The Raven Gang (Noble Animals Book 1)

by Brendan Walsh

  Lindsey also had a distinct role in Patrick’s group. Apart from her, he didn’t really have any female friends. Her natural hair color was an auburn, brown; though she always had it dyed blond in a way that seemed to reflect enough light to be mistaken for a small star. She was an English major with an art minor. She was the type of person that would go through with a dare in exchange for money, have such a good time completing the dare and then she would end up not taking the cash. She could be seen about four out of the seven week days wearing a different kind of San Francisco Police Department sweater, reminding everyone that her father was a detective for the city, and had now been for over twenty years.

  “I’m sorry, you guys.” Patrick said sympathetically. “At least you’ll have us too. Johnny and I will be here the whole time, assuming I see him again.”

  “Why wouldn’t you see him again?” asked Lindsey, her hot cocoa rippling under her breath.

  “You know how he always leaves without telling us. None of us know where he goes. He ends up reappearing as suddenly as he left.” Slate reminded. “He really values his independence.”

  Patrick realized his coffee had cooled during the conversation. He took four rapid gulps, feeling the cool hazelnut flavor leave stains in the corners of his mouth. Before he could finish, an idea struck him. He told them about the party Johnny had invited him to. He still had no interest, but having Slate and Lindsey go for him would be equally acceptable in Johnny’s eyes.

  “Will there be turkey and cranberry sauce?” asked Lindsey with exaggerated hope.

  “If there was Johnny wouldn’t want me to invite you. He’d have all of it to himself.” Patrick replied with a smirk.

  “You wouldn’t come with us?” Slate asked

  “You guys know me. I’d be no fun there. Plus I’ve never really cared to get even an inch drunk. I think I’d make awful choices.”

  “That’s what everyone thinks, until they do. Then they don’t worry anymore.” Slate reasoned after downing some of his foggy coffee.

  The cafe door once again jingled, signaling the entrance of a new customer. Patrick had his back to the door so he could not see who had walked in. He noticed Lindsey’s facial expression change when her eyes landed in its direction. In had walked a junior wearing some brand of small cap that neatly covered his uncombed jet black hair. He was draped with the usual black vest over an even blacker t-shirt. It had been a while since any of them had been subject to the strange kid’s presence.

  “Don’t look now, but Gary Frost just walked in.” Lindsey said, raising her mug to her face as if she were attempting to hide behind it.

  From what little people knew about him, Gary didn’t have a steady reputation. He had become the archetypal anti-social figure on campus and never seemed to think twice about ignoring almost everyone else. There was however, one exception.

  “Patrick, isn’t he the guy who really doesn’t like you?” Slate asked, almost loud enough for Gary to hear.

  “I’ve got no idea why the hell he would. I’ve never spoken to him in my life.”

  It was true. Patrick was the only one Gary Frost ever seemed to give any attention. Moreover, it was quite negative. Even going back to their freshman year, Gary’s interactions with him were rather aggressive. They had never gone as far as physical combat, but it would be clear to any onlooker that there was conflict. He tried not to think about it too much. There were many other important issues for which he could reserve his mind.

  “Should we leave?” asked Lindsey

  “No. He won’t bother us.”

  “He’ll probably end up sitting over there in that far booth.” said Slate gesturing with his cup and nearly causing a flood of creamy liquid to erupt out.

  Discussing more of the matter between he and Gary made him think about it more than he cared to. It wasn’t that he was in any hurry to resolve the feud, but he’d much rather petty, high-school level problems didn’t happen. It quickly reminded him how much he would prefer his solitary time.

  “I changed my mind.” Patrick interjected. “It’s dead in here, how about we go somewhere else?”

  “Fine by me.” Lindsey agreed, wiping away a foamy mustache.

  Before leaving, Patrick opened up his bag and smuggled in some extra sugar packets into the top pouch, just in case he needed any for a late night latte. Before he was able to slide the zipper, a tiny sparkle reflected off an object inside. It peeked Slate’s interest.

  “Whoa, Patrick.” he paused, leaning over the table “What was that shiny thing in your backpack?”

  Patrick reluctantly peered back into his bag. It was obvious to him what his friend had seen. Inside was something he had never spoken about to anyone outside his family. It had been nearly eleven years since receiving it under unfortunate circumstances, and he decided it was time to share it with his friends.

  “This thing? It’s the pocket watch my father gave me.” he started carefully, sounding almost bored by his own words.

  Slate and Lindsey promptly exchanged questions about why he had it and why he never displayed it before. It did look fashionable enough to not always be kept hidden from view. He unearthed the device from its burial in his bag among scattered pens and coin change, and told them the story of his watch.

  Patrick’s father died when he was only nine years old. The watch was one of the things his mother gave to him, saying that it was something very dear to her husband and he would have wanted it to go to him. She also informed him that it was given to his father by a most trusted friend, a man surely of good influence. Apparently it was potentially worth hundreds of dollars, but he never once thought of betraying his father for a quick buck or two. His dad’s company ended up taking most of his other possessions away from the family, but it was all legal, which gave the watch even more sentimental value. Now for about the last ten years, Patrick made sure to have it with him at all times.

