End of the Road (4 page)

A corroding rust-colored iron gate,
padlocked on the exterior, sat sentry over the cow catcher rails
he’d helped install twenty-five years ago, as a teenage boy full of
strapping energy and furtive dreams. The war had taken both out of
him, and when he’d returned, he’d come back a man, hard, too much
in this world, come back to his home to bury the father who’d
raised him when his mother had passed to her reward.

Funny, that, he mused, wiping perspiration
from his brow with his sleeve – that dying could be called a
reward. He absently wondered who had come up with that sleight of
hand, that euphemism, having seen death in its many forms on the
battlefield, fighting an enemy for reasons nobody could logically
articulate, an enemy that he’d been told he needed to kill in order
to save. War for peace. War to protect against imaginary threats;
better to be safe than sorry later. Everyone sure they were going
to their reward, even as unspeakable violence robbed them of their
humanity.

No atheists in foxholes, his master sergeant
had been fond of saying before an insurgent round sent him back to
Iowa in a bag.

But he’d never been in a foxhole.
Firefights, ambushes, having to wipe brains and blood and bone off
his face after his squad mates had earned their rewards – he was
more than passing familiar with that. But not foxholes. Those were
for older, nobler fights, where right and wrong were better
defined, clearer, more absolute, or at least they were to those who
wrote the history books. Not like his war. Not like the things he’d
seen, the memories visiting him on bad nights, bringing the sweats,
the shaking, the nagging coil of fear he’d wake up with, soaked,
eyes darting around the darkened room trying to place himself, find
something tangible to reassure him that his visions were only
phantoms from a past now left behind.

A scratch in his throat reminded him that
there was water waiting for him.

His eyes narrowed as he took another look,
stoic as he clutched his old-fashioned Winchester lever-action
rifle, then shifted and glanced over his shoulder.

A half-gallon jug waited, sweating in the
middle of the drive.

His reward. Or at least a respite from the
sun's unrelenting blaze. Which was close enough right now.

He moved to the container and drank from it,
then stopped himself after five greedy swallows. A man had to know
his limitations. Wouldn’t do to allow himself to start thinking
about more pleasant things – water, food, love, hope…that would
just distract him from what he was there for, what he was going to
do.

The second truck had slowed, its brake
lights broken, and then reversed, the whine of the tranny as clear
as a locomotive hurtling down a mountain track as it approached his
position by the gate, flanked by his two dogs, Bart and Tag,
brothers from a litter where the others didn’t make it. Survivors.
Like him.

The driver’s window had rolled down and a
red face had leered out at Curtis, music blaring from inside the
cab, the kind that sounded like wild animals banging on a log and
screaming their fury at the night sky – angry music for an angry
world.

“
Hey. What you got there,
boy?”

The punk’s drawl was thick as syrup, the
taunt in the last syllable as obvious and old as the ranch. Older,
really, and an anachronism these days, or so one would have
thought.

“
Mending a fence,” Curtis
had said, his tone neutral, looking up from his position as his
dogs growled their sense of impending menace.

“
You work for the folks got
this property, boy?”

“
It’s mine.”

Chortles of laughter emanated from the
truck.

“
Well look here. We got
ourselves a high tone, don’t we? Must be awful smart to have a big
piece like this – but not so smart you can get yourself someone to
fix your fences, huh, boy?”

Curtis put down the bail of wire he was
holding and stared at the drunk, waiting for the situation to
either escalate or sputter to a close. He doubted the driver was
courageous enough to tackle him. Rather, he and his companions were
drunk and bored and looking for trouble, but not the kind Curtis
could bring.

The driver caught the look in Curtis’s eye –
unflinching, impassive – and hesitated, the taunts from his two
friends insufficient fuel for the fire he’d need to take Curtis
on.

“
What are you staring at,
boy?” the driver sneered, as if by speaking he could muster
strength.

