Fade To Black (Into The Darkness Book 2) Page 6

  Jim nodded and smiled, adding, “It’s at Dylan’s house. We’ll split it up and you can come over to get your share anytime.”

  Joel’s eyes seemed to glow as if the fire hidden deep in his soul was stoked back to life, illuminating the depth of his humanity, which he desperately wanted to preserve.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Then Joel put a flat hand to his lips, fingers pointing upward. He quickly moved the hand away from his face, toward Dylan, and repeated the gesture several times.

  “Joel,” said Kim, almost scolding her husband. “He doesn’t know what that means.”

  “Ah, not so fast.” Dylan returned the gesture. “That has to mean, ‘Thank you.’ Am I correct?”

  “You’re a quick study, Dylan,” said Kim.

  “Maybe next time I can learn something else.” He pointed toward the door. “We should be going.”

  Dylan and Jim showed themselves to the door and, after they left, husband and wife shared a silent moment of happiness on the deck. Joel gestured the sign for “I love you,” to his wife, and she returned the gesture as she mouthed the words, “I love you,” back to her soulmate.

  Chapter Five

  Jim’s business partner, Harold Halleck, lived next door to Joel and Kim Hales. He lived in the same type of house as his neighbors; only the paint and roofline were different, camouflaging the cookie-cutter home construction of the neighborhood. The home was nice, but the view was priceless and that was the reason everyone on this side of the street had selected those homes. Endless acres of nature connected to their backyards.

  Jim cautiously held his hand up and almost knocked on the door. He pulled his hand back and thought quietly to himself for a moment. After noticing that the front windows were open, he whispered into Dylan’s ear. “I should warn you now. He has always been difficult to get along with, but now he’s unbearable. I’m used to it. Don’t let him get to you.”

  Jim knocked two quick times on the door and they heard Harold bark, “What do you want?”

  “It’s me,” said Jim, as he opened the front door and stepped inside with Dylan following close behind.

  “I didn’t say you could come in.” Harold glared at Jim, and then focused his attention on Dylan. “And who the hell are you?”

  Harold was sitting on a black leather reclining chair that faced the front door. He had pulled up the chair’s wooden handle to raise the footrest, and was leaning as far back as the chair would let him. To his left, against a wall of shelves that held pictures from times past, were birdcages enclosing an assortment of active, exotic birds. Harold had his hands behind his head with his fingers interlaced, and squinted to see the men in front of him. His flesh was loose and a light gray color that looked darker in the folds of his excess skin. He had lost weight so fast from gastric bypass surgery that the fat disappeared before the body had time to assimilate all the excess skin. It hung on his body like curtains in the wind. His eyes were set deep into his skull, surrounded by dark circles. He was thin, unhealthy appearing, and he was balding, but not in the normal way a man loses his hair. It reminded Dylan of pictures he had seen of what radiation poisoning looked like.

  Years ago, Jim and Harold had started a small bakery that grew into a successful business. Jim focused on food preparation and stayed in the backroom. Harold was the numbers man and ran the business. Their arrangement worked out well for them over the years. They eventually expanded the business by purchasing a chain of local restaurants. Both Jim and Harold worked countless hours to make the business prosperous, and then they kept working the same hectic schedule to maintain their success. The years caught up with them, and neither man had married or started a family. Their work life was brutal to their health. Constantly exposed to rich foods and continually tasting new menu items, each man’s health gradually began to fail. Both of them became morbidly obese, hypertensive, and diabetic. Although both were aware of their health problems, they were workaholics and chose to take pills to mitigate the problems from their lifestyle instead of changing it for the better. However, just before the pulse, Harold decided to take a step toward improving his health. He chose a quick fix and underwent gastric bypass surgery. Afterwards, Harold could eat relentlessly and still lose weight. He actually had to eat frequently after the surgery to get enough calories. Because of the radical surgery, he would never be able to absorb enough nutrients from any amount of food he ate. His surgeon had prescribed vitamins that he would have to take the rest of his life. Then the pulse came. Jim had used Harold’s old restored El Camino to get to all their bakery and restaurant food to storage before the looters came and stole everything from the businesses. Unfortunately, there were not any more vitamin supplements to be found. Even though he ate every day, Harold was still withering away, dying of malnutrition.

