Maggie West

A Truth

Each week, a wonderful group to which I belong posts a new writing topic. Their attempts to broaden the imagination and educate through Life's experiences are what hooked me months ago. This is last week's installment for "Blogging For Fun:"

It was the one thing she desired the most, and the only thing I couldn't give her.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I must first mention that she was born during a time of great turmoil. As darkness approached me at lightning speed, she bathed me in sunlight. And of all the knowledge I'd garnered in my years on this earth, this was the first of many times that I realized when everything seems its darkest, a light shines from somewhere—the least likely of places most times—to brighten the way.

I was young then—very young. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. Hell, I had no idea from where my next meal would come. And now, now, there was another person to provide for. Could it get any worse? (I must note that we should never ask ourselves this question. I learned the hard way that there's always somewhere—something—darker, deeper, more sinister, and more turbulent than most of what befalls us from time to time.)

But, one look into those deep, dark eyes and I knew that nothing else mattered but the tiny life I held in my arms. I couldn't stop touching her hands, her feet, her face, and her hair. I was mesmerized. She was perfect—in my eyes at any rate.

That was how it all started.

And now, at the end, I may just have the answer as to why she and I stumbled from one erratic episode to another through our lifetime together. And why, perhaps, she doesn't have that one thing. Funny how much clearer our lives become in the dark?

I Corinthians 13:12 for now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

I gaze into her reddened, swollen eyes now and feel the same undying affection I felt all those years ago. Within the depths of their pooling, yet somehow soothing, anguish my every memory reflects there. They trickle down her cheek like an unraveling reel of film. With each tear, I see another memory—another truth—as it exposes itself.

First, I often mentioned how this woman that sits on my bed—my daughter—was very unlike me. That she and I were as different as night and day. But nothing is farther from the truth.

She is very much like me.

We are strong-willed, determined, and unyielding. Additionally, I often think that she hasn't one creative bone in her body. And yet, she has many. As an Interior Designer, her creativity is evident. Her designs are stunning, efficient, and refreshingly new. She is at her best when her back is to the wall. When push comes to shove, she's rarely cornered for long. She volleys the alternatives to any situation in her mind, and armed with resourcefulness and originality, she breaks free. My daughter is the best person to approach with a problem—any problem. If she doesn't know the answer, she'll find it one way or another. This "never give up, never surrender" attitude resides within me as well. It's not always a good thing. But it's mighty handy to have around when Life's equations have numerous solutions.

My mind fills with many other examples. So much so, I now wonder why I ever thought us poles apart.

Next, anger plagues us both. Anger so intense, one must question its origin. Is it inherent? Contagious? Or does it merely seem that way? I know that my father had it and his father before him. So did my great grandfather, come to think of it. This rage reared its ugly head early in my life as it did in hers. But I suppose, the less said about this the better.

Therefore, let us move on to the subject at hand: The one thing.

My daughter was seven when her birth father finally expressed an interest to see her. Before she was born, he vanished. Why he left made no difference to me. It was blatantly clear that a family was the last thing he wanted. And I didn't force the issue. So I went on with my life, and he with his. I never gave it a second thought until his call seven years later.

After hearing his voice on the other end of the telephone, I wanted to drive a stake through his evil heart ridding me of his presence forever. But, my sensible side left the decision up to the person who mattered most—my daughter. And she decided she'd meet him.

For years they corresponded.

Then one day, not long after she graduated high school, they had a falling out. I was never told the specifics of their argument. In any event, this was the last time they spoke until…

My daughter was in her twenties and a man she knew for six years proposed to her.

I was remarried, at the time, to a man my daughter had known for fourteen years. But she needed—better said: desperately wanted—her real father to walk her down the aisle. How should she approach him? she asked. And I, in return, answered, "Just ask. What've ya got to lose? Whatever happened between you, this is a once in a lifetime thing. I'm sure he'll be happy to do it."

So she called him and raised the issue. What she heard, though, was the last thing she expected to hear. He said "no," but oh no, it wasn't a blunt, matter-of-fact "no." He was too "clever" for that.

His response went something like this: I'm too busy at work; I can't take the time off. Which to my daughter's mind meant: "I could care less."

She never spoke to him again.

As a result, she posed the same question to her then step-father and he gladly accepted.

Through the years, I married four times and dated a slew of other men in between. Perhaps subconsciously, I wanted what she wanted. Perhaps, I sought out these men with ulterior motives in mind. Regardless, none of my relationships ever reached the "until death do us part" stage. And I often saw it in her eyes; heard it intermingled with her retorts; felt it when she looked at me. I robbed her of having a dad.

The years passed, however. We grew very close to one another. She bore me three grandchildren. And I finally married a man that I love, cherish, and admire with all my heart.

And now, as I lay with death's shadow looming overhead, many truths come to light. Above all, I believe our lives are richer due to our many struggles; our many joys. I believe that through our trials and tribulations, two better people emerged. Though, at times, our life was difficult, nay, grueling, even down right unbearable, I'd do it all over again.

As I close my eyes for the last time, I whisper, "I know you always wanted a father. And I'm sorry you never got one. But, I love you. And God only knows who we would have become without the past he bestowed upon us? I'm grateful for our unanswered prayers."

She wept.

 

 

"Love longs for some object to be, loves to rest itself in the thing beloved. But in things there is no enduring place to lie. They don't last. They run away. And then what will our fleshly senses have to hold on to? Who can grasp such pleasures as they flit by? The fleshy senses are slow and dull, bound to taste and smell and touch fleshy things. They work well enough for what they were made to do. But they cannot lock on to an experience and keep it from running on to its appointed end."

