by J. Thorn
The morning sun landed on the driveway and danced around the room filling his vision with traces of light and sound. The beams dispelled the demons of the night. John looked up and saw a figure coming down the steps. He put his chin to his chest to avoid the harsh glare on his eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?” John asked.
“I came to apologize.”
John recognized the voice.
“I sold you down the river, my man. I didn’t realize you had it in you. You’ve got the spirit. You are the voice of the dissident, the fire of rebellion.”
John sniffled and blew a buzzing fly away. The figure stepped out of the light and stood in front of John.
“Sully?”
“Yeah man, sort of. I’m kinda caught between what they tell me is a reversion. I gotta set my wrongs right before they send me to heaven or Valhalla or Las Vegas.”
Sully pulled the edges of his Keepers of the Wormwood vest together. He stroked the long, red beard and flipped his hair back over his shoulder.
“Are you dead?” John asked.
Sully laughed. “Are you?” .
“I don’t know. I think it’d be better if I was.”
“Why is that?” Sully asked.
“I did wrong by my wife. I was taken advantage of but I should’ve known better than to put myself in that situation.”
Sully cocked one eyebrow up. “So you’re pissed because someone got one over on you?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Doesn’t sound like you give a shit about what you did to your wife.”
“I guess that’s because I didn’t do anything to her. The guilt disappears when someone leaves you for dead.”
“Where did she go?” Sully asked.
“She’s joining the Covenant.”
Sully whistled high and long.
“Sucks for you, bro.”
“If you’re my subconscious, please let me die. I’m tired of dealing with all the bullshit.”
Sully replied to John with a mockery of a military salute. “Dude, I can’t move on until I straighten shit out. Do you want out of here or not?”
John laughed and his dry lips split. His swollen tongue did its best to answer Sully. “Yeah, whatever. Set me free, Sully, set me free.”
“Don’t be a dickhead about it, John. I got something for ya.” Sully pulled a black patch from his front pocket. He held it up in front of John’s face and smiled.
“Official member?” John asked.
“That’s right, brother. I meant to get you a pledge vest but that seems pretty pointless now. Seeing as how I’m the President of the Keepers of the Wormwood, I think I’m authorized to make you an official member.”
Sully tucked the patch inside John’s pocket.
“Thanks, man.”
“You earned it, bro. I gotta go. I think I need to visit other people before they release me. Watch your ass.”
Sully smiled at John and walked toward the steps.
John turned to face him and said, “Sully, you’re really dead, right?”
Sully smiled and waved to John. “See ya, brother.”
Sully walked out the door and took the blinding light with him.
John closed his eyes and let his arms droop as far as he could before the pains and cramps would kick in again. He heard a muffled voice and the steps creaking under the weight of another visitor. But John didn’t care. If the Covenant arrived to finally send him to hell, he was ready for the ride.
Alex came down the steps and cut John from his binds. As he did, Alex had the strange feeling someone else was in the room. He shrugged it off and began to tend to John’s wounds.
Chapter 52
Epilogue
The Harley Davidson Softails rumbled along the smooth asphalt. The black ribbon of highway shot out from under the riders and pierced the jet blue horizon. They tasted the driven desert sand and felt it crunch in their teeth. Lazy clouds looked down at the riders and ignored them with quiet indifference.
“Thunderhead moving through the canyon,” the lead rider said.
“Got about three miles before we kiss it,” the other said.
The rolling red sands of what used to be the American Southwest blanketed the road on both sides. The double-yellow line painted down the middle of the interstate represented the only remnant of civilization.
A ramshackle gas station appeared on the horizon. As the riders approached, they saw the telltale signs of desertion, including the red sign painted on the door. Dust covered the browned glass and sand drifts climbed the side of the ancient pumps.
The two Harleys downshifted, protesting with the throaty moan of a lower gear. The man in the lead cut the engine and drifted to a stop in front of the nearest pump. He removed a ragged leather sack from his saddlebag and fished around inside until he located a wrench. With precision and dexterity, he began to disassemble the pump. The other rider drew a sawed off shotgun and kicked down the flimsy, steel door of the office. When he returned, he carried two five-gallon gas cans and two cans of soda.
The man working on the pump had a scruffy goatee braided under his chin. Long hair spiraled out from under his helmet back to a loose ponytail. It caressed a Keepers of the Wormwood patch sewn to the black, leather vest. Sully would have been proud of John, who was still working to systematically dismantle the gas pump.
His partner’s clean shaven face and bald head remained behind the double barrel. “How far do you think we are?” Alex asked.
He let the gas cans drop into the dust and shoved the blade of a pocket knife under the tab of the soda can, prying it up. The can hissed as it expelled the carbonation of another era. He tossed the can back and felt the burn on his throat.
“Seven, eight hundred,” John said. “Another day or two of riding and we should be there. You have a way of fastening those cans to your hog?”
