Epiphany/Book One/Prologue

EVERY NEW BEGINNING COMES FROM SOME OTHER BEGINNING’S END 

''This house has history. ''

Everything about Tom Snyder’s hoaried, two-story American Foursquare screamed history. The brick frames were old, but incredibly sturdy. The homeowners were an elderly couple, at least at the time Tom found the house. The place itself wasn’t occupied when he, his second wife, and his daughter came upon it, but the pictures that hung in lavish frames in every room of the home told enough to him. The Paisley’s were a happy couple. They planned on retiring here and dying peacefully.

They certainly did die here. But it wasn’t peaceful.

No one gets that pleasure anymore.

The couple was quite old-fashioned as far as he could tell. Very religious, right to the end. Faith in these times was something Tom considered to be admirable. Foolish, but admirable. He had seen many people die proclaiming their faith. He hoped but never prayed, for their sake, that they went to the Heaven they died for, when they were permanently able to escape this Hell on earth. The Paisley’s kept their Catholic faith close to home, until the day they passed.

 The woman’s name was Anabelle Paisley, while her husband’s was, what a coincidence, Thomas. Unlike Tom though, he seemed to prefer “Thomas”, as the name was everywhere. Old diaries Anabelle left behind referred to him as such, old bill statements, everything… Once he moved into their house and went through all of the couple’s possessions, it was almost as if they had been personal friends of his. He knew so much about them, likely more than their real friends did.

''History. ''