~ The Confessions of St. Augustine

"In this life men, with much toil, seek rest and freedom from care, but through perverse longings they find it not. They wish to find rest in things which rest and abide not, and these, since they are withdrawn by time and pass away, harass them with fears and sorrows, and will not let them be at rest."

~ On the Cathechizing of Beginners

It's All in The Details...

More Georgia's Fortress revisions:

Added scenes...
More gory details...
And Jeff's input.

Part Four
Part Five

Enjoy.

More "Georgia's Fortress" Revisions

Among other things, I have finally completed the revisions for part two and three of Georgia's Fortress.

Jeff and I have been writing our asses off. It's rather difficult for us to switch gears when we're "on a roll." 

But, we will update our websites  whenever we can.

Until then, check out our new "Mick And The Spic" section. There's a piece we wrote together, under that category, and another one is on the way.

Enjoy the revisions.

Until next time...

Fiction Revisions ~ The Beginning

After the completion of two chapters, the rewrites have begun.

A big "thank you" goes out to Marci, editor-in-chief of Wild Child Publishing; Carol, a recent reader; Jeff, who is indispensable; and, everyone else who has sent in his or her advice and/or criticism.

All are very much appreciated, believe me.

Without further ado, Georgia's Fortress' Chapter One, Part One ~ The Airport.

There are so many additions, omissions, and tweeks, one may not recognize it. That is, of course, if one has already read it.

Enjoy the read.

WT Georgia's Fortress: Chapter One ~ Part Ten

Edited by David Jefferson Bean

I run as if the Hounds of The Baskervilles are licking my heels. I don’t look back – not even once. Should I turn and see either attacker closing in, behind me, I would surely give up the chase. My head hurts. My body aches. My feet are finding it harder to carry me along. It is the belief that I’ve won, won the "the jungle joust," which keeps the adrenalin surging through my veins. Otherwise, I’m certain, I’d collapse from exhaustion.

My trail through the trees finally leads me to an empty parking lot. After crossing it, I approach the street’s edge with caution. To my right is unrelenting darkness: A sight to which I’ve become accustomed. Looking in the other direction, I see the backdrop lined with tiny blue and red lights.

That must be the roadblock.

I pray I haven’t missed Mike.

What if he’s already passed by?

What will I do then?

All I can do, now, is wait -- I guess.

Stepping back onto the small strip of grass that separates the parking lot from the street, I drop the load off my shoulder and onto the ground.

As I watch the shimmering spectacle in the distance, my eyes can’t help but drift towards the woods from which I came. The darkness has become hazardous and unsafe. The tension builds as I look back and forth, from the woods to the street, and back again. When the idea to meet up with Mike, after he'd passed through the roadblock, came to mind, the night held assurances of making it through another obstacle: The impending doom of the “blue light” special. But now, it is the Boogey Man, The People Under The Stairs, and the monster under my bed. Funny how a particular thing that brings one such comfort can also convey distress and woe.

The story of my life, I suppose.

But not Duncan. Never Duncan. He is as steadfast and true as William Tell’s arrow, and as honest and trustworthy as A Christmas Carole’s three spirits of Christmas. He has never let me down.

Where are you, Duncan?

A vehicle passes and abruptly stops at the corner. The taillights change from red to red and white.

It’s backing up. It’s Mike!

I grab my belongings and run for the truck.

“Mike! How the hell are you? What a sight for sore eyes you are. I thought I missed you,” I spew out in one long breath.

“Catch your wind there, Rosalie. Calm down. Everything’s alright,” he says, as he exits the truck. “You okay?”

“I just wish I'd stayed with you. That’s all. I’m so glad you’re here.”

He places his hand on my shoulder as a comforting gesture.

“Hop in, then. Let’s get the hell out of here,” he declares, “We’ll stop in a bit to stretch the kids’ legs. I think they need it.” With that, he smiles and settles in behind the wheel.

I jump into the back and take my place next to Hannah.

“We missed you,” she sighs, “I missed you.”

“I missed the hell outta you guys,” I exclaim, which inspires a group hug. The warmth of it soothes me. My earlier troubles; the aches, pains and uneasiness are all dispelled as I’m held in their six tiny arms. Untying the bundle and emptying it of its contents, I throw the blankets over all of us, with a wink and a chuckle, I say, “Ya’ll probably missed these as well.”

And off we go: Into the night, once more.

As we proceed down 140, there are no streetlamps to light our way. The houses are as lifeless as the pavement that stretches out before us. No movement. No warm glows. No crickets singing. Just the sound of the truck as it travels ever forward.

The roadside displays are finally familiar.

I'm almost home.

My heart beats faster. I begin to shake from anticipation. And then, Mike pulls off the main thoroughfare and parks behind a restaurant. He places the gearshift in park and turns the key in the ignition. The truck ceases its mighty roar. 

The children hop out of the back. Annabel cradles Joshua in her arms as she exits the truck. As Mike looks over his shoulder at me, he immediately notices my dismay. On his way out, he turns to me and says, “It’ll only be a few minutes, Rosalie. We’ll be on our way soon. I promise.” He joins his wife and children near the back of the building and they disappear through a black doorway. I am alone.

Get with it. Get your ass out of this truck and join the others, you big baby. You’ll be home soon enough.

My childish behavior wavers as I attempt to convince myself that home is just around the bend, and pouting about “the pit stop” isn’t going to get me any closer to it. At last, the adult takes over: I get up, jump over the side, and follow the others into the structure before me.

The backdoor has been forced open: The handle is bent, the metal door is dented, and a hole remains where I suspect a lock used to be. I swing it open.

“Mike!” I yell.

No answer.

Then, in a somewhat lower tone, “Mike, where are you?”

Still, no answer.