  Slate and Lindsey’s expressions were flooded with sympathy after he finished. For a few seconds nobody spoke, and Patrick kept his hand on the watch, eyeing it under the cafe lighting. Lindsey eventually broke the silence.

  “Wow Patrick, we didn’t realize.” it sounded like she was not done yet, but Slate finished for her.

  “I think it’s really cool that you have such a perfect record going with that watch.” Slate said. “I almost wish I had a little something like that.”

  “You have me.” Lindsey said with a smile

  Slate visibly shrugged in reply. Patrick giggled as Lindsey leaned over and playfully slapped Slate on the cheek. His smile was drawn back as he glanced over at Gary Frost in the far booth, sitting all alone. But Gary wasn’t looking back at him. Instead, he was looking into the contents of his palm. In his eyes were a mixture of interest, confusion and genuine surprise, as if the watch had mystical properties only he could perceive. Patrick threw the thought away and slowly put the meaningful gadget away. As they were all nearly ready to rise from the booth, Gary rushed out of his seat to the door. Patrick eyed him as he determinately strode quickly through exit, adjusting his hat over his hair. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Gary looked worried.

  Frosty

  The chime of the door to the coffee lounge jingled softly, back in the distance. Gary tried to pace himself at an appropriate speed to hear as little of the high frequency ring as possible. At least that’s what he assured himself. He knew his craving for nicotine getting the best of him once again. He briskly walked over to the round fountain in the middle of the academic quad. There was never much of a crowd out there after dusk, plus it was Thanksgiving break, the place was deserted.

  He strode down the slightly uneven pavement that would take him around Byron Hall, the art building, and McAlpin, the Science Library. Gary had never had a class in the former, but he was well acquainted with the library. It was always dead silent in there. Any noise more powerfu
l than the sound of a zippered backpack slowly opening or the placing of a laptop on a plastered table would set off a chain of dirty looks to the perpetrator. He would be lying if he said he never participated in such activity.

  Passing through the greater depths of the campus, he began to feel a much greater sense of solitude. Many of the dimly glowing lights that illuminated the area were gone. Against what many people think of him, he, Gary did not enjoy being alone all the time, but it sure is better than the alternative, he reminded himself. His other option was going to visit his step uncle’s house in San Francisco. When he had recently inquired about his plans for Thanksgiving Gary told him that he needed to stay to finish a project. His uncle gave him his sympathies, which he knew were only out of courtesy. The two of them never had a strong mutual relationship.

  Among many other thoughts swirling inside his head was the earlier scene at the coffee lounge. He remembered ordering a latte, which was too milky for his taste. He was more of a tea type of person anyway. It wasn’t until the clerk handed him his change that he noticed the usual clan in the usual corner of the store: Patrick Buchanan, Slate Kilroy, and Lindsey Hunter. He was willing to bet that at that moment, the three of them were betting that he would sit at the far booth, out of sight. Feeling as non-social as he usually did, he did in fact take the far corner to himself. But all of that is irrelevant. What really had caught his eye earlier was the watch that Patrick retrieved from his backpack. He would never admit it, but he was surprised by the uncanny object. It was why he rushed out of the lounge.

  “Hmm, it really is a small world.” he said, smiling grimly.

  Once he reached the fountain in the center of the quad, he dove his hand into the left jean pocket and pulled out a lighter while performing a similar routine for his breast pocket for a cigarette. Placing the proper end of the cigarette between his lips, he lit up, and deeply inhaled. He subtly embraced the intense feeling of liberation that came with releasing the narcotic substances. He wondered why. Perhaps it was the exact same reason why he got away from everyone he knew, why he listened to the music that he did, and why he was no stranger to drowning himself in any cheap form of alcohol he could get his hands on. He treasured his self-destructive behavior because it gave him identity. He had received an incalculable amount of scolding and lectures from every foster parent he ever had. However, he was aware that his reckless actions would one day catch up with him. Maybe that was why he liked smoking in this part of campus. There was a visible sign against the lower portion of the wall that clearly displayed the “no smoking” icon.

  Regardless of anything going through the darker side of his mind, he did have something to look forward to. He had received a surprisingly formal invitation to a Thanksgiving party in San Francisco some few days back. The host was apparently an alumnus of Weller College and was now working on some type of genetic research. During some free time, he researched the name Doctor Jefferson Black online and what he found surprised him. After graduation from Weller, he went on to get his Ph.D. from Yale University. He was highly regarded by many of his colleagues and was often praised as a great philanthropist for his undying desire to help the poor and sick. That all being noted, he wanted to throw a party for biology/chemistry grad-students to share some of his experience along with a presentation on his latest research. Being a biology undergrad, Gary was eager to RSVP. He had no doubt, however, that the “cherry on top” for the party would be the free alcohol that would be serve. It seemed the host did not care if some attending his party might be under aged.

  Unfortunately, because of forces beyond his grasp, a bunch of other students, most of whom probably wouldn’t know a eukaryote from a prokaryote, decided that it would be a fun way to spend their Thanksgiving. That started an unstoppable chain reaction in which those people invited friends of theirs who proceeded to invite friends of theirs. Despite the growing concentration of people who would wind up there one way or another, it seemed that the Doctor still wanted to keep the party’s original meaning. Gary actually didn’t mind a flooded party. There was much more privacy in a large crowd.