  In contrast, Jim’s health actually improved. He walked everywhere, no longer had type II diabetes, lost all his excess body fat, and his hypertension disappeared along with the world’s junk food.

  “Shut up, Harold,” snapped Jim, as he walked past Harold into the kitchen. “He’s my neighbor.” Jim disappeared behind the kitchen wall, but they could hear him opening and closing cabinet doors.

  Harold looked at Dylan curiously, blinked three times slowly, and then asked, “Do you have a name?”

  “Dylan.”

  “What do you want from me, Dylan?”

  “Nothing.”

  Jim yelled from behind the kitchen wall, “Leave him alone, Harold. He’s with me.” Then he slammed a cabinet door shut.

  When Harold heard the cabinet door slam, he leaned forward and aggressively began to fumble with, and try to pull on, the wooden handle at the side of the recliner. As he was unsuccessfully trying to lower his legs, he unleashed a flurry of curses at Jim and demanded to know what Jim was doing. Seeing Harold flopping around like a fish out of water, Dylan went over to the chair and gave a quick pull on the wooden handle, quickly dropping Harold’s legs down as the chair’s back sprung into the upright position.

  “I don’t need your help, damn it!” Harold scolded Dylan.

  Dylan held up his hands and symbolically gestured surrender. He turned away from Harold and looked at the caged birds.

  Harold used his cane to stand, but not before Jim was out of the kitchen and had opened the door to Harold’s garage.

  “Look in here, Dylan,” said Jim, as he pointed at the restored El Camino parked in the main garage bay. “This baby still works.”

  Harold pushed the door with the tip of his cane and it banged shut.

  “Oh, the hell with you,” said Jim. “I’m going to check on your supplies.” He opened the door to the basement stairs and went down the steps.

  Harold got close to Dylan, face to face, and jutted his chin out as if he was looking down his nose. “You want my car, don’t you?”

  “Sure, name your price. I’ll write you a check for as much as you want.”

  Harold scowled back, “You’re not funny. Besides, I’ve hidden the key. You’ll have to carry it away.”

  “Does anything make you happy?”

  “Yes, my money, my business, and that beautifully restored vehicle parked in my garage. Which one of those three items still exists?”

  Harold limped over with his cane and stood near his birdcages. He made affectionate noises toward his birds and opened each cage to get them food from a large, open bag of seeds leaning against the wall.

  “You should appreciate what people are doing for you,” said Dylan. “Jim and your neighbors have done nothing but help you.”

  Harold was bent over the bag of bird food, leaning on the sack with the palm of his hand, when Dylan spoke. Still bent over the bag, he twisted his neck to look back at Dylan, and then he stood again with the help of his cane.

  “They help me like I help my birds. My birds are trapped in cages, and I give them food and water. They’re trapped here until they die…or I die. Sure, Jim and my neighbors next door come by and help me with food and wa
ter, but I’m not stupid. I’m their bird just like these are mine. I’m stuck here in this cage just waiting to die.” Harold got a serious look on his face and leaned forward on his cane. “That car in the garage, it’s like my wings. Those wings might just let me fly out of here one day and escape my cage.” Harold's legs began to shake. He slowly and unsteadily moved back toward his recliner. Dylan met him at the chair and helped him sit down. Harold was shocked at the kind gesture.

  “You’re too nice, Dylan. Nice guys finish last, isn’t that the saying?”

  “Maybe I’m just better than you.”

  Harold scoffed at the remark.

  Dylan pointed toward the garage door. “So, if you took your wings out of the garage, where would you fly?”