It’s dark: Blacker than black. So, I use my hands to feel my way down the narrow hallway: Patting the wall, on either side, as I go.

Quieter still, “Mike?”

“Yeah, here Rosalie. Over here,” is heard through the darkness, “Follow the glow of the flashlight. Do you see it?”

Straining, I see a faint stream of light a few yards away.

“Yeah, yeah, I see it.”

I travel through the kitchen area of the restaurant bumping into counters, hanging pots and pans, even shelving. My own racket annoys me.

You clumsy oaf. Can you be any noisier?

Mike is sitting in a booth next to the front door.

“The kids and the wife are in the bathroom. It might take ‘em a while. Have a seat.”

“Yeah, alright,” I mumble.

“It looks like this place has had the 'once over'. I doubt there’s anything left for us to eat or drink in here. That’s still worth eatin’ or drinkin’, anyway.”

“You want me to look around while you stand guard?” I inquire.

“Naw, just sit a spell. They’ll be out soon.”

I sit in the booth across from Mike as he stares out into the darkness. His face appears aged and a bit frightening: The depressions and crevices deepen from the wide shadows cast by the shaft of light. In some ways, it reminds me of Duncan’s “warface.” Just not as intense. Duncan has been known to flash his “warface” at the bugs in our garden, a talk show host or two (in our den, in front of the television), downtown panhandlers, irritating “barflies,” as a few examples. Mike’s expression is similar. I truly believe he’d fight to the death, at this very moment, should the opportunity present itself.

“How’d it go at the roadblock?” I ask in order to break the tension.

Still looking out the window, he harshly responds, “Damn assholes. They wanted to see our I.D.s and Annabel didn’t have hers with her. I think they wanted to see if we were from this area or somewhere else. I tried tellin’ the son of a bitch that she was my wife; that we had been up here visiting an aunt. Then, he had us all get out of the truck so’s a couple of uniforms could search it.”

Mike turns towards me and finishes by saying, “I didn’t want that asshole to know who I was, where I live, or any damn thing about me. But, I gave him my I.D. anyway. Otherwise, we’d still be there.”

“I know exactly how that feels, Mike. I hate giving anyone my I.D. Hell, I hate having a driver’s license. It’s our number. Our tracking number. Like prisoners wear. Nothing more. Damn, we really are cellmates, in a way. Prisoners of our own design…”

Our conversation ends as the children come stumbling out of the bathroom. Mike shines the flashlight their way in an attempt to help them find their way. And Annabel brings up the rear with Joshua still in her arms.

"Mike, Roy didn't want to use the woman's bathroom,"Annabel grumbles, "Will you take him to the men's room?"

“Sure thing, honey.”

Mike turns to me, “I’ll be back in a flash.”

I nod.

Hannah and Roy wandered a bit. Bethany, however, stuck to her mother’s side.

Once Mike and Roy emerge from the bathroom, we leave the restaurant, pile into the truck, and, once again, head down 140.

The closer we came to “home,” the more anxious I become: Ten more miles, then five, and then, two. The truck passes Hembree Road and I start to shake. Mike pulls into our subdivision and I can hardly contain myself. I stand up and lean over the cab of the truck. The air strikes my face and blasts through my hair, as I hold on tight. I’m laughing and crying, crying and laughing. We round the corner and pull into my driveway.

My screams of joy are heard, for miles I suspect, as I leap onto the concrete: “I’m home! I’m home! I’m home at last.”

My heart cartwheels in my chest. My mind rejoices: “Duncan, I’m home!”

WT Georgia's Fortress: Chapter One ~ Part Nine

Edited by David Jefferson Bean
Link to Part Eight

Acknowledgements

A big "Thank you" goes out to my friend, Liam Jackson, the author of Offspring, and my better half, Jeff, for assisting me in the fight scene. That was fun, guys. Let's do it again, soon.

Without further ado, part nine of Georgia's Fortress:

Get up, Rosalie.
This is no time to feel sorry for yourself.

Get up.

I wipe the tears away with my sleeve and use the trunk of the tree to pull myself up. Again, I lift the wrapped bundle and flop it over my left shoulder.

The seven dwarves come to mind as I make my way through the woods. Most likely, it is my mind’s attempt at humor during this troubling situation. Picturing the seven little men lined up one after the other, all lugging sacks through the woods, I think: I always dreamed of being Snow White, but never a dwarf. I smile.

Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go…

And work it is, lugging this sack, in the dark, through the woods.

Do I hear voices?

Voices? Out here?

“Oh, this can’t be good,” I tell myself.

As I draw near the sounds of conversation, I see a faint, flickering light: It must be a campfire. But why? Who?

No matter. Duncan has informed me, on many occasions, that sitting clustered around a fire is a sure way of being ambushed if one is being hunted. I am not, however, “hunting” anyone. And should their noise attract unwanted attention, one of those damn uniforms for instance, that would be their problem, not mine.

I slow my pace, minding every step as I continue through the trees. The last thing I want is to be heard.

“Toss that bottle over here,” I hear one tell the other, “You stingy son of a bitch. We’re supposed to be sharing the damn thing.”

Great! They’re drinking.

Be careful, Rosalie. Watch your step. For Pete’s sake, you definitely don’t want to have any dangerous confrontations. You have to get back to Mike and his family.

The leaves and small branches are virtually impossible to tread upon without making a sound. So, I zigzag away from the light of the campfire. Perhaps, the farther I loop around the voices, the safer I’ll be.

I stop to catch my breath and steady my nerves.

A fog has begun to rise from the woodland floor: “A sure sign that it’ll be warmer tomorrow,” I utter to myself. I lean against the closest tree and slowly drop the sack at its base. Suddenly, I straighten, and listen. I hear a crack, another, and then another.