“
Nothing.” Curtis spit,
gaze never leaving the driver’s even as he leaned slightly to the
side. “I’m staring at nothing.”

Curtis’ inflection gave the driver pause,
the few simple words rendering judgment he hadn’t expected. What
had seemed like some fun suddenly wasn’t. The game had somehow
changed, and even though there were three of them against one,
something about Curtis’s demeanor served as a warning more clear
than the rattle on a snake’s tail.

They stared at each other, Curtis taking the
driver’s measure and finding it wanting, inadequate to the task at
hand, and a moment passed between them that seemed to last an
eternity – a moment where the driver looked into the abyss, and it
more than returned the favor.

“
Well fuck you, man. Too
damned stupid to get outta the sun. What am I wasting my time for,
anyway? This is bullshit,” the driver said, first to Curtis, then
his friends, before he tromped on the gas, the big motor’s throaty
roar trailing the truck as it sped to catch up with its
friend.

Curtis had returned to work that day,
patching the spot Bart favored when sneaking out at night, always
the instigator, dragging the more obedient Tag with him on his
adventures. No further sign of the trucks disturbed his
self-imposed duties, and he’d continued with his task until the
deepening dusk declared time out.

The following morning the swelter had hit
earlier than usual. He’d known it was going to be bad before he’d
stepped out onto his porch, the modest home a quarter mile from the
road, a senile grove of trees providing meager shade in this, one
of the hottest months.

The fence posts were flattened, tire tracks
an unmistakable signature. His heart sank when he saw the forms of
his two dogs, already bloating, a cloud of black flies swarming
over their bodies a dozen yards from the gate.

The dirt got hard the deeper you dug. Three
feet down, it turned to clay, unexpectedly, packed densely by
gravity and some long-forgotten sea.

That night he’d found the truck at one of
the bars near the county line, a place where the no accounts could
fight and drink and tell lies, laughing about their exploits. He’d
promised Meg he wouldn’t fight, and he’d meant it – one of the
conditions she’d put forth for marrying him after a whirlwind
courtship during a period where his anger would bubble up, seeking
an outlet, a safety valve for his soul, and he’d prove how tough he
was with the rednecks that always seemed in plentiful supply. She’d
put a stop to that, and the rage had receded, banished in favor of
something gentler.

No, he wouldn’t fight. He wouldn’t smash the
driver’s face into the bar, grinding his nose into the scarred
wood, slamming it against the century old mahogany again and again,
or break the ribs of the driver’s friend and the jaw of his second.
Only in his mind would he do that.

He’d poured gasoline on the truck, the smell
strong in the night air, the din of inebriated laughter and
honky-tonk music from the roadhouse masking any sound, and lit a
piece of rag stuck into a whiskey bottle, the bright orange
fireball when the tank ignited visible in his rearview mirror as he
rounded the bend and returned home.

Yes, they’d be coming.

He was sure of that.

Coming to a place with no number, no sign to
mark it but an old gate, crooked on its concrete posts, installed
in better days.

And he’d be waiting.

At the end of the road.

Back to Top

++++++++++++

Russell Blake is the
bestselling author of twenty novels, including the thrillers
Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum,
King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin,
Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, The Delphi Chronicle
trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET II -
Betrayal, JET III - Vengeance, JET IV - Reckoning, and JET V -
Legacy
.

Non-fiction includes the
international bestseller
An Angel With
Fur
(animal biography) and
How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time
(even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody
of all things writing-related.

Blake lives in Mexico and
enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while
battling world domination by clowns.

His blog can be found
at
http://RussellBlake.com
where he
publishes his periodic thoughts, such as they are.

Chapter 4

Waiting In Line

By James Rozoff

I have regained awareness in a place quite
different from where I lost consciousness. Although I have never
been here before, I’m quite certain I know where I am. Or perhaps I
have been here before, long, long ago. I suppose that is the sort
of question that I will get answers to before long.