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">The world had changed a lot over the past half-decade. It’d been five years since the internal infrastructure of the entire world fell apart. Maybe more. No one was really sure anymore. Some of his neighbors, he knew, always tried to keep track of time. From what he’d heard, they did this to make sure things were as normal as they possibly could, but it was tough with so much time lost. With surviving a priority, the ever-changing calendar fell way down the totem pole of things to remember and keep track of. Time stayed, but days didn’t. Not many people were sure of the year anymore.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Climate allowed Tom to guess the months. But whether it was the 16th or the 31st, why would that even matter? It felt silly to think that it ever did, and even sillier that it still did for the people around who still managed to keep time. Of all of the pressing matters in their society, keeping track of the days, weeks, and hours felt so superfluous in comparison to the rest. Tom thought of it as prioritizing.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Internet. What a relic of a distant past. Communication is limited now. There is no big government structure anymore. The media stayed for a while, trying to make sense of the chaos, but eventually they went on radio silence too. It was almost as if they all vanished in thin air, leaving the little guys like Tom to make sense of the mess on their own. He always joked that maybe all of the politicians and reporters and celebrities of the world went on vacation together to some islands in the Pacific, where everything was alright. Boy, Tom sure wished he had an island to flee to.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">He remembered waiting for his wife, Kate, to return home to Indiana from a conference in Vegas in the initial chaos. She was on board her plane home, and it landed miraculously. The pair took their young daughter Darla and fled. They kept each other safe, traveling to and from for a couple years until they finally stumbled on Glenley. Darla was the cutest thing; ten years old, strawberry blonde hair, the bluest eyes. She was her mother’s child, that was for sure.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Glenley was a nice country bumpkin town in Kentucky, a small farming community of only a couple miles distance. Around twenty to thirty houses situated themselves around a large farm, and its tiny version of a ‘main street’ or downtown area consisted of a few resident-owned businesses and a single diner. Not a fast food restaurant in sight. Those corporations knew better than to try to step foot into Glenley. The sheriffs kept things together. Smaller government and hierarchy was easier to keep together in times like these. The small communities are a lot quicker to band together, and a lot more efficiently. They built and powered an electric fence around their borders, shielded themselves off, and stayed prepared for any future conflict. Conflict between communities was common these days, but the folks at Glenley liked to keep things friendly with their neighbors.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Glenley took in the Snyder’s, and Tom was eternally grateful. Apparently, the old homeowners died in the early days and no one was very familiar with them. The sheriffs were happy to let the Snyder’s settle in, enroll Darla into grade school, return Kate to hospital work as one of the town’s primary doctors, and Tom join the sheriffs in decision-making small-town politics and community protection. They owed this little town everything, but in a twisted form of irony, this little town felt it went the other way.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Darla was a sore spot for Tom. A stranger showed up at the gates a month or so after moving in. He was sick. They lost a few people inside the gates since he wasn’t checked and he ended up passing it along to the others, including their daughter. One person’s stupid mistake led to the deaths of a lot of people. It was the most awful thing Tom ever bore in his life, and even thinking about it now, he wondered how he managed to escape the horror of losing his Darla. Tom and Kate could not bear the tragedy and it ripped them apart.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">There was nothing wrong with Kate. In fact, she and Tom made an excellent-looking, “All-American” couple. Tom was compact and muscular, with a jet black head of hair and subtle gray stubble that covered his square-jaw. He always had a serious look in his nearly lifeless gray-blue eyes, but he had a way of charming people thanks to his inner charisma, which is a lot to say for a man who rarely smiled. Kate was always the more lively and energetic of the two, balancing out Tom’s affinity for all things dull with flowing blonde hair that she often kept in a messy but still irrefutably attractive ponytail. She was like an open book, never liking to shut out herself from the world, or other people from herself.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Every morning Tom lay in bed, usually around half-past five, he reminisced about old times. Nostalgia ate at his brain, and he knew he wasn’t the only one. The deputy he was training at the station, a young man named Kelvin, brought in a case full of old magazines he had collected the other day. Magazines dated six, seven years ago – not even a decade ago, no, but for everyone in Glenley, it felt like a lifetime ago.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">One in particular referenced ticket sales for a concert played by a little band called “The Rolling Stones” – a name Tom hadn’t heard in a long time. But it lit a fire in him that hadn’t been there in a long time. A fire that crackled with the words War, children, yeah, it’s just a shot away. There was something about that line in the song that was so memorable for Tom, he recalled going to a concert of theirs once back when he was a lot younger, but he could not pinpoint the significance of that line or why it stuck out to him in this moment.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">That song followed him throughout the day. It haunted him, poked and prodded at his brain, a true test of his memory… He was proud by the end of his patrols that day, as he managed to remember the general beat to the song, whistling along to it during his car ride home. When Tom returned to his humble abode, he rifled through the collection of albums the old homeowners left behind, but nothing from The Rolling Stones. Rock was not a genre he assumed the Paisley’s were accustomed to.