Shit!

I’m being followed.

Now what? What do I do?

I bend over and untie the bundle at my feat. As I do, I'm grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground.

The figure straddling me reeks of alcohol intermingled with sweat. The pairing of smells turns my stomach. 

“Look what I got here! A stray! Are you lost little girl?”

I say nothing.

“Cat got your tongue?”

I turn my head: Primarily to appraise my reach toward the blankets’ cargo. There’s also my desire to distance my nose from the stench, and the thought that my direct stare may impart a “challenge” to the spineless slug who has attached himself to my torso.

Big man. Attacking defenseless women. You’re a pig!

“Aw, ya don’t wanna play,” he taunts.

I struggle beneath his tight leg grip, but remain silent with my head diverted.

He sneers, “Look at me when I talk you.” Seething from my lack of compliance, a final “Look at me!” echoes through the woods.

I face my assailant with a cold, dead stare.

He stretches his arm out, swings, and thrashes my face – twice.

“I’ll wipe that look off yer face,” he shouts. And raises his hand one more time…

The fog is ample cover and hides my movement as I strain to reach the tire iron, to my right, which is covered by the blankets. Grasping it in my fingertips, then in the palm of my hand, and with all my might, I strike a powerful blow to the head. He keels over and hits the ground, face first. I instantly free myself from underneath his left leg and scamper on all fours toward the blankets.

Another figure roars out of the brush and straight for me.

“You killed him. You killed my friend, you bitch.”

My hand touches the grip of the .38 special, which is concealed and buried among the other items in the makeshift pack. I halfass aim at the charging target, and fire.

The rushing figure is thrown backward and lies motionless among the leaves.

From out of nowhere, the first attacker grabs me by the throat and hurls me up against the tree.

“What the fuck'd you do? Are you fucking crazy? We were only gonna have some fun, you stupid bitch. Now, you’re dead. You hear me! Dead!”

I thrust my arms upward, through the center of his grasp; flop them over his arms, and with the weight of my whole body bear down, releasing myself from his chokehold. Running wheel-barrel style, hands on the ground – feet propelling me away, I head for the tire iron nestled in the foliage. It gleams beneath the moonlit sky.

“Oh, no ya don’t,” I hear as I’m grabbed by one ankle and brought down once more. “Where do ya think yer goin’?”

I turn over, plop my butt on the ground, and ram the heel of my other foot into his throat. He lets go and clutches his neck with both hands. Gasping for air, he falls to the ground.

I dart towards the tree that embraces my bundle in its lap, grip the corners, pick up the rope and the tire iron, stick the gun in my jeans, and run off into the night. 

Don’t look back, Rosalie. Just keep running. Don’t look back.

WT Georgia's Fortress: Chapter One ~ Part 8

Edited by David Jefferson Bean

Link to Part Seven

After traveling for ten minutes or so, Mike slides the back window open and shouts to be heard above the wind, “We’re gonna have to get gas from somewhere. I’m almost out.”

Now, there’s something that hadn’t occurred to me – gas. I guess with all that’s been happening, the simplest of things, like fuel, are easily overlooked. Were Duncan here, not one stone (precaution) would have been left unturned. He would have thought of anything – everything – and planned for the worst. All the while, scoffing at my lack of survival instincts and insight. For the first time, I’m glad he’s not around. Gas. What ninny would fail to remember the one thing that makes the truck we’re riding in function? I guess that would be – me.

“Let’s stop at the first gas station we see,” I yell back, “But be careful.”

“Will do,” Mike replies and closes the window.

Within minutes we spot a gas station ahead of us on the right. All the lights are out, though. Not that this is any great surprise; the lights seem to be out everywhere. But after all we’ve been through, I’m leery of stopping the vehicle anywhere where the shadows could come to life again and attack. Up ahead, I see nothing but shadows.

The truck slows down to a crawl. Mike is, perhaps, attempting to give the place the once-over before getting too close. The image of Duncan in this situation springs to my mind: No way in hell would he approach unfamiliar territory after the goings-on we’ve experienced in the last two days. He’d park the truck in some remote location, pull out the binoculars, and watch for however long it took to ensure that the station was indeed a place of shelter – not a potential combat zone.

But, Mike’s not Duncan, and I’m becoming anxious.

At a snail’s pace, we pull up to the pump island furthest from the building. Mike cracks open the driver’s side door, then looks back at me before proceeding. As he exits the truck, I hop out of the back with tire iron and pistol in hand. We both circle the truck while scanning the area. It’s dark – very dark. It’s difficult to believe my eyes when they see movement everywhere.

Stay calm, Rosalie. “Keep your wits about you,” I can hear Duncan say.

Mike and I begin the long walk to the main building. Two cars to the left of the structure have been trashed: The hoods are bashed in, all the windows are shattered, and upon further investigation, their interiors are slashed to pieces. Not a good sign. The building, itself, has no front door – it lies on the ground before our feet as we take our first steps inside. All the shelves have been ransacked and the cash register is open and empty. Mike walks around the front counter hoping to procure another firearm.

There, on the ground, is the clerk lying in a pool of blood.

“Rosalie,” Mike whispers and motions for me to come closer. I’m frozen with fear from the sight of the dead body. I can’t take my eyes off him.

He grabs my arm. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs.

We make our way out of the building and back to the truck. Mike slips back into the front seat. But, I remain standing at the rear of the truck, one foot on the rear bumper. A thought keeps me from hurling myself over the side: We still need gas.

Without saying a word, I return to the building. Before entering, I hear the creak of the driver’s side door once more. Mike must be wondering, “What in the hell is she doing?” and is on his way.