The colors are very peaceful, all cottony
whites and powder blues. The robe I am wearing is of like colors, a
very clean looking white that almost shines with an azure hue.

I am standing in a line of people that
stretches quite a long way ahead of me, so long that I cannot see
where it ends. Even as I notice this, people are beginning to line
up behind me as well. They are all dressed in the same clean white
robes I am, a hint of blue to be seen in their radiance.

There is nothing to be seen except puffy
white clouds and blue sky. There can be no mistaking where I am. I
have reached the end of my road.

My God, is it really over? Was that my life,
all of it? Life had always been something that lay ahead of me and
now it is finished! That future I had always dreamed of was just a
bright shiny lie. All that I had planned to be and all I had
planned to do. It’s too late for that now. I won’t get any credit
for the good intentions I had. I never acquired enough money to be
as generous as I would have liked, never cleared the hurdles I
wanted to get over before turning my energies into helping my
fellow man. And Heaven knows I never finished sowing my wild oats
enough to sate my earthly desires. I never even quit smoking! Even
if they allow smokers in Heaven, I’m sure that smoking won’t be
allowed.

God, I could use one now. I notice my hand
reach towards where my shirt pocket was just a few moments ago, but
there isn’t anything there now. For good or ill, I doubt I shall
have another cigarette again. It’s funny that the urge for nicotine
has followed me even here. I wouldn’t have thought a physical
addiction would affect me here. Perhaps I’m just looking for a
diversion from the reality I am now facing. Perhaps I just want to
take an eight minute break from everything.

Is smoking evil, is it a sin? Perhaps it is
not in itself evil so much as that the weakness of the body
eventually leads to a weakening of the spirit. And right at the
moment, I can’t help feeling there is a huge nicotine stain on my
soul. All of those time when I was inhaling toxins into my lungs,
perhaps I could have been doing things for others, could have given
that money I spent to charity.

Smoking must be a sin, if only because of
the hatred I have for myself for having done it. And though it is
not the greatest of my crimes, it is the one I acted upon with the
most frequency. But my mind floods with a variety of deeds I am not
proud of, actions done at the time thinking there was no witness.
It seems that a thousand details that had been forgotten are now
rushing through my brain. Pettiness I would never admit to, small
but stinging jealousies of people who had what I did not.

Here I am, about to be judged, and I cannot
even live up to my own standards.

Nevertheless, there is a calmness here that
is the reason for me being as composed as I am (which really isn’t
very composed). Like everyone else here, I am wearing only a robe.
My feet are bare, and I am aware that I am standing on clouds. I
wish I was wearing shoes, wish that there was some separation
between my feet and the nothingness that somehow seems to be
holding me up. The touch of cold mist on the bottom of my feet is
telling my rational mind that clouds are evaporated moisture, not
something that should be able to support my weight. Perhaps it is
faith that supports me, I try to tell myself. Perhaps my lack of
faith will cause me to plunge through the cloud into a deep abyss,
says the less optimistic side of me. I now notice that the line has
moved forward. I am horrified at the idea of having to pick up my
foot and place it down again upon the cold, dewy nothingness.
Standing still, I feel as though I am floating. I feel like a child
teetering on my legs while holding onto a chair, about to take my
first steps without support. I move my leg with faith and fear,
necessity being my only motivation. As my foot lands, I can feel no
solidity beneath it, and a wave of panic pours through me, even as
I am mysteriously held up. It is like my first time in a swimming
pool, only I have no mother to cling to.

The line moves again and, when my fear
permits me, I take note of the others in line. I notice a woman
with a sublime smile, someone who seemed to have known all along
that this is where her life was leading. I try to guess her age,
but it seems malleable. She is old and young and just about any age
I want to see her as. But she is beautiful, no matter her age. If
she is old, I can very well imagine what she looked like as a
child. If a child, I can see the woman she will grow into. Whatever
the age I see her as, her eyes and smile remain constant. It almost
appears as though her eyes and smile had always glowed, even before
she came to be here.