  After the mental evaluation of how future events may unfold, Gary took another deep inhale of his cigarette with just as big an exhale. He looked at the buildings, young and old, all around him. Down by the library, the cracking stairs were showing signs of age. Between the concrete falling apart and the roots of the trees attempting to overthrow the brick walkway in an epic battle of nature versus humanity.

  Weller’s campus had seen a growth in tree population over the last few years. Gary remembered the president of the college saying something about “setting an example” in regards to being an eco-friendly campus. It reminded him of a mandatory community service that Weller freshman were required to do on the third day of their orientation. They ranged from helping the faculty with banal office work, going to a local shelter and make breakfast for the homeless, and doing maintenance work that the school just didn’t want to pay employees to do. But he didn’t get stuck doing any of those. He and about six other people were taken with the chair of the biology department to the nearest nature preserve to plant trees. During the event, he decided he would adhere to the customs of the group and talk to his fellow classmates. During their discussions the other students made it quite clear they felt their time was being wasted and how they couldn’t wait to drink at their first frat parties. In all honesty, Gary had much fun planting trees that day. It had nothing to do with meeting new people or conversing with the wannabe frat guys, but the fact that he was giving life to something. He was creating something that would have a prospering future. How many people could actually say that they have done something like that?

  He pulled out another cigarette from his vest pocket and ignited the end with the lighter.

  He looked all around him. There were some very nice buildings surrounding him. Over to his right across the field of grass was the front entrance to the main building, Canon Hall, which spread out like a semicircle around him. It was four floors containing classrooms and professors’ offices. On the basement floor was what they called “Old Main”, a place that Gary frequented because of their daily special sandwich selection, and their not too bad campus brewed coffee. The top floor contained only a few classrooms, one of which had a window that was located right below the clock on the tower. Gary had never been in that classroom, but he assumed the view from atop was beautiful. It overlooked the main quad, five academic buildings, and the long walkway over to the parking lot across where the president of the school lives.

  Over there, immediately adjacent to the parking lot.-

  Gary dropped his cigarette in a frightened reflex, feeling the silence as his heart skipped a beat.

  That was when it all came rushing back to him. The very essence of every fear he ever felt. A fear that was always there, that gained power over every event that he involuntarily was a part of in all his life. Parts of death, betrayal, and a complete lack of order and sensibility were a constant. But what was it this time? What could go wrong with him now? He looked back up at the brown brick building by the parking lot; he thought he could make out a dark ghostly figure swaying from the roof. What was it? His guardian angel? Gary almost smiled at the thought. He was just imagining. For a split second, he thought he could give the strange shape a pair of eyes. These eyes failed to suite his emotions as the gothic scene heightened in front of him. They were sympathetic. Gary once heard someone say that the eyes were the gateway to the soul. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to look into someone’s eyes and know what they felt, or what was happening in their mind. Nevertheless, he was familiar with the horrible evil that even great people could produce. Even though he understood the pain of others, he shocked himself with how unforgiving he was. He was sorry too, for what he was. That was the key. Empathy. For better or for worse. It was because Gary was empathetic to what he perceived as broken or damned that he wanted to get rid of them. He
knew exactly how they felt, and he was aware of the evil even he was capable of producing. So, they needed to be stopped. This world had no place for redemption. It was all an illusion in a greater game of infinite chaos.

  Gary reluctantly drooped his eyes to the pavement. His cigarette continued to softly burn on the dim concrete. He decided for his own benefit to leave it there because to bend down and pick it up would probably almost stop his heart again. Before heading on back to the coffee lounge to get a large black coffee, he readjusted his hat, and proceeded quickly down the walkway from which he’d just eagerly paced across. He gradually rose into a steady jog.

  Behind him a lone pair of eyes blinked.

  Dr. Jefferson Black was scared out of his mind, but he was able to contain himself and maintain a straight face as he talked to his wife and everyone else who was there to help him set up. Around him were a number of generous neighbors who offered to help him set up for the Thanksgiving party he would be playing host to the following day. To most people it would have been a nice scene. He was nicely dressed in a buttoned dress shirt, a nice cashmere sweater vest, and slacks of an appropriate color. The atmosphere had too much of a peaceful quality, which was perhaps the most agonizing feature. He would never have peace again. He rubbed his fingers over his eyes and groaned to himself.

  Peace was long gone, and it was replaced with paranoia and despair. He had never been a stranger to such emotions before, but this time they mutated beyond feelings. They were the feelings of everything he hurt. Dr. Black had looked up his symptoms in some psychology book he had in his library. According to the book, it seemed that he had some form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He had always associated PTSD with soldiers who were deployed and saw violent action. They were the ones who watched their fellow soldiers and friends die amidst the loud gunfire and indecipherable commanding calls. If that wasn’t enough, the experience of death all around you, knowing it could be you at any moment, as the hailing of bullets loomed overhead as you buried yourself in the ground struggling to find cover.