Inside, I find the mop bucket and empty its muddy-waters onto the floor. Within the garage area I retrieve a bolt cutter, a large screwdriver, and a length of rope after rummaging through every nook and cranny in the dark. Mike arrives as I am exiting with my hands full of the loot required for our next endeavor.

“What the hell are you doing,” he asks in an elevated whisper.

“We need gas,” I state a bit too loudly.

He presses his finger to his lips.

I lower my voice; “Help me get the lids off these tanks, Mike.”

After hesitating for a moment, “What a good idea,” escapes his lips with a “kid’s hand caught in the cookie jar” grin.

I can’t help but think, as Mike’s words are spoken that it’s not really just my good idea.

My husband has as much to do with my way of thinking, as I do – probably even more than I care to mention, without sounding like a lunatic. All those years of preparation, all those lessons in self-defense, and all the mind games meant to sharpen my awareness are surely influencing my every thought.

Mike grabs the bolt cutter and screwdriver out of my hands and I tie the end of the rope to the handle on the bucket. Then, he pops off the lid of one of the underground tanks and begins to cut the lock. In the darkness, it takes three tries before I finally hear the straining steel break under the applied pressure and fall away.

I place a good-sized rock into the bucket and place it into the mouth of the hole; allowing it to descend until I feel resistance. Raising it just a bit higher, from that point, I let it fall with a splash. Success: The weight that now pulls at the end of the rope indicates the bucket is full. Success!

Mike carries the container of fuel over to the truck and with an oil spout found under the back seat; he begins to fill the gas tank. We repeat this process five more times. Mission accomplished.

After tossing our “gas pump” equipment into the bed of the truck, we get back onto 92 north and turn right onto 140.

I’m so close, so close to home now.

Brake lights ahead: A mile of cars sits at a standstill before us.

Mike pulls off onto the roadside embankment. “There are flashing lights in the distance. I think it’s a roadblock, Rosalie. What are we gonna do now?”

“We’ll definitely be detained when they search the truck, Mike. We can’t let that happen. I’m almost home.”

I leap onto the grassy hill, reach back over the side and retrieve the three blankets lying there. After spreading them out on the ground before me, I begin to pile up our handy, little “Rough Riders’” implements on top.

“Go get the shotgun, and anything else that looks threatening, out of the truck, Mike. We’ll put it with the rest.”

Shooting me a quizzical glare, he does as instructed. Returning with the items, he places them onto of the small heap at our feet. After which, I draw the corners together and tie them with the length of rope used in our gasoline heist.

“I’ll take this,” grabbing the bundle by the rope and heaving it over my left shoulder, “and you drive the truck through the roadblock. I’ll meet you on the other side, Mike,” I proclaim as I focus on the ominous gaze of my partner in crime.

“What if something happens, what if you aren’t able to make it, what if…”

“It’ll be alright, Mike.” After a short hesitation, I finish up with, “Really. It will.”

Disappearing from his sight into the woods before me, I slide the bundle off my shoulder, sit under the nearest tree, and cry.

WT Georgia's Fortress: Chapter One ~ Part 7

Part Six Link
Edited by David Jefferson Bean

I dream of shadows moving: Everything stirs – everything has come to life. In my dreams, trees, shrubs, street lamps, garbage cans, mailboxes, unoccupied cars, even the mist in the air are attacking me. The darkness is a living, breathing creature that cannot be slain.

The sound of gunshots blares from all sides; firecrackers of light illuminate the blackness from every direction resembling flickering stars in the night sky. Attempting to pinpoint the location of the disturbance, I swiftly rotate back and forth. As graceful as a child’s toy top, I circle round and round, knowing that once my energy has been depleted, I will tumble to the ground and be picked up by the enemy. The “threat,” as Duncan and his friends name them: The predators who are preparing to pounce at the first sign of weakness. Though it is merely a dream, the fear is very real. I am petrified.

Suddenly, I see myself firing the same shot; at the threatening figure hanging over the tailgate of the truck; over and over again. Hannah’s blood-curdling, repetitive screams are deafening. I raise my hands to cover my ears, and finally wake up.

The sun blazes in the eastern sky. It is still early morning, but exactly what time is anyone’s guess.

Telling time…

If Duncan were here, he’d deduce the hour.

He’s quite the human sundial.

A constant “game” of ours entailed my asking the hour, hoping to catch him off guard, during our little jaunts in the wilderness or while gardening at home. Without using a watch, or a clock of any kind, Duncan’s guesses were always within 15 minutes of the actual time. At times his suppositions were “right on the money.”

Oh, how we laughed.

My dear-sweet-blue-painted-Pict-with-a-big-heart, if I never hear your voice again; nor kiss your lips; or gaze into your blue-green eyes; know that every memory, we have made together, has bestowed me with a life of untold “riches:” More than money could ever buy, and far more precious, to me, than mounds of gold and silver.

With very little encouragement, I could jump out of this truck, right this very minute, and start running north – towards home. My heart tells me that I could reach our front gate in Roswell much sooner by walking. Any way must be quicker than this fluke of a hideously, gruesome, and twisted “funfair” excursion with the family campers. My mind, however, disagrees: Are you crazy, Rosalie? You’ll be jumped, mugged, raped…killed. Stay where you are. You’ll be home soon, enough.

The only other time Duncan and I have been apart this long, was two months after meeting one another. After a heated argument caused by my lack of awareness (something that still afflicts my senses from time to time), rash idioms, and my happy-go-lucky approach to life, he stopped talking to me.

No matter how hard I tried to apologize, elaborate, or explain, he wasn’t “buying it.”

I hurt Duncan, and he was angry.