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Probably thought of it as the Devil’s music <span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">, he always thought to himself mockingly. The Devil… such a silly concept. Red horns, a pitchfork and a master manipulator? No. Tom was convinced he’d seen real devils already and they were nothing like that.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">By the time Tom stopped reminiscing and climbed out of bed, got himself dressed, and made his way down the steps, he glanced at the clock sitting on the wall above the dining table… It was after seven. It seemed to send a jolt through his body. He had to get on patrol by the next half-hour. He felt relieved that he was lucky enough to climb out of bed when he did.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Tom hated to admit that he enjoyed the solitary life. It was a freedom he never had. It was his time to heal himself. He hoped that one day, just maybe, he and Kate could patch things up. After Darla died, there was nothing to glue them together. He was a mess when he lost his daughter, and pushed Kate away. But she was so forgiving, and didn’t blame him for it. It was a mutual split. Maybe “patch things up” isn’t the best way to word it. Completely rebuild, more like it. Start over with a fresh foundation and a fresh frame of mind. Though he never expected it would even happen, Tom accepted it as more of an ideal fantasy than any sort of feasible plan for the future.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">As he felt his mind wander back to a place of deep guilt and regret, Tom rubbed his temples. It was therapeutic in a way – as if akin to stick to stick igniting a fire, rubbing flesh to flesh would do the same for his mind and heart, burning away all of the negativity he carried. Getting up and preparing his coffee, he realized that the minutes clambered away so quickly from him. He didn’t realize it was already almost time for work. Finishing his cup of joe with unhealthy speed, Tom pulled on some clothes, brushed his hair as best as he possibly could, and then made his exit from the house.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">His drive to the police station was silent, per usual. The only radio station available was broadcast from within the city. On her off time, Kate co-hosted. He knew she was at work at this point, so he’d hear nothing but static if he turned the radio on. Kate saw the need to provide the town with some sense of normality. Glenley seemed to love it. People tuned in to hear her banter with her co-host Danny, some twenty-something kid. Tom always liked that about Kate: She was always so genuine, so caring for others and their needs, whether it was physically or even just having the emotional comfort of turning on the radio and hearing voices talk and have fun and play old music again. The selection was limited to whatever music they had access to, the town came together and donated a ton of old albums for them to play. That reminded Tom that he never turned in the old album collection left behind in his house… Maybe he’d do that soon. He did like to keep it to himself, however. Days grew weary and he liked to keep that personal collection just to listen to stuff he’d never heard, or stuff he’d forgotten. The Paisley’s definitely had an odd taste in music, but it sufficed after a long day’s work.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Something snapped him out of what seemed like driving on autopilot. The crackle of his radio. A voice crackling with static seemed to pound into his ears. The voice, from what he could make out, trembled.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Snyder, you there? Come in. Over.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Tom grabbed the small radio from his console, yanking it off its stand and pulling it close to his face. He pressed the button and spoke into it, “Affirmative, Deputy Rivera…You sound shaky. Over.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">He recognized the nervous voice. It was the kid that had been shadowing him the past couple weeks, his name Kelvin Rivera. <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0.25in;border-style:none;padding:0in;"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif"> “I’m at quadrant A’s fence, over by the maintenance shed,” Kelvin’s voice responded. “There’s something you need to see, sir.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0.25in;border-style:none;padding:0in;"> Kelvin Rivera stood at a respectable five foot ten, but he always felt a lot smaller than he really was. His shirt tucked in, pants pulled up to the hips, Kelvin was the type to ensure perfection and uniformity in his actions at all cost. With his black hair long and messy atop his head, Kelvin had boyish good looks but did not give off an intimidating or attention-grabbing vibe that someone in his position should have. He was stooped in a self-deprecating, unconfident posture, eternally and undeniably subservient in behavior.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">He was there the day that Tom’s daughter died. It was actually what inspired him to join the force; he remembered the horror he witnessed that day. Letting in outsiders was something that Glenley was usually cautious about, and the one time they let their guard down, it led to the biggest tragedy the town ever endured. Six innocent lives were lost that day; two children. That’s why he was a little nervous that he was shadowing Tom. He didn’t want it to trigger any sort of bad memories for him. Being around Tom already made Kelvin anxious as it was.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Kelvin stood by the impressive electric fence. A fence, in its behemoth wonder, surrounded the town and worked as a perfect barrier since its inception. No one went in, and no one went out, without permission. It was only for safety’s sake. The whole town was in agreement on the fences’ necessity. The town itself, its central hub, was a few miles inland of the outskirts of the fences. Things in Glenley were tightknit and compact, with only a few houses lying in the town’s outskirts. The main street where local businesses thrived and a little diner served every single person in town (seriously, there was no one who wasn’t here at least once a week – best pancakes in all of Kentucky, at least Kelvin was convinced of it) served as the town’s admirable attempt at a downtown hub. It was never a ghost town. There wasn’t much else to do when the day’s designated jobs were complete, so a lot of folk decided to hang out here.