, and he had no clue whatsoever we were in his way. The zombie latched on its back and the one on its left rear leg had absorbed all of its attention.
I was in such a rush to throw the truck into reverse, I slammed it into park. The engine was taching at 5000 rpms and we weren’t moving.
“Mike, you’re going to want to back up,” Gary said, his eyes never straying from the charging beast.
“I think he’s right Dad!” Justin threw in for good measure.
It was taking long seconds for my racing mind to catch up to my ill-timed action.
“Mike!!” Tracy said, placing her feet on the dashboard and bracing for impact.
Travis sat back down and refastened his seatbelt. Wise move, I thought to myself.
The moose was within fifteen feet by the time I figured out how to drop the gear into reverse. That transmission got the workout of its life as I slammed the gas pedal down. We were moving but the moose was still gaining.
“Not gonna make it!” I said aloud.
The moose’s front hoof clipped the bumper, momentarily taking our rear wheels off the pavement. Between my furtive glances to the rear to make sure we weren’t going to hit a wayward semi, and back to the front and possible death by Bullwinkle, I noted that the moose’s next step was going to take him half way up our hood which would result in certain destruction with death being a possible consequence. Zombies saved our lives, yeah, write that line down, zombies saved our lives . (Sure, we would have never been in this situation if it wasn’t for them, but that’s just splitting hairs.) The one that had latched on to the rear of the moose took that opportune moment to hamstring the giant critter. The moose dropped like a brick, his head slamming into the hood and grill. So much for the resale value. Ron was going to be pissed.
I laid on the brakes again almost as hard as I had the first time. For twenty seconds I sat there, sweat accumulating on my forehead. The pops and groans of the overworked engine were drowned out by the mewling of the moose as it was being eaten alive. The sad sound pierced the air and my heart, so much so that I got out and killed the zombies as they feasted and then put one into the moose’s terror stretched eye. It was then that I noticed the torn tendon on the hind leg still hanging out of the zombie’s mouth. Tracy and Travis had come up to get a better look. Justin was rubbing Gary ’s back as he puked behind the truck.
“We should go, Mike,” Tracy said, grabbing my arm.
This opening act to our quest seemed an ominous premonition of things to come. I could not stop staring at the brain matter as it oozed from the moose’s eye wound.
“Dad, how did they catch a moose?” Travis asked.
‘By hunting it down relentlessly,’ I thought. “They must have stumbled on it while it was sleeping,” I lied.
We had narrowly escaped death by deaders just a week ago, how far would we have gotten if it had been speeders? As a survivalist I had prepared and trained for the day when the world was going to take a giant shit on itself, but I had no idea how much luck was going to factor into my family’s continued existence. I did not like it. Luck was a fickle bitch.
I finally turned from the gruesomeness; Gary’s retching had subsided slightly. Justin was no longer rubbing his back as the puddle of bile began to spread and he didn’t want to get in the splash zone.
“Big moose,” Gary said from his hunched over position, brown drool hanging in stringy rivulets from his mouth.
“Big moose,” I echoed. “You ready to go?” I asked him.
“Just about,” he answered, immediately followed by his biggest purging thus far.
I popped the hood of the truck to see if the contact with the beast had damaged anything internally. Besides a bumper that would never pass inspection and a hood with a two foot long crease, we were in pretty good shape. Ten minutes later I gave as wide a berth to the carnage in the roadway as the two lanes would allow. It wasn’t near enough. Gary ’s persistent gagging in the back brought me to the edge of my own expulsion. Another ten minutes and I was almost able to convince myself the whole thing was just some elaborate nightmare induced by my sister’s chili. Then I saw the drops of blood on the hood and they sliced effectively through that illusion. Oh yeah, did I express how pissed off Ron was going to be about his truck?
CHAPTER TWO – Mad Jack’s Backstory
Mad Jack aka Peter Pender until recently was a Technical Adviser for the Department of Defense. It was his primary responsibility to view all the aerial photographs and satellite data and determine viable threats from a hundred different rogue countries, and every major terrorist cell on the globe. He was so adept at his job that within three short years he went from an Analyst Assistant I to the Department Head. He had stopped six major attacks on American soil and at least a dozen other minor ones. Unfortunately, nobody had thought to take a picture of a crate filled with flu vaccinations or quite possibly this latest disaster could have been averted.
Peter was not well liked among his peers, shooting stars seldom were, but he was well respected. Peter’s home life r
evolved around one thing: HALO. His gamertag was Death by Murder667 (he thought he was one better than the devil). Those that had crossed his path on Xbox Live had a 98% mortality rate. He was a legend in the gaming world, a not well liked but well respected gamer. Peter had set up residency in his parents’ home for the first twenty-seven years of his life. The basement was his dominion, and he probably would have spent the next twenty-seven years there also if his father had not gently chided his son that it might be time to fly the coop. Only then could George Pender finally realize his dream of a man cave, resplendent with a six-seat home theater.
Peter traveled almost across the whole Pender backyard before he set up his new domicile in the apartment above the garage. The independence was invigorating. Between work and wreaking ruin on the minions within the HALO universe, Peter had very little time to deal with the fairer sex. It wasn’t that he didn’t think, dream, eat and sleep about them, it was just that they were a mystery that defied explanation. He could glance at a black blurry box the size of a foot locker photographed from 2,400 miles away and let you know with stunning detail the threat level that it imposed. Women he couldn’t decipher with a Cray super computer. HALO was easy in comparison, kill or be killed, no right no wrong, no double meanings, no games. It was straight forward and linear, whereas women were all dangerous curves.
Liver had saved Peter’s life, not directly mind you, but the effect was the same. The day his division was scheduled to receive the flu vaccine, his favorite restaurant Ma’s Grill and Home Cooking (the slogan being ‘the food tastes just as good without all the nagging!’) was having a special on liver and onions. This was hands down his favorite meal on the planet, which confused the hell out of his parents because they had never once made it for him while he was growing up. Ma’s was slow, the smell of the liver keeping her normal customers at bay.
“I thought you guys would be packed,” Peter said excitedly as he placed his order at the counter.
Stan the cashier, a young man doing his best to not let the smell affect him, could only shrug his shoulders in reply.