  “Don’t patronize me.” He leaned back on the black leather and exhaled dramatically. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to die. I’ll never leave this cage.” After a moment of silence Harold added, “You see what I mean? You’re too nice. Why don’t you just look me in the eye and tell me I’m going to die?”

  Dylan crouched down by Harold's side and looked him in the eye. “We’re all going to die. Life isn’t about how you die; it’s about how you live.”

  Harold became unusually quiet, just as Jim emerged from the basement.

  “Good to see you’re in one piece, Dylan,” said Jim. “He didn’t kill you?” Jim was astonished at Harold's despondent affect. He should have been berating Jim by now.

  Jim stood by the front door, ready to leave, so Dylan got up and went to the door. Before leaving, Dylan turned around and said, “There is a difference between you and these birds. The difference is that you put yourself in the cage.”

  Jim opened the door and the men started to walk out.

  “Hold on,” said Harold, using a kind voice, “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”

  Jim looked at Dylan, mystified, and replied to Harold, “Glad to help. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Dylan and Jim turned to leave.

  “Dylan, wait,” said Harold.

  “What?”

  “Earlier you asked me about happiness.”

  “Yes?”

  “I just want you to know my happiness is in there. It’s my birds.” He stretched an arm and tapped a birdcage with his cane.

  “I’ll remember that,” Dylan responded.

  “Now get the hell out of here!” ordered Harold.

  “That’s the Harold I know,” said Jim, as he pushed Dylan out the door.

  As they walked toward Dylan’s house, the smell of wood smoke became stronger. Dylan suspected that Kevin had cooked a rabbit and he hoped Kevin had remembered to save one of them so Dylan could show his son how to skin it. They walked behind Dylan’s house to see that Kevin had started a small fire on the concrete patio. Concrete cinder blocks surrounded the small fire. Centered on the four blocks were the four corners of a metal cooking grid from a gas barbeque grill. Only some dark burnt flesh was left, hardened by the flame and stuck to the metal grid. His children turned around when they heard Dylan return home. With wide eyes, he looked at his children and blinked in astonishment. Mary had neatly combed and trimmed the children’s hair. She had washed it free of the heavy scalp oils, and it moved in unison with the gentle breeze. They were dressed in clean clothes, and best of all, they were smiling broadly.

  “Look at you,” said Dylan.

  Jennifer touched the barrettes holding her bangs in place. “Do you like it? Mary said she gave me a makeover.”

  “Of course I like it. You’re beautiful.”

  Jim picked up a small ball and gently threw it to Brad. The two went away from the house and into the tall grass of the backyard to play a game of catch.

  Mary slid open the patio door. Dylan could see that she was looking for some recognition and approval of her labors.

  “Mary,” said Dylan, as he stood in front of the patio door looking at his own reflection in the glass and running his fingers through his dirty hair. “I think I could use a makeover, too.”

  “I don’t think that would be enjoyable for either of us,” said Mary, and they both laughed.

  Kevin walked up behind his wife, opened the patio door all the way, and used his hand to encourage Mary to step outside onto the concrete patio. After exiting the house, Kevin stood beside Dylan and compared their reflections in the glass patio door.

  “Well, then,” said Kevin, as he stroked his beard. “How about one for your husband?”

  “Okay, wait here. I do have something for you.” Mary disappeared into the house but quickly returned with two buckets, handing one to her husband and one to Dylan.

  “What?” Kevin asked.

  “It’s not a riddle,” said Mary. “We’re out of water.” She went back inside.

  Jim was close enough to hear the conversation. “I’ll get it.” He handed the ball to Jennifer and told her to continue the game of catch with her brother. With buckets in hand, Jim went directly to the wheelbarrow. Only a few steps into his task, Jim turned around and yelled back to Dylan. “You better save me some of that rabbit. If it’s not cooked by the time I get back, I’ll eat it raw.”

  Dylan waved him on. The rhythmic sound of the creaking axle slowly faded in the distance.

  “I’ll get something ready to eat while I wait for the water,” said Mary, as she went back into the house.

  “Did you eat the rabbits, already?” asked Dylan.