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Jobs were organized and the town survived on its ability to communicate with the outside world. Trading was invaluable to continuity. Every town, every city, as sparse as they were in these days, had something to offer in exchange for something else. Thirty minutes north was where New Venice (formerly a long stretch of towns and cities that bordered the Kentucky Dam and its contingents on the Tennessee River), a flooded metropolis of sorts, has claimed so much territory and with the hard work of its people, nabbed so many resources. As safe and as secure as this flooded city seemed, the city life just wasn’t for everyone.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Glenley served as a smaller, more compact and bonded, living option for people of the more easygoing lifestyle. Glenley had a few caverns where mining was big. People dug deep into the walls of these caves and pulled out very valuable natural resources that New Venice liked to lay its hands on. In exchange for these minerals, New Venice helped keep Glenley afloat. It was a very simple (not quite even, but Glenley was a gracious recipient) trade. New Venice knew it had an ally in its smaller compatriot, and allies were a resource that was more than resource in-and-of-itself these days. They had a good relationship with its leader, Gwen.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Kelvin tugged at his belt at the sight of Tom’s car pulling up to the gate, as if his trousers were escaping their grip on his hipbone. There was no way they could though, for his belt was wrapped so tight. It was just a nervous tic Tom had gotten used to. He knew he could use that knowledge to his advantage at some point in the future, so he hadn’t yet bothered to mention it to Kelvin how conspicuous it was. A future lesson for the young man, he imagined.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“He’s been standing there for hours,” Kelvin blurted at the sight of his superior, speaking in a voice that fluctuated with anxiousness.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Who?” Tom asked.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Realizing he hadn’t even pointed out what he was talking about, Kelvin scoffed in embarrassment, apologizing under his breath as he turned around and pointed beyond the fence. Tom hadn’t looked outside the fence in a long while, for there was rarely ever anything to see. What surrounded the town of Glenley’s electrified fences was nothing short of emptiness: Ground that consisted of gravel, pavement, and the tangled plant and fungal life that grew over them. A few miles down the road was finally a sign of the civilization that they left behind: What once was the city of Cynthiana was left a ghostly shell of its former self.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">The figure Kelvin had spotted wasn’t conspicuously tall. But his hair, shaggy and unkempt in its place on his head and the wiry bits on his face hung in front of his eyes, looked greasy, dirty, and unwashed. His body, built and fit but not buff, lumbered slowly. He was pacing in place, rocking back and forth without really moving. It was an eerie sight.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Tom’s eyes never left the man, muttering the following like routine, “Are you sure he’s not…?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Kelvin interrupted quickly before he could finish, already knowing what his superior was insinuating, “He’s definitely one of us, sir. I can just tell. He freaked out Tamsin from the café… you know, that cute little black waitress? Yeah, well, she was freakin’ out and I sort of just answered the call on my own. Said he wasn’t talking, just pacing around and looking lost and makin’ her uncomfortable as all hell, but this is just… this guy’s messed up, sir.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Call me sir one more time,” Tom started, a threateningly calm smile crossing his face, “And I’ll shoot you where you stand. I’m Tom. Call me Tom.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Kelvin simply nodded stiffly, uncomfortably. Tom saw the younger man’s throat bulge and then retract quickly – a nervous gulp. Tom smirked in amusement, and carried on toward the gate to the fence.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“What are you going to do?” Kelvin asked.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Let’s see if our friend wants to make conversation,” Tom said in a cheery tone. His voice lowering, invitingly, “You want to come with or no?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Tom entered in the security code on the keypad to the gate. A hum and a buzz signaled the powering down of the electricity, allowing Tom’s hand to grip the handle and pull open the gate safely.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“I’m a little surprised I actually still remember that code,” he muttered. He didn’t intend to think out loud, but he did anyway. Kelvin was never the easiest person for Tom to converse with, so he had to resort to just blurting out his first thoughts every so often, just to get a small peep out of the boy. Kelvin was nearly thirty, but he still acted completely awkward as if he never left high school. They liked each other, but there was never much to relate to between Tom and Kelvin, and both men knew that. Tom always told himself that Kelvin was a good kid, and would make a damned good cop too because he had the heart for it, if only he ever collected his last few badges and graduated from the Boy Scout’s.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Been that long?” was all Kelvin could muster as a response. Tom was surprised, impressed even, that he actually followed him out.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Yeah,” Tom replied. “It has. Make sure you don’t forget to…”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">He heard the buzz of the gate locking back up as Kelvin shut it behind him.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Never,” Kelvin said.