Come to Dust

by Bracken MacLeod

  Table of Contents

  Come To Dust

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  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

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  COME TO DUST

  By

  Bracken MacLeod

  Trepidatio Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 Bracken MacLeod

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Trepidatio books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  Trepidatio Publishing an imprint of JournalStone

  www.trepidatio.com

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-945373-66-4 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-945373-67-1 (ebook)

  JournalStone rev. date: June 23, 2017

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017937092

  Printed in the United States of America

  1st JournalStone Edition

  Originally Published by Maelstrom Press

  Cover Art & Design: 99designs – Mastah Killah 187

  Images: http://mercurycode.deviantart.com/art/Rust-texture-IX-389490690 and https://creativemarket.com/DesignSomething/18560-10-Vintage-Overlay-Textures-Mock-up?u=parrot

  Edited by: Sean Leonard

  For BOB BOOTH,

  sleep well, Papa Necon

  Come to dust

  Let us beware of saying that death is the opposite of life. The living being is only a species of the dead, and a very rare species.

  ― Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science

  Golden lads and girls all must,

  As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

  ― William Shakespeare, Cymbeline

  Children begin by loving their parents. After a time, they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.

  ― Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance, Act II

  Prologue: Scenes from an Ending

  The cool earth of the grave in front of them was the only place the August heat couldn’t penetrate, but no one who would benefit from the shade would be going down into it. A cemetery employee discretely released the handbrake on the lowering straps and the half-sized pink box started to descend slowly. From a small wireless speaker, the bagpipe strains of “Amazing Grace” began to play, drowning out the soft sounds of the well-oiled ratchet gears. It couldn’t compete with the soft weeping of the girl’s mother. Although green AstroTurf had been draped down to cover the bare earth sides of the hole, there was no imaginable way to disguise the fact that they were lowering a child into a grave. There was nothing loud enough to dispel the silence of a dead child.

  The mourners slowly dispersed, each one offering their final condolences to the woman who remained seated. Her veil obscured the tears streaking her face, but still, she looked down, hiding her grief from friends and family. So many had asked how they could help, but there was nothing any of them could do for her. Her mother sat beside her, an arm around her shoulders, whispering comfort in her ear as if she was still six and could be consoled with gentle shushing. Laura wanted to throw that god damned arm off her shoulder and scream. She wanted to stand and scream. She wanted to scream at her mother and the priest for their platitudes and assurances that there was a plan, she just wasn’t privy to it. She wanted to yell at her absentee ex-husband standing near the road already with his friends, smoking and solemnly shaking hands as if he wasn’t glad to be relieved of his child-support obligations. She wanted to scream and scream and scream. And, instead, she held it in. A good New England woman who wouldn’t burden anyone else with her pain. She’d hold it in and push it down until she was home again, alone in a house full of toys and Sesame Street DVDs and silence so painful. She’d hold it all in, and curse the sky for not darkening on the day of her only child’s funeral and the earth for not rejecting a body so small and unfinished. She’d curse all of creation for abandoning her baby to die under the car of someone cutting through her street to beat the light. Most of all, she’d curse herself for turning away in that moment to look at her cell phone as her child rode her tricycle from the driveway out into the street. Staring at a picture of a baby fox with a cute saying she couldn’t remember now, but oh, how that picture was burned in her mind. It was there like a spot in her eyes after a camera flash along with the sounds of rubber screeching on asphalt and metal grinding on metal that would never leave her ears. And she was still smiling when she turned around, unaware of what was happening, because it was all over before her mind could grasp that she was witnessing the single most horrible thing it could conceive.

  As the last of her well-wishers departed, the funeral director approached and held out a hand to help her up. She found it in herself to stand, but that took the last of her strength and she was unable to move another step. With him holding one arm and her mother on the other, they turned her away from her child, and led her away. She didn’t want to leave. She never wanted to leave. Instead, she imagined herself crawling into the hole along with Cherie and letting the men standing in the distance with their shovels and the backhoe cover them over. The funeral director told her how lovely the service was, and assured her again how terribly he felt for her. She knew that couldn’t possibly be true. His job was grief and despair and he saw it all day, every day. He had to feel as blasé about other people’s grief as she was about photographing people’s weddings. How could seeing people on the happiest day of their lives ever get old? She’d asked herself. She learned. It got old the way anything that was work got old. Her pain was just another day on the job for him. Still, she let him do his job and nodded and accepted his sympathy as if it was a real thing he felt, and something she wanted to receive. And together they walked away.