  Kevin held up one finger. “Just one. I was starving. I couldn’t wait, so we ate one and I saved the other one for you. You said you wanted to show Brad how to skin a rabbit.”

  “Where’s the other rabbit?” asked Dylan.

  Kevin pointed to a cardboard box in the corner, under the shade of the covered patio.

  “Good, I’ll get Brad and let him watch me do this.”

  Dylan walked toward his children. It was Jennifer’s turn to throw the ball. She awkwardly threw it toward her brother, completely missing him. The ball landed in the tall grass of the backyard, near the garden. Dylan called for his son to come to the patio and Jennifer went to retrieve the ball. Just as Dylan turned to walk back to the patio, he saw a streak of black fur dart out of the grass and heard his daughter scream. Instinctively, he quickly unsheathed his knife and spun back around to lunge toward his daughter and protect her, raising the blade to attack. It only took a split second for the image in front of him to register, and he immediately relaxed. It was his family’s cat, and it had playfully attacked the ball. The cat had short, black hair with white paws that resembled socks. That is how the cat got its name, Socks. Jennifer tried to touch the cat, but it leapt into the garden, meowing as it did.

  Dylan sheathed his knife and called for his daughter to return to the patio. He began calling to the cat by snapping his fingers and making clicking noises with his tongue. He realized that the cat must be hungry. It must have smelled the rabbit that Kevin cooked earlier. During these past few months, the cat he has known for years had gone feral. It ignored his calls and only answered to nature now.

  Then, of its own volition, the lean black cat came sneaking out of the garden and crept through the tall grass to the end of the patio. It leaped silently up to the patio and sneaked toward them. It came to a place just out of their reach, sat down, and stretched its tail flat. The cat looked past the tall grass and garden in the backyard, beyond the hedgerow of boxwood bushes, past the big walnut tree on the back property line, and slowly blinked its squinted eyes.

  Mary saw the cat through the patio door and slid it just enough to reach through the opening. She put out her hand, but the cat leaped away, out of reach, sat down again, and licked the pads of its lifted paw. Mary beckoned Jennifer to come inside and opened the door for the young girl to do so.

  The cat then crept close to them again, dragging its tail flat to the ground. The sun was getting lower in the western horizon of the backyard, illuminating the seed heads of the tall fescue. The cat reached out a white questioning paw and touched
the cardboard box in the corner.

  “I better get that rabbit,” said Dylan.

  In doing so, the cat’s feral nature arose, and it quickly jumped and darted away. In a short time, it stealthily came back, joining them on the patio. The black cat seated itself near them again. It blinked slowly. The skin over its shoulders jerked forward under an insect, and then it lifted a rear paw to scratch the nuisance away. The cat lifted a front paw and inspected it, flicked its claws out, and licked its pads with a rough tongue, again.

  Dylan reached for the dead rabbit and scared the cat again. The black cat slipped away toward the tall grass and disappeared like a shadow inside a large boxwood bush by the walnut tree.

  “Okay Brad, this is how you skin a rabbit. Ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Dylan lifted the skin off the back of the rabbit, slit it with his knife, put his fingers in the hole, and tore off the skin. It slid off like a sock, slipped off the body to the neck, and off the legs to the paws. Dylan picked up the knife again and cut off its head and feet. He laid the skin down, slit the rabbit along the ribs, shook out the intestines onto the skin, and then threw the mess off into the tall grass, near the large boxwood bush the cat had disappeared into. After he skinned the lean, muscular body, Dylan cut off the legs and cut the meaty back into two pieces. The flesh sizzled as it touched the stainless steel grid suspended over the fire. He added some wood, and tiny, cherry-colored embers swirled about as the fire’s heat lifted the glowing ashes into the air.

  “You’ll do the next one by yourself,” said Dylan.

  “Can I use your knife?”

  “Only if I help you with it.”

  “Okay. I want to tell Kevin I can skin rabbits now.”

  “And tell them it’s cooking.”