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“You’re always so nervous.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Tom had no choice but to say it out loud. He was tired of this. He just wanted to get comfortable with his new future partner, not feel forced to make up the most flat conversation pieces he’d ever had just to stay sane around him.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Let me give you a tip, Rivera,” he began. “You prefer Kelvin or Rivera?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Either’s fine, sir—ImeanTom,” Kelvin spluttered.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“You can be nervous, there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, I encourage it. Being nervous helps you in different facets, believe it or not, but… never show it. The victim and the culprit see it in your face once you let it break through your defenses, and just like that…” Tom said, with his middle finger and thumb placed on each other, snapping them in Kelvin’s face with the word ‘that’. “…You lose complete control of the situation.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">He could tell that Kelvin was taking this all in so intently.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Have you ever lost control of a situation?” Kelvin asked.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Tom smiled, his hand wrapped around the gun at his waistband as he and Kelvin got themselves closer to the figure. Back turned, he or she still hadn’t spotted – or cared – that they were nearby.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">His voice quiet, hoarse, “When I first started out as a cop back in Indiana, my old supervisor was a burly guy, name was Robert. And we went to a gas station. The owner back then was a Rutherford, stubborn old son of a bitch. A newcomer came into town one day, asking for directions -- stepped inside the gas station and asked Rutherford where to find the interstate to head back to the city; now, if there’s one thing all of us knew was this: Rutherford hated the city folk, detested them with all his heart -- and we never knew why. He never gave a reason, never felt he had to. He pulled out a shotgun on the tourists, asking them to step the hell out of his gas station – but they got scared, they wouldn’t budge. The ones pumping gas called us. And I remember seeing the tourist man’s face, just completely stricken with fear. It was like that was it. He was going to die.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Kelvin interjected here, “Did he? Is that how you lost control?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Tom put a hand up, thrown off by Kelvin’s impatience, and continued, “All of us knew that Rutherford wasn’t going to pull the trigger; we knew him too well, but the tourist didn’t. He has no idea what this old son of a bitch was going to do next – and right then and there I felt sorry for him. I felt compassionate, and I smiled at him. He smiled back, and just with that I told him everything was going to be okay without ever having to open my mouth. And then I thought, what if I hadn’t smiled? What if I kept a serious face? A stern one? It’s kind of silly in retrospect; but no, in response to your question, I’ve never lost control of any kind of situation. Yet.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Almost an afterthought, Tom scoffed, mostly to himself, “I loved to relish in the irony that I of all people got him to put that gun down, as a former ‘city folk’ myself. Rutherford ended up dying two months after that. Heart failure – took the secret of why he hated city folk to the grave with him. Sad, really. We were all mighty curious.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Kelvin kept his attention glued to Tom the entire time, awestruck by the sincerity in his voice and his boasting without sounding cocky. This guy never failed to amaze and inspire him. They were getting closer to the mysterious figure.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Tom was the first to raise his voice to the figure ahead with a mighty “Hello?!”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">The figure turned around inhumanely fast, eyes bulging and hair finally whipped away from the front of his face. It was a young man. No older than twenty-five, Tom figured. But he couldn’t be entirely sure. This kid had the most tortured eyes he’d ever laid sight on. It struck him hard. His simple white tee and jeans were caked in dried blood. There was a tear in the shirt along the side, he only had one full sleeve left. His left arm hanged at the side of his body limply, as if it were broken. Perhaps it was. Blood covered it, too, and Tom winced nervously at the sight of this. Kelvin, however, kept his sight on the back of the kid’s jeans, where the butt of a gun stuck out of it and a knife was holstered in a small sheath next to it.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Kid?” his voice was so smooth, so welcoming. Hospitality was always Tom’s strong suit, or so he’d heard. “My name is Tom, Tom Snyder. That blood yours?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">The young man took a moment to respond. He swallowed, his highly-visible Adam’s apple rolling down his neck and then back up. And then, his voice deep, but projected in a way that gave off a more masculine and threatening tone – “Some of it.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">He lifted his limp arm, revealing a bullet wound. It went through. The kid, or someone else maybe, had it patched up, but it was a poor, makeshift job. It was burnt around the edges. Likely a failed cauterization.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Someone did this to you?” Tom asked.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Yeah,” the young man said simply, barely audible.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“I said my name, why don’t you say yours?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“You said your name, but your friend didn’t say his.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">These words were so shocking to Tom, simply because he wasn’t even expecting a response at all. Especially not one so trained, so cautious. It was obvious to Tom now that this wasn’t this kid’s first rodeo.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">The young man continued, “I’m not introducing myself until he—“