  His skinny blond assistant collected the Bluetooth speaker and stuffed it in her bag before following along. Only the sounds of the cemetery remained. Birds and the distant sound of traffic beyond the wall. And a light scratching she knew had to be the sounds of shovels and respectful men work
ing. It was not the sound of a child trying to get out of a box before it was covered with earth. That would be a horrible sound. More horrible than the sound of a car hitting a child. More horrible than anything she could imagine.

  Yes. That was what the scratching was.

  She looked over her shoulder to see the cemetery employees still standing in the distance, waiting for everyone to go before beginning their work. The funeral director helped her into the car and her mother crawled in after her. And all Laura wanted to do was rush back to the gravesite and scream, Let her out! For God’s sake, let her out; she’s not dead. My baby is alive! But that was impossible. Her broken little girl’s body had been cut, drained, sewn, and embalmed. There was no life in her. There was no panicked child in a box desperate to get out, crying for her mommy. Of course there wasn’t. It was monstrous to even think it.

  The door closed and she couldn’t hear the scratching any more.

  Part One: Sophie’s Death

  September

  1

  Mitch dodged out of the way as the woman pushed her carriage into the space he’d been occupying. She shoved forward, guiding the half-sized shopping cart with one hand while she held her iPhone against her cheek with the other, declaring, “I got right up in that little bitch’s face and said, ‘I don’t want to hear it!’” She grabbed the carton of cubed pineapple he’d had his eye on, plopped it into the carriage, and moved on without acknowledging she’d barged in front of him like he was invisible. He’d carefully nurtured that invisibility and perfected it. He had mousy brown hair, cut short but not shaved, stubble on his chin, but no beard. He wore a pair of thick-framed glasses (with an actual prescription in the lenses), and a plain black T-shirt and gray chinos. Only his shoes were an indulgence: Oxblood red Doc Marten 1460s. They were expensive, but he worked on his feet and didn’t own a car. He needed boots that were comfortable and durable.

  Mitch grabbed the container of pineapple below the one he’d intended to buy and set it in his basket. Sophie would squeal when he showed her what he got. A man wearing an apron stepped up next to him and started straightening the organic strawberries. Mitch caught a glimpse of heavy black tattooed letters on his forearm reading “PRIDE” and backed away, looking around for the quickest way out of the produce section, maybe even out of the store. He might have misjudged how badly he wanted organic pineapple. Then again, he didn’t actually want organic anything. He preferred shopping at Star Market where the aisles were wider and no one came close to him.

  The guy looked over and said, “Anything I can help you find?” Mitch shook his head mutely. The man went back to work and Mitch saw the companion word, “VEGAN,” inked on his other forearm. He let out a small sigh and tried to tell himself not to panic. You’ll be fine, man. Just get your stuff and get out.

  He sped through the rest of the store, snatching a bag of spicy hot blue corn chips and a jar of chutney salsa. One treat for Sophie, and one for him. He grabbed a few mini-scones for breakfast and made his way toward the checkout.

  Scanning the lines, he found the one he wanted and queued up. A middle-aged man in an apron called out from two lanes over, “Next in line!” Mitch turned to invite the person behind him to go on ahead, but plenty of people who weren’t in a position even remotely resembling “next” descended on the checker. He stayed put, happy to wait. When it was his turn, he unloaded his scant groceries onto the belt and slipped the plastic basket around the side, out of the way. The woman behind the register smiled with cheerful recognition.

  She was Mitch’s opposite. Bright and noticeable, with a shining nose ring and fuscia streaks accenting a loose afro she parted on the side. Tattoos snaked down her dark arms, ending in a lotus flower inked on the back of the hand she used to check his things through. She smiled as big as anyone he’d ever seen. It was infectious. He smiled back, feeling stupid and mute and all of the things he didn’t want to be in front of her. In this moment, standing in exactly that spot, he wanted to shed his carefully cultivated invisibility and be seen. Specifically, he wanted to be seen by her.

  “You don’t have much today,” she said.

  He looked at the single bagful of items he’d picked out and shrugged. He couldn’t actually afford to shop in her store, but didn’t want to admit to it. “Just a few necessities.”