After waiting for days, weeks, forever – and just when I thought all hope was lost – Duncan e-mailed me: It’s okay, honey. I forgive you. And I hope you’ll forgive me for having acted like such an asshole.

My heart leapt upon reading these words. I could hardly contain myself.

Who wanted to wait for bus schedules or airline reservations? Not I. I hopped in my truck and headed for the state of Georgia. I was there in five hours.

I didn’t wait then, and I don’t want to wait now.

I want to be home; near Duncan.

Damn these circumstances. Damn this world.

For the past ten years, we have kept to ourselves. We have lived in our man-made Eden amongst the flowers, grain, and vegetables harvested by our own hands in our Georgia home. Life has been good to us. And now, everything has changed. Everything will be different.

I know Duncan – very well. With his “no surrender” attitude this is far from being over – it is just beginning. Londonderry in microcosm: “Git tae fuck!” as a raison d'etre of sorts.

I lay my head back down hoping to get a few hours of shuteye, but the blazing sun and my persistent pondering make it near impossible. I toss and turn waiting for slumber’s reprieve, but it never comes.

The truck door opens and Mike exits the cab, saying: “Wake up. Wake up everyone. It’s time to go.”

The children commence moaning and groaning, mumbling their objections as I look at Mike and give a “thumbs up.” But nothing could be further from the truth. I am not okay. This is not okay. The last thing I want to do is maintain my positive outlook, run into more creatures of the night, or suppress my anger. I’m very angry, incredibly frightened, and hungry – not a good combination for someone with Mexican/Italian roots.

We, as a people – as an inherent feature, I guess – tend to “dig in” when things get rough: Stand our ground when infuriated – become terrifying when we’re terrified – and cantankerous on an empty stomach. I consider these traits assets, as well as flaws: they come in handy during times of great distress, but can, and do, obstruct my common sense and logic when they’re needed most.

All these attributes, amongst others, plow my fields of thought and action amid all the present uncertainty. Hell, I’m female: This verity, alone, should explain (or rather complicate) matters.

The developing irritability in my behavior can be explained: My nourishment stems from a little green field, of a not-so-noticeable plot of land, which lies between Atlanta and the South Carolina border, and between I-75 and I-85. After being planted there years ago, I grew as a person, as a partner, and as a lover. In other words, this land that I love – and the man who inhabits her – made me into a better person.

I have been away from them both for too long. And I am withering from the lack of its, and his, “sunshine.”

The truck begins to move.

Cloaked in darkness, we continue down 92 north, heading for Highway 140, which should take us into Roswell -- hopefully without incident. But, I'm not holding my breath.

WT Georgia's Fortress: Chapter One ~ Part 6

Edited by David Jefferson Bean
Link to Part Five

From the moment I pull the trigger, everyone appears to move in slow motion. For the first time, the attacker’s face is visible. Or is it that I hadn’t previously bothered to pay attention? That’s what Duncan would say; I’m sure of it. The whites of his eyes gleam against the darkness, gradually opening wider, ever wider, as I fire the shot. His head snaps back as if some unseen force tugs at it from behind and drops the clump of hair in his hand. In one long, slow movement he’s gone.

The last sound I hear is the clinking of the knife as it slaps the asphalt.

Hannah slowly slumps down onto the metal floor with a thud. She’s shaking uncontrollably and hysterically bawling.

My motion sensor returns to normal.

I am frozen in the firing position for what seems like hours, but is actually mere minutes. My arms go numb, my knees grow weak, and I plummet backwards. My butt hits the cold metal of the truck’s bed. I lean forward. Pulling my legs tightly towards my chest, I lower my head.

What have I done?

I’ve killed someone.

I’ve taken a life.

I raise my head and see Hannah. Her eyes are drowning in tears and in need of comforting. She’s fourteen, I’m forty; however, at this moment, it’s not clear to me which one us requires the most solace.

I just shot someone. How can I console anyone? I’m a killer, a m-u-r-d-e-r-e-r.

Now, I’m crying.

I crawl over to Hannah and place my arm around her shoulder.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

Silence.

“I’ll sit here with you, and we’ll both cry for a while.”

The two other children finally come out from under the blankets: Roy sits next to me, and Bethany next to Hannah. As we huddle together, I silently gaze at the passing countryside. The next highway sign I see is white with a black “29” printed on it.

We have made it to U.S. 29.

The highway is deserted – there’s no other traffic. This just keeps getting creepier, and more bizarre: For Pete’s sake, we’re on Hwy. 29. In the ten years, or so, that I have lived near Atlanta, there hasn’t been a street I’ve traveled on that was void of any additional motorists – not ever – not at any hour.

The truck slows down and pulls off to the side of the road.

Mike hops out of the cab.

“Is everyone alright?”

“We’re all okay,” I answer back.

Bethany runs into her father’s arms, “I was scared daddy. Really scared.”

“I know, honey. But it’s all over, you’re gonna be alright.”

His eyes meet mine as he mouths the words “Thank you,” and gives Bethany the hug of her life. Roy and Hannah rush to his side as well. Mike kisses and hugs them all.

“Thank God you are all okay. Thank God for Rosalie,” he offers to the night winds, in a soft voice, while clutching all three children and raising his head to the heavens. Noticing Hannah’s subdued behavior, he asks, “Is everything okay, honey? Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Dad. Uh, I’ll be fine, I mean. It got a little hairy that’s all.”

With that, Hannah retreats back to the tailgate, grabs a blanket on her way, sits about a foot away from me, and draws the coverlet up over her shoulders. Mike’s eyes flash a questioning glance my way.

I return a concerned look without detailing the truck-bed fiasco. Why bother? It’s over. We’re all breathing. We’re all here. That’s more than I thought possible twenty minutes ago.