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Kelvin extended a hand. He smiled. “Kelvin Rivera. I’m a Deputy. We just want to help.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">The young man stared at Kelvin’s hand. He didn’t grab it, didn’t shake it, he just stared it down as if it were looking at him itself. Kelvin slowly put his hand back down at his side, but the smile didn’t leave his face.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Were you looking for us?” Tom asked.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“I don’t even know where I am,” the young man said, shaking his head ‘no’ profusely.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Okay, okay,” Tom said, extending his hand out calmingly… “You’ve come to Glenley. Kentucky.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Kentucky?” the young man’s voice broke a bit. A hint of emotion. Tom, still so sucked into his eyes, just watched as they welled up, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“You seem surprised,” Kelvin took note.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">The kid just let the tears roll and he shook his head. Tom didn’t expect a response. He knew the word ‘Kentucky’ likely triggered some sort of memory, or meant something to him. He decided to go for something a little more general, a little more ‘break-the-ice’:

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Do you have a name, son?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">The young man looked at his hands. His eyes widened, as if he was looking at something foreign and frightening.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“I can’t stop… My hands keep shaking…”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“When was the last time you’d eaten?” Kelvin asked him.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">He didn’t answer, he just continued to look at his hands with such utter fascination. If his eyes got any bigger, they’d probably roll right out of their sockets.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“…They won’t stop shaking…”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Are you sick?” Tom asked suddenly.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“…My hands…”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“I asked you a question,” Tom repeated. “Are you sick?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“N-no,” the kid said, shaking profusely.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“You’re shaking because you need to eat,” Kelvin said calmly. “We have food, shelter, water, comfort… You need to eat something, and you need to get that arm looked at.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">Tom’s gaze fell to Kelvin. He shook his head, disapprovingly. Kelvin was moving too fast, too quickly. His approach was too risky, and Tom was cautious of how the young man would respond to such “aggressive kindness”, as Tom liked to call it. His eyes wandered up and down this kid, looking for any other sort of protrusions or injuries.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">The young man looked at both of them, a childish innocence on his face as he mumbled with a soft smile, “I’m supposed to be here.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">He suddenly buckled over, like a ton of bricks weighed down his stomach. Tom rushed over quickly, catching the young man in his arms before his head made contact with the gravel. He was rolling about, unconscious. He only muttered something very simple over and over again, a single word, a word they both assumed was his name.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">“Ash… Ash… Ash…”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">As the two men lifted the one they called Ash and carried him toward the fence, neither could help but wonder what horrors this kid had seen. So many thoughts wandered through their heads, that none of them – from either of their heads – could be organized into something tangible or understandable. The only thing Tom remembered from this moment was how that song from The Rolling Stones danced its way into his head again as his eyes watched Ash stir in their arms:

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in">''<span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:107%;font-family:"Cambria",serif">War, children, yeah, it’s just a shot away. ''