by ML Banner
“Just go home. Don’t you have homework to do?” Tom said as she shuffled away, not answering. He then turned his attention back to Griff.
“So are you listening to me Griff?” He flicked his forefinger at the meaty part of Griff’s ear, making sure it was painful.
Griff winced first before his head nodded once. His eyes struggled to hold focus.
“Good, because I’m here to deliver a message, and it’s a simple one: if you touch my wife, Mimi, or so much as look at her again, I will take this knife”—Tom loudly tapped the handle of his sheathed survival knife to attract Griff’s foggy eyes—“and fillet every inch of skin off your disgusting body... before I plunge it into your tiny heart. You know how fricking painful that would be, Griffy?”
Griff’s eyes, now saucer-sized, gazed with intensity at the crazy man who had just threatened him.
“Do we have a problem, Rogers?” a deep voice demanded behind him.
Tom turned, still partially propping up Griff with his arm, to find Sheriff Bart Martinson glaring at him.
“Hey there, sheriff,” Tom said as if the sheriff and he were best friends. “No, no problem here. I was just buying my friend Griff a pitcher of beer and delivering a message. That’s all.”
“Dat right, Griff?” Sheriff Bart demanded in a friendly tone.
Griff’s eyes floated to the sheriff, then to Tom, and then back to the sheriff. He didn’t say anything, but nodded in the affirmative.
“And you understood my message?” Tom insisted.
Again, Griff nodded.
“Great! Then you have yourself a fine day and enjoy your beer.” Tom released Griff, who started to slide off the bar before he braced himself with both arms and much effort.
Tom turned back to face the sheriff. This time he made sure his voice projected over the din of the football fan cheers, boisterous banter and Phil Collin’s percussive bridge. “Glad to see you here, sheriff, with the bar breaking the law using under-aged waitresses. I’ll leave you to it.”
Tom didn’t wait for a reply. He stomped toward the exit, ignoring the eyeballs burning holes in his back for calling out the bar’s illegal staff and patrons. He left with the same level of anger that he had had when he entered. He mouthed the words to the song playing and punched through the swinging doors.
16
It was time.
Tom rose up to a sitting position and then resolutely pushed himself back up to his feet, snatching up his pack from where he’d left it besides the woman. He paused a last moment longer over her corpse.
“Thank you,” he said and then proceeded to where his carport once stood. Only the husk of his incinerated truck remained.
With each slow step, he hovered and scanned the grounds—a post-apocalyptic treasure hunter, sans metal detector, looking for discarded valuables; in his case, anything from among the debris which littered his lawn that might help him to survive the long journey. He had many miles to travel on foot and he needed to bolster his meager supplies.
The smoke was starting to clear up just a little, despite his being closer to the smoldering garbage pile that was his home, so he was able to cover the entire grounds surrounding the home’s footprint fairly quickly. There really was nothing left to salvage. Every potential treasure was burned beyond recognition or damaged to the point of being unusable.
So he proceeded to his greenhouse-workshop, where he knew he’d find his stock of ammo, a few morsels of food, and perhaps a few tools that he might find useful to supplement the multi-tool already in his bag.
He held up at the doorway, before entering, and examined the structure. He built this with his own hands, and was very proud of it. Later, after the apocalypse he had repurposed the structure somewhat, as there was less need to make heat for his plants, but instead it needed to be cool inside. Besides throwing a canvas over most of the windows, he lined the windward wall with plywood panels covered by paper cups, holes drilled through their bottoms. He’d seen this technique used in poor countries. It looked ridiculous, but this one addition to the greenhouse cut the temperatures during the heat of the day by more than twenty degrees. Enough so that the plants he nurtured from seeds wouldn’t wilt away before they took root.
He huffed, and pushed through the door, knowing that he’d never see this place again, and that all of the plants inside would die within the next couple of days.
Doing a quick scan of the inside for food, he smiled when he found a couple of energy bars. He never thought to keep food here, and certainly wished he had now. He’d just left these two here while he was working and had forgotten they were here. Those went into the backpack. Now tools.
He kept a multi-tool in his pack. This would take care of many tasks, but he wanted something more substantial than this one meager item. Like most things useful to his survival, he kept the majority of his tools in his now-destroyed home; only the outdoor tools were stored here. All were too large and bulky for carrying. For a moment, he held up his trusty hatchet and considered its weight and bulk and how he might carry it. Finally, he placed it back on its metal pegs.
Tom pored over his workbench for another minute before he snagged one small spool of wire. His pack already contained a live game snare and paracord, but the wire might come in handy as a supplement. He slipped this into the pack. He exhaled loudly and stomped over to his cases of ammo.
He had accumulated over ten thousand rounds of ammo over the years and had only used maybe a couple of hundred rounds since the apocalypse, so he still had most of it. Unfortunately, all of it was utterly useless to him without a gun to fire it from.