“Yeah, we’ll figure it out.”
John nodded and finished stripping away the rubber gaskets on the main line. He placed the tube in his mouth, inhaled and spat out a mouthful of gasoline. Alex ran over and shoved the hose into the first empty can, allowing it to fill.
They topped off the gas cans and tied them to the back of the second Harley. The empty soda cans sat on top of the pump, an eternal monument to the lost culture. John dropped the hammer on his bike and it roared back to life. He yelled back to Alex over the chattering pistons.
“The storm’s gettin’ closer. Let’s see if we can out ride it.”
Alex nodded and swerved into the right lane, a bike length behind John, in the Keepers of the Wormwood vest.
Before he accelerated on the long stretch of interstate, John reached down with his right hand and placed it over a rectangular patch on his vest. His callused fingers traced the fraying embroidery that read, “Official Member”.
###
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank all the readers that went the extra step to leave an honest review, good or bad. Illustrator Kate Sterling may have singlehandedly popped this novel with her stunning cover. Carolyn McCray provided expert guidance and kept me from hitting the panic button on a number of occasions. Robert Reed, Katy Sozaeva and Rebecca T. Dickson edited this book, giving it new life.
Thank you for taking this journey with me. If you enjoyed the book please leave a review on Amazon. It can be brief (as little as 20 words) and written in a few minutes. Authors depend on reviews from readers like you. Subscribe to my mailing list and you’ll get cool news, interesting pictures and zombie trivia. Fun for the living, the dead and the undead. To join my mailing list, go to http://jthorn.net, enter your email address and then hit submit.
If you enjoyed The Seventh Seal, you have to read the novella sequel, Man's Ruin.
Man's Ruin - A Dark Fantasy Novella (The Seventh Seal Sequel #1)
A band of revolutionaries fights for survival in the urban decay of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, thirty years after the First Cleansing brought an end to civilizatio
n. Their enigmatic and seasoned patriarch, John Burgoyne, protects the clan until a man on horseback delivers an ominous message. John decides to lead his tribe on a grueling march down the treacherous highway stretching from Pittsburgh to Cleveland, unaware of the forces aligning against them. When the clan faces a major decision on the road, John will be forced to do whatever is necessary to ensure their survival.
In the words of reviewer, Gordie, on Amazon.com...
"I started this in the morning and had it finished by lunchtime as I could not put it down..."
If you are still reading, you must be a hardcore fan. Please visit http://www.authorgraph.com/authors/JThorn_ where I will personalize and autograph your digital book for free. Please do not hesitate to get in touch. I respond personally to every message. My phone number is 216.245.8476 or if you appreciate creativity on the dial pad, 216.24J.THRN. Seriously, that’s my phone number. Call and leave me a voicemail with your name and number and I promise to call you back. Did a scene in the book trouble you? Call me. Did you love the book and want to shower me with praise? Call me. Do you want advice on writing or publishing your own book? Call me. Do you want to order a large pepperoni with mushrooms and cheese? Can’t help you there. I want you to have the best reading experience possible because we all have limited time on this planet. If you weren’t completely satisfied with my book, or if you loved it, or if you simply want help; please call me. I would love to hear from you. And if you want to be part of an exclusive group of horror and dark fantasy lovers, you have to check this out:
http://jthorn.net/join/
Other works from J. Thorn
Browse the entire J. Thorn catalog at http://jthorn.net/books/.
About the Author
Healed by the written word
Want a story that's rooted in a fundamental aspect of being human?
I believe reading dark fiction can be healing. My overriding mission is to connect with you through my art, and I hope to inspire you to do the same. I’m a word architect and driven visionary. I’m obsessed with heavy metal, horror films and technology. And I admire strong people who are not afraid to speak their mind.
I grew up in an Irish Catholic, working class family and was the first to go to college. I didn't have expensive toys, so I used my own imagination for entertainment. And then I abused alcohol for entertainment. I spent the first thirty years of my life convincing myself I wasn’t an addict and the last ten worrying about all the potential threats the substances hid from me.
Anxiety and depression are always hiding in the corner, waiting to jump me when I start to feel happiness.
I had to break through family programming and accept the role of the black sheep. In my 30s I started writing horror and formed a heavy metal band while my family rolled their eyes, sighed and waited for the “phase” to end.
I spent years paralyzing myself with self-loathing and criticism, keeping my creativity smothered and hidden from the rest of the world. I worked a job I hated because that’s what Irish Catholic fathers do. They don’t express themselves, they pay the damn mortgage. I may have left my guilt and faith behind long ago, but the scars remain.
My creativity is my release, my therapy and my place to work through it all. I haven't had a drink in a long time, but the anxiety and depression are always lurking. Writing novels and songs keeps it at bay. I scream over anxiety with my microphone and I turn my guitar up loud enough to drown out the whispers of self-doubt.