“I’m gonna drive on until we reach 92 north, then we’ll stop and sleep the day away,” Mike announces as he turns and opens the driver’s side door of the truck. Before entering, he looks back at his children and winks. His awkward smile shows me that he is also worried about what lays ahead of us. Is he ready? Am I ready?

The road stretches out before us, in shadows of the night, bringing to mind a distorted, gloomy breadcrumb trail through the woods, or a Tim Burton rendition of the “yellow brick road.”

I sit back and scan the landscape, as best I can, for any movement as we cruise along in the dark. The children are once again huddled together.

I recall the last words of a favorite film from my youth: “Tomorrow’s another day;” another day of surviving this uncertain and changed world that I landed into two days ago.

It is also, however, another day closer to home.

Another day closer to Duncan.

This is what calms me in this hour of desperation.

These are my thoughts as a new day breaks the horizon.

WT Georgia's Fortress: Chapter One ~ Part 5

Part Four Link
Edited by David Jefferson Bean

It's my turn (I'm surprised i waited this long to return a sudden, lingering gaze):I blankly stare at Mike, but he doesn't notice. He is, again, barking orders at Annabel, who strenuously reaches over from the passenger’s seat and grabs hold of the steering wheel. Her desperation is evident as she fumbles to keep the truck from veering off course. The baby slides off her lap and onto the seat. His head is as red as a beet and seems ready to explode from all the crying. Annabel's expression is one of crazed hysteria. It's eerily reminiscent of the final scene in the old, black and white The Pit and The Pendulum: Those eyes staring out from the screen. That look scared me at eight years old and it scares me now.

Duncan, I'm frightened.

For a split second, amidst the chaos in the cab of the truck, my first trip to the range with Duncan flashes before my eyes.

“Don’t ever point a piece at someone unless you intend to use it. When you do, though, don’t hesitate. Let the fucker know yer intentions, and if he keeps coming – drop the hammer.  Don’t let him git any closer. If you have a bead on him, and he ain’t on his hands and knees, beggin’ the Good Lord to forgive his every sin, he’s up to no good. ”

“Here, use this,” emphasizing "this" (Oddly, in the same manner as Mike) as he hands me a .38 spl.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to shoot anyone, Duncan,” I whimper.

“You will. When it comes down to him or you, you will. The way I see it; if he didn’t want to get shot, he’d fuck off, posthaste, and peddle his papers on a different corner. Now shoot the damned target.”

That was then, however, this is now.

We're not at the firing range, or in the woods. I'm not standing beside Duncan as his piercing-green-eyed stare brings out the competitor in me. There's no encouraging smile waiting for me at the end of the first shot. I'm in the bed of a pickup truck - in the middle of nowhere, as far as I'm concerned. The deer-in-the-headlights looks I see on my companions' faces make me painfully aware of our dismal situation, and using a firearm will surely bring forth a grin or two from the Grim Reaper. Rather than being drawn into the arms of the man I love, I'm being pulled into oblivion by the bloody, skeletal claws of choas and madness.

Duncan's voice and image are whisked away and replaced with the reality of Mike and Annabel exchanging positions in the front seat while wrestling with the steering wheel. Joshua has been moved to the floor behind the seat and can still be heard above the racket. His cries have me wishing I could reach in there, scoop him up, and wipe away his tears; soothe him by rocking him in my arms.

Off to my right…movement.

The shadows are moving.

For an instant, I do not accept what I see. Due to all the commotion, perhaps, my peripheral vision is playing tricks on me. So, I turn my head...

Center my line of vision on a strip of buildings in an effort to verify the movement...

Nothing...

I think: "Silly goose, you're letting your..."

When human forms emerge from the darkness and rush towards the truck.

Mike must see them, too. He instantly reaches over the front seat and retrieves a double-barreled shotgun from underneath the back seat cushion. After releasing the barrel, he pulls two cartridges from the glove box, loads them into the chambers, and snaps it shut with one quick jerk.

Telling myself that there is no need to commence shooting, I stuff the gun into my jeans and scan the bed of the truck for something else to dissuade my would-be attackers. A tire iron gleams in the firelight and catches my eye. Lying next to it is a short piece of chain. That's the ticket, Rosalie: It's just what you need. Wrapping the chain around the socket end creates a superb makeshift flail. I test it a couple of times by swinging it against the body of the truck. The thunderous clang it makes catches me off guard and I leap backwards. The bundle, which hides the children, shudders. Its concealed occupants are startled and let out piercing shrieks; then they begin to sob. I lay my hand on the covered mound and speak to it in a low voice: "It's okay. That was just me. Don't be scared."

Perhaps, I speak in haste, for at that instant; a dark figure reaches over the rear side panel and throws its leg over the edge as it attempts to jump into the back of the truck. Another is flopping on the concrete as it hooks the tailgate with one arm. I swing at both aggressors a couple of times and miss.

The flopper now has hold with both arms and the other has completed the climb over the side. I swing once more at the figure before me and the chain slips off the rod andlands at my feet. I panic. My heart is racing as the shadow reaches out to grab me. I manage to jump out of the way and reclaim the three-foot length of chain. he grasps only air and stumbles forward. With the chain in my right hand and clutching the tire iron with my left, I begin to swing at anything that moves. The iron strikes its intended target with a knock-out thud. Spinning around, I whip the chain across the rim of the tailgate. The sound of cracking bones and the arms vanishing out of sight give me a fleeting, yet false, sense of security.

More shadows appear. They keep coming: They just keep coming.

I’ve watched enough zombie movies to know that if one faces an infinite number of attackers it's time to improve upon one's tactics. Of course, this is no movie, and these “night crawlers” are no zombies, yet, the scene is jarringly similar to The Night of The Living Dead.