Every single gun he owned had been taken or was now twisted or melted, still smoldering in the remnants of his home. In other words, completely inert and unusable. Without a gun, ammo was just dead weight. And the last thing he wanted to do was add more unneeded weight to his pack. But he certainly needed more than his belted survival knife for protection. He cursed himself for not planning better.
All his preparations were centered around his home. Even his bug-out bag was just to get him back home, in the unlikely event he broke down or he was away when some apocalypse occurred. He had never planned to escape to some other location. And he certainly never planned on his house burning down. All of this was just poor planning on his part.
He glanced at the well-organized cases, each describing the caliber, grain and quantity of rounds in that case. The cases were stored from smallest caliber to largest. Once again, indecision held him down. He considered grabbing some 9mm shells, since they were the most common. He could use them for trade, as ammo would be more valuable than gold or some other commodity, aside from food. He might also gamble that he would find a gun that fit that round.
He scanned the cases, like a shopper in a convenience store, feeling rushed to decide, before he snatched about fifty rounds, which went into a canvas ammo pouch that was tossed into the bag. He did the same with about a hundred of the 22 LR, opting for the subsonic rounds, although he couldn’t have explained his reasoning at that moment.
Finally, he chose a couple of boxes of 12 gauge shells. They didn’t weigh that much. And even if he couldn’t find a shotgun on the way, he could improvise one, or use the gunpowder to rig an explosive device.
What he selected would have to do. Tom pulled the bag up by the top handle to get a feel of the weight. It wasn’t too bad, maybe twenty pounds now.
It was time to go.
He trudged his way out of the greenhouse, alongside the house, and headed for the driveway. His shoulders mirrored his pace: irresolute. But he didn’t look back.
Then, at the crest of a hill that sloped down into the second curve of his drive, Tom paused. He pivoted on his heels and tossed a final glance at what was his house. Instead of remorse, he felt... His mind twisted for a word that matched his feelings at that moment.
Free!
It was like an unknown part of his subconscious had thrown that thought out for him to consider: a softbal
l lobbed out with the expectation that he’d swing at it and swat it away, out of the park. But he didn’t need to take a swing at it.
It was true.
He did feel free. He had been a prisoner of his own making since Drew’s death. He thought he’d been in control of everything around him, even after the apocalyptic solar storms started six or so months ago, creating a perpetual summer, and probably a death sentence.
And even though his home was gone, along with most of his life-giving supplies, Tom felt a sense of freedom that he hadn’t felt since he could remember. He had been bound by his own guilt: guilt of moving his family to a home that Mimi hated, guilt that he didn’t do more to support his marriage, and guilt that he had put his son in a position where he ended up being killed by a fluke accident. The accumulation of guilt bound him to this place, to his unwillingness to remember the songs and memories that gave his life richness and meaning. And now the shackles of his guilt were broken and he was free.
If his wife Mimi had been there, she would have seen Tom stand up taller than he had in a long while.
“Goodbye,” he whispered as a grin crept up his face.
He had a place to go. He had information and skills that place could use, and he had a pass to enter.
He let his pack fall, unzipped a top-front pouch and pulled his iPod from it. It looked more like some crude invention thrown together with spit and bailing wire. But it was more carefully designed than it looked.
His ancient iPod—he thought it was maybe third generation—was encased in a black net of metal, which he had carefully soldered around its case, with wire mesh around this. Two openings in the metal, along the side and top of the contraption, allowed for his finger to work the on/off and volume, and to connect his ear buds. A third opening on the front, would allow him to work the controls. He hadn’t turned on the device since the solar storms started, afraid the device would be permanently silenced; now seemed like as good time as any to try.
He unwrapped the ear buds from around the iPod’s metal cage and placed one each in his ears. His forefinger reflexively found the on/off button. He breathed out, as he normally would before taking a shot with his rifle, pressed and held the button down for a long moment and then let go.
A small, but very distinct Apple symbol flashed, and then the device was on.
It works!
There was less than a quarter charge—one bar out of four—but he didn’t care. He wanted... No, he needed to hear some music, even if it was the last time he’d ever listen to a song again.
His favorite playlist, Hell’s Requiem, was already queued up and ready. He hit the play button and then pressed on the volume up control, holding it so that it was at its highest level.
An eerie but well-known sound filled his ears.
He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder, pulling once more on the straps to cinch them until they were snug. Pivoting once again, he turned his back to his property and looked out upon the valley. The sun’s morning light filled it with a puddle of brightness.
The thumping drums beat loudly, his heart picking up the pace to match his excitement.
When the chorus began, he joined in.
“I can feel it coming in the air tonight,
Oh lord.”
Hell’s Requiem Playlist, Track 11
Song/Artist: In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins
Keywords: feel it coming in the air tonight; oh Lord; waiting for this moment; all my life
17
Tom’s iPod died right at the junction where his gravel road met the hot blacktop of Highway 65, which bounded the western edge of his property.
He pulled the device out of his EDC, where it had been resting, and glanced at its screen. It was most certainly dead: devoid of any power. Either the electrostatic discharges in the air got to it or it was simply out of juice. He opted to believe it was the latter.