I hope to leave a legacy of art that will continue to entertain and enrich lives long after I'm gone. I want others to see that you don’t have to conform to the mainstream to be fulfilled.
Don’t be afraid of the dark. Embrace it.
* * *
Official Website
Facebook
Twitter
The Last to Fall
Glynn James
Digital Edition
Official Author's website
http://www.glynnjames.co.uk
* * * * *
Introduction
In 1926 Joseph Dean was just getting ready to hang himself when the man named Joshua stepped into his cafe and changed his life.
He made Joe an offer - one that would mean travelling through the door to another world to find something that had been lost for nearly two hundred years.
Joe would discover a lot more than that in the years that followed.
The Last to Fall is a short novel, and the first in a series following Joseph Dean's travels.
* * * * *
They say this world fell in less than a year and that it ended right here in this city.
At least that’s what I was told. Right here, amongst these tattered ruins that seem like the desolate skeleton of a once thriving civilisation. It was here that the last stronghold of resistance collapsed under the sheer overwhelming numbers of the dark minions. They say that the leader of that last stand was also the very last defender to fall.
Some say that Nua'lath himself tore the man apart and ate him, every last piece.
What's that? No son, I'm not trying to scare you at all, but you're old enough now to know the truth about some things, like where your old man came from, and what I've seen and learned in all the years that I've walked these lands.
You see that blackened mark on the ground over there? Yeah, that's the one. That's where the leader of the folks that tried to make a last stand here fell. That's where he died, fighting to try and defend his people. Sounds like a tragic tale doesn't it? Well, I guess it is in a lot of ways, but people did manage to survive and there are remnants of that lost civilisation scattered all over the place.
I've stood here before you know, many times. All but two of those times I was alone. A long time ago I stood here with the man who brought me to this world in the first place, and the other time was with a friend that I will never forget for as long as I live.
Did you know that I came from a totally different world? Of course you do, your mother may joke about it, and you and your sisters find that funny, don't you? Daddy's a xeno. Well it isn't all a joke, boy. I really did come from another world.
I can't tell you where it is, the place that I came from. I don't even know if it's in this universe or another one. I've never truly understood that part. Sometimes when I stand alone, looking out at the stars at night, I wonder if one of those stars has a planet circling around it that holds my past. I guess that's something I'll never know, but it doesn't stop me searching the skies at night.
Why don't we sit for a while? I'll tell you how I came to this place.
It was an age ago, a long time, seems like just yesterday sometimes, but it's been a lot of years since I first took a step out on the sands of the eastern deserts. He brought me here, the man named Joshua.
I was still quite young at the time, but I'd had a hard life back on my home world. I fought in a war that left me scarred both physically and mentally, and when I got back after the war, to a city called London, I tried time and again to make my own way. I always seemed to get myself in trouble of some kind, always made the wrong decisions.
One day I was so desperate that I'd had enough, and I got the stupid idea in my head that I would end it, right there and then. Yeah, I know that sounds hard coming from your dad, and it's something I'd never even consider again, but at that time my life seemed so pointless that I didn't want to live it anymore. I want to tell you this so that if ever you come to a time in your life that you are thinking the same, you can remember how much my life changed afterwards, and remember that nothing warrants that end. If I had finished things then I would never have come here, never have met your mother, and never have had you or your sisters. I would have missed a whole life that I didn't know was coming. Remember that, always.
Anyway, that night I got a rope and I made a noose, then I hung it up from the rafters of the cafe that I had been running for a couple of years with a friend of mine called Reg, a place I named The Caff...then I prepared to en
d my life.
That's when Joshua turned up. I was standing in the middle of The Caff, with the noose hanging down in front of me and a chair by my side, plucking up the courage to take the last step. He didn't even knock the door. He just opened it, stepped right in and stood there watching me. You know, to this day I always believed that the door had been locked.
He was a strange looking fellow to say the least, and he wasn't dressed in clothing that I recognised. He wore a long black coat that looked like it was made of some sort of leather, but not quite. And his eyes, I'll always remember his eyes. They had a glimmer to them that was unnatural. He was carrying a rucksack and wore this belt that had far too many pouches hanging off it. I wondered if he was going to try and sell me something, but a few seconds of looking at him made me think otherwise.
"Do you need assistance, or can you do it yourself?" he asked. That's right, that's the first thing he said. Damn well offered to help me kill myself.
"No I'm just fine, thank you."
I didn't know how else to respond.
"Maybe you could serve me a drink, Joe. Just one last one over the bar, and we can talk, then I will leave so you get on with your business."
He knew my name and that made me nervous.
I served him as he asked, just a neat whiskey. He didn't have any money and didn't even offer to pay, but that didn't bother me. I think in some way I needed him to turn up at that moment, needed someone to talk to, someone to listen to for a while, just so that I could get my head around what I was preparing to do after he had left.