So, what are my options? Beating them to death, or filling them full of lead are the only things that come to mind.

The fallen figure in the truck begins to rise. As he/she/it lays its hands on the floor for support and kneels before me, I jab my chain-wrapped fist into its nose. Then, I re-chamber and deliver a short, sharp hook to the hinge of the jaw. It's out "for the count." A final stomp to the small of the back seems like a good idea: Whump!

I unlatch the tailgate and roll the body off the truck and to the street below.

I see Mike kick out the rest of the broken windshield as one of them jumps on the hood. Another is hammering at the driver’s side window with a baseball bat. Annabel’s screams. She sharply turns the steering wheel in an attempt to daunt the “Louisville Slugger,” ut to no avail.

The next thing I hear is the loud blast of the shotgun. Mike has fired!

Whoever has invaded his space spins away and falls heavily to the asphalt. The truck's tires skip the roadway twice, rolling over the lifeless body momentarily and throwing me off balance. I stagger backwards, trip, and fall; hitting my head on the domed tire casing. I almost black out.

Shaking off the wooziness, I prop myself up on my elbows and take a deep breath.
 
An arm wraps around my neck like a constrictor snake, cutting off my air supply. Struggling for breath but still clutching the tire iron, I instinctively and blindly thrust over my shoulder with the prying end. The tight grip loosens and I lurch forward out of reach.

I rise from my hands-and-knees position and watch in horror as one good swing of a baseball bat shatters the driver’s side window. Mike is screaming at the top of his lungs for Annabel to get out of the way. Aghast and dazed, she doesn't appear to be listening. Suddenly, an arm reaches through the broken glass and grabs Annabel by the throat. Mike pulls a hunting knife from his belt and slashes the forearm choking his wife, severing muscle, tendons, nerves and blood vessels. With a bestial shriek of pain and shock, her assailant releases her and falls to the road, rolling along the blacktop and pathetically clutching the ruined limb. Annabel, freed from the deadly embrace, lunges to the middle of the front seat while Mike grabs the shotgun resting against the passenger door and fires, just as a head, arms and part of a torso lean through the window.

Owing to his awkward position, he only manages to place the weapon's muzzle beneath the attacker's chin. As he squeezes the trigger, chips of white bone, blobs of pinkish-grey pulp and gouts of arterial blood splatter everywhere: Across the seat, the dashboard, and all over Annabel and her dress. She bursts into tears as Mike pulls her to his other side shielding her from anymore "window treatments."

The children shriek.

I'm frozen with fear.

Good going with those nerves of steel, Rosalie. What a fine example you are for the children. You're a mess.

Please God, let me see Duncan again. Don't let this be the end.

Three men come slinking over the side, simultaneously.

Despite the fact that I’m petrified, I regain some composure and once again tighten my grip on the thick-linked chain after looping one end around the palm of my hand while making a fist.

I hop over the concealed children, to within a couple feet of the tailgate, steady my stance, and draw the chain back, readying myself to strike. With one powerful do-or-die swing, I manage to lash one across the face. The centrifugal force of the blow wraps the chain around his head, and the last few links strike one of his eyes. Without hesitation, I yank the chain back towards me with all my might. Clapping a hand to his eye and screaming in agaony as the force of the pull spins him like a top, he rolls with it - it's eitherr that or risk a broken neck - and grabs another one for support. They both fall off the bumper to the street below. Quickly regaining the length of chain, I fling it one more time at the third intruder and , again, the links circle around until, this time, the end strikes the jaw. One more pull of the "top" and away he goes. Less lucky than his friend, he crashes, unmoving to the asphalt, his head at an impossible angle. The tailights bathe his contorted face and staring, sightless eyes in an eerie red light before it fades from view completely.

Damn! That worked well! Tahnk you, Lord.

Mike has finally taken control of the wheel. He steers backwards with one hand and is firing at anything that moves with the other as Annabel reloads. Mike fires. Annabel reloads again. Mike fires, and so on: Back and forth, back and forth. Now that's teamwork!

I hear the children's muffled sobs from beneath the blanket, but I don't dare take the time to console them, yet. To me, danger is still imminent and I'll wait until I'm absolutely sure the coast is clear before lifting the throw and comforting anyone.

From the corner of one eye, I see Hannah creep out from under the blanket and crawl on her hands and knees to the back corner of the truck’s bed. She seems to be hunting for something. But what? I step around the bundle holding the length of chain as if it were Thor's hammer: Reaching to the heavens and steady as a rock. I'm not going to be caught off guard this time.

I call out her name just as a dark silhouette leaps onto the rear bumper. It reaches over the tailgate and grabs her by the hair. Desperately kicking against the metal floor, in a backwards-sitting position, she is unable to get any traction in order to free herself from the figure’s clutches. In the semi-darkness, I see the sinister shape attempt to lift Hannah over the side of the truck by here hair, but she's flopping around like a gaffed fish: This makes protecting her all the more difficult. As Hannah struggles, he gathers up all her hair in one hand and raises his other arm above his head. The blade of a knife gleams in the moonlight.

In the darkness I see the sinister shape attempt to lift Hannah over the side of the truck by her hair; she is flopping about like a caught fish in a seafarer’s boat. As Hannah struggles, he gathers up all of her hair in one hand and raises his other arm above his head. The glint of a knife flickers in the dark.

Do something, Rosalie - anything.

But if I rush him and swing my “hammer,” he may wound Hannah. But I can’t just stand here and do nothing. She’s a gonner for sure if I do.

Reaching into the waistband of my jeans, I retrieve the pistol Mike gave me.

I aim.

And fire.