Pulling out his ear buds by its cords, he methodically wrapped them around the iPod’s metal exoskeleton and slipped this into the largest pocket of his backpack, pushing it down deep within. He wouldn’t touch it again until reaching his destination, Cicada. Perhaps there would be a scientist there who could figure out how to recharge its battery without it getting fried. He held out hope for this.
Snagging a bottle of water from his open pack, he drank a large gulp, twisted the cap back on, and held it.
A scent, other than smoke, held his attention. He took a deep breath. The air was clean down here, clear of the smoke pouring from the burning debris of his house on the hill behind him. He didn’t even look back to check: that was his former life now.
The water bottle went back into his pack, which was then carefully hoisted back onto his right shoulder. The last thing he wanted was to disrupt the new bandages applied to his left side, or to tear his self-administered sutures. His wounds would heal only if he allowed them to.
He stood tall and grinned, as he was momentarily overwhelmed.
His head now swam with the vibrant tunes of his early adulthood. He’d only made it through three songs in his playlist, but that was enough. They were the musical master keys which opened the locks to all his mental musical vaults which stored the many songs and their accompanying memories; all had been locked away for so many years. Now that it was open, he felt the flood of warm emotions and their connective sensations pour out: the smells of grass and beer which were bedfellows of the many summer concerts he’d attended with friends, and later Mimi; the softness of Mimi’s lips when they first kissed; the rumble of the C130 when it touched down at Ft Benning, after he arrived home from his final mission; the warmth of his new born son’s thin skin when he kissed Drew’s head; the sounds of Drew retching when they butchered their first deer; and so many others. All these memories, and the music they were connected to, broke free.
It was an untapped wellspring of unending happy memories, all intertwined with the songs which were playing then, and all repressed for so long because of his self-flagellating guilt. And now they were bursting out of him.
But something else was occurring. Another long ago capped well pooled a feeling that filled him completely. It was joy.
Any other time, at least in the past eight plus years, if this feeling had risen, it would have been immediately accompanied by guilt over the death of his son and his failed marriage. And then he’d do everything to repress those joyous feelings by lamenting about all that was wrong, and why he needed to suffer.
He would no longer do that. He paid his penance. He was now free of the weights and obligations of his past guilt. They had burnt down with their home. Those burdens were now behind him. That was his former life.
He would embrace the joy he felt. And although he had a long journey ahead of him, he was happy for this new journey, no matter how difficult it might be.
Tom looked north, up the highway. It was a path to his new life.
Effortlessly, he took his first step.
Then he froze.
Two items which had no place being where they were, caught his eye. The first of these two was on the southbound lane of the highway. It was a small foreign object that had a hint of familiarity to it. When he bent over to pick it up, an electric shock of recognition hit as he immediately realized it as one of Drew’s toy soldiers. He gaped at it, while his thumb explored its smooth edges. Then he shot a glance at the second foreign object, located in the thick of the decaying but overgrown brush along the road.
He cautiously waddled his way to this object, his hand still clutching Drew’s soldier, thumb messaging its surface like a talisman. He froze once more, his glare fixed on the tubular object sticking out of the weeds.
For the first time since he started down his driveway, he did a 360.
But it couldn’t be, could it?
He spun his torso again to his left and then to his right, one final check before walking into what he would have normally presumed was a trap.
But he was different now: not the paranoid, self-ha
ting Tom who automatically assumed everyone and everything was an impediment to his goal. This new Tom, when finding an object—no matter how unbelievable it was—would look at it as an opportunity, one that would help him on his journey to Cicada.
His mind twisted and turned before settling on a theory. Scarface must have stopped here to toss his take-down rifle. The killer wouldn’t have needed it and probably assumed it wouldn’t be found by Tom, or by the time Tom did, they would have been long gone, and therefore no longer a threat. And while this was happening, the boy must have accidentally dropped one of the toy soldiers that had been purloined from Drew’s room.
Confirming once more that the coast was clear, he quickly stepped over to the object.
Still, he stood over it with utter disbelief.
Before picking it up, he checked his perimeter one final time (old habits die hard).
It was definitely his Henry take-down rifle, fully assembled.
And now he had a weapon.
18
“Why didn’t you kill him?” the boy insisted, once again.
Scarface didn’t even flash a look at him, maintaining his pace, maybe even increasing it.
They’d already had a “talk” about this, shortly after leaving the ranch in flames.
I don’t care to engage you in any conversation. I’m just doing a job, so let me be so I can do it. And if you don’t like any of this, I’ll leave you to find your own way back.
The boy accepted the terms of their partnership, and he kept quiet for a while. But he was still a nine-year old, who was very inquisitive, and smarter than any person he had ever met. And unlike everyone else, the boy wasn’t scared of him, knowing Scarface couldn’t touch him. Scarface was quite sure the boy was the one holding all the cards, and the kid knew it.
