End of the Road Read online

  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 bl
og 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.

  In front of her is a man who seems to think he is in line for a complaint department. Evidently, the line is not moving fast enough for him, and he is feeling inconvenienced. If I had to guess what was going through his mind, I would say that he’s running through a list of grievances that he was going to rattle off as soon as someone had the decency to give him a little service.

  Another man appears quite miserable, as though burdened with a weight he had been meaning to get rid of for a very long time. Even now, it seems, he does not know how to let it go.

  Most of the people here are quiet, although a few of them speak words of encouragement to their neighbors, exhibiting the kind of friendliness I had always admired but never possessed.

  There is a couple holding hands: apparently, they must have died at the same time. They appear at times as children, then adult, then elderly. There almost seems to be an aura about them as though their separate identities were not as important as the unity they possessed.

  I see a woman lost in worry, weaving webs of tragedy about herself. For every opportunity for hope, she places in front of it a wall of reasons not to, making of herself the center of an elaborate maze. There is no reason for hope in which she cannot find obstruction. And though I see a woman trying to console her, her eyes are transfixed on her convictions of doom.

  Further down the line—closer to judgment—is a woman who is welcoming her own martyrdom as the means to her salvation. To everyone in line, she is telling the story of how she has sacrificed her life for her son. She tended to his every need in life, exchanging her happiness for his. I see her as a young mother, and the glow about her is warm and healthy. But if I see her as she is older, the aura about her seems sickly, as though her relationship has become unhealthy. She is unwilling to let go, to allow her child to become what he should be. It is though she sees her child as an appendage of herself rather than a separate living thing. The light of her aura is all on one small aspect of her, seems to be reaching out in a single direction like an umbilical cord. And as she talks, I cannot help but feel that it is not her son that is her concern but her martyrdom. She gives only in order to get. It is her need she feeds.

  An old man—yes, he is only old—rushes about, trying desperately to change his predicament. He is lost in purposeless action, as though it did not matter what he was doing, merely that he was doing something. I can’t help feeling that there is really nothing for him to do; it is too late for him…

  Even as I think this, the nothingness beneath my feet becomes apparent once again, and I feel as though I am falling. The thought occurs to me that I am here to be judged, and not to judge others. Somewhere in my mind, it occurs to me that I should no more be judging myself than I should others—that judgment is not my job—but shame and guilt drive the thought from me. I am one among many, but I feel alone. Of all those who to my eyes appear lost, I am as lost as any. The feeling of getting ready to take a final exam that I have not studied for hits me. I never understood my life while I was living it; life was always going at a quicker pace than I would have liked. And now at the end of it all, I still don’t know w
hat it was I was doing, what I was supposed to do.

  In trying to walk upon these clouds, I feel like Peter trying to walk upon the water. My initial success does not last, and now it seems as though the clouds rise up as I begin to sink. What throughout my life did I build that would serve as some sort of support for me now? Religion? My parents had given me a Christian upbringing, a set of beliefs and commandments. I knew right from wrong and was expected to act upon that. But that background was in my distant past. Perhaps it gave me fertile soil in which to grow, but I long ago dismissed it so that it would not prevent the branches of my life to grow as they wished. My roots may have been well-planted, but I would not let dogma dictate my reaching for the truth, whatever that truth might be. I was not willing to let my growth be determined the way a shoot is determined by a stake it is tied to. I was willing to let go of the secure path in order to…

  In order to what? There was something there, wasn’t there, something guiding me even as I let go of all creed and canon in my pursuits? That is the definition of faith after all, isn’t it, to let go of the known in order to proceed into the unknown with hope? When I left religion behind, something important remained with me, the spirit so often obscured by the letters that hold it. Right?

  What a desperate situation I must be in that I am relying on intellectual arguments. There should be some sort of feeling in my heart, in my soul, but all I have is confusion and dread. How is it that I have never found some kind of true understanding in all of my years of existence? After all, I really did care, really did look for answers amongst the endless diversions and distractions that life threw my way. Beyond the endless pursuit of the opposite sex and the desire to be noticed and countless sugary snacks that fed both physical and emotional desires, I always had a desire to be true to myself and to a higher ideal. Didn’t I? Yes, I really believe I did. And while I didn’t forsake all earthly treasure in order to tend to lepers, I always tried to give a little more than I gave. What the hell are the criteria, anyway, are only the top ten percent allowed in? Is it only those who got an ‘A’ in the classroom of life that get in, or am I accepted even with a ‘D-‘ just so long as I did not fail?