  She blinked and he felt like winking out of existence in that brief time she wasn’t seeing him. But she opened her eyes and looked directly at him. She swiped his pineapple over the scanner and held it up. “Yeah? Necessities?”

  “Stocking up for the... Pineappocalypse.” Blood rushed into his face and although the store was air conditioned, he felt like he was standing outside in the sun. Sweat beaded up on his forehead, but kept his arms at his sides instead of brushing it away. Stay cool, he told himself, the voice in his head sounding like it was about ready to run and leave him standing there alone.

  “How forward thinking of you. I rarely plan ahead for fruit-based catastrophe.”

  He brushed his fingernails on his shirt and said, “Yeah, I’m a surf-vivalist. I’ve got a whole stockpile of Mai Tai ingredients and sunblock. You know. When global warming makes the whole world the beach, I’m totally ready.”

  She laughed and finished bagging his things. He stood staring at her, a stupid smile on his face, while she repeated his total a second time and he realized he’d blown it again. His time with her was nearly over and, while he’d pushed himself to be funny and charming, he hadn’t worked up the nerve to do more than joke around. He’d have to submit to shopping here again. He pulled his only twenty out of his wallet and handed it over. She took it and handed him back less money that he’d hoped.

  “I’ve never had a Mai Tai. Are they any good?”

  “What?”

  “Mai Tais. Surfaggeddon or whatever.”

  He laughed. “Oh, that. The Pineappocalypse. I actually don’t know. I’m more of a beer drinker.”

  Her back straightened and she grew an inch behind the register. “I like a really dank IPA. I know where we can go get one if you ever get around to asking me out.”

  A lump caught in Mitch’s throat and he choked out, “Would you... like to... go out sometime?”

  “Sure. If you tell me your name.”

  The heat surged back into Mitch’s face and he stammered out, “Mitch. Mitch LeRoux.”

  “Is that short for Mitchell?”

  The man standing next in line was beginning to look annoyed and shifted from foot to foot as Mitch introduced himself. He cleared his throat loudly, but Mitch didn’t care if the guy was upset. He’d been shopping in this hellscape of a store for weeks trying to build up the nerve to ask her on a date, and now it was happening. He’d gladly take a beating if it meant getting her number.

  “It’s a nickname. My name’s… Michel.”

  “Hi, Michel,” she said, putting the emphasis on the second syllable, mee-SHEL, like she heard the name every day. “I’m Liana. What’s your number?” His heart dropped at the thought that she wasn’t going to give him her number. She wasn’t interested, but let the game get out of hand.

  “You’re not going to give me yours?”

  “I will. But I want to make sure we make this date, and it’s taken you forever to work up the nerve to talk to me in this line. I don’t have time to wait while you find the courage to call.” Mitch smiled and rattled off his number. She wrote it down, tore the piece of paper in half and handed him back hers.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Mitch, a.k.a. Michel.” She winked, and afterward he had no recollection of leaving the store and going outside.

  2

  The pavement seemed a yard beneath his feet as Mitch floated along the sidewalk, his thoughts swirling around alternate scenarios the future might include. He imagined himself on a date with Liana, on a second, and a third. He imagined touching her skin and tasting her breath, what her hair smelled like, what her body felt like. He wasn’t superstitious but still he often forced himself not to
imagine good outcomes. Although he knew it was nonsense, he worried that if he pictured any desired experience too well in his mind, he’d never get to realize it in the real world. But not today. Today, he let himself fantasize about getting close to someone. He dreamed about letting down his guard, just a little.

  Turning the corner by sense memory more than intention, he barely noticed his surroundings until he reached the house. Heading up the driveway, he cleared the clouds from his head and tried to bring himself back down to earth. That he’d gotten her number had him feeling high, but he needed to be present now. The time for living in the dream had passed, and he had responsibilities.

  He climbed the steps around the side of the house, and let himself in. Taking off his shoes, he crept to the door under the staircase and listened. He pushed it open and slipped quietly downstairs. Mitch had to stoop in the low-ceilinged basement. Peeking around the corner, he saw the children getting cleaned up after lunch. He crept into the room and tapped the little brown-haired girl on the shoulder. She spun around, smiled and shouted, “Yunka!” She jumped at Mitch, and he caught her, the shopping bag banging against his ribs as he lifted her up in a hug. The women at the changing table turned and smiled. One waved. The other said, “Someone’s happy to see you, Michel.”