Adam

I wake up in the middle of the night, panting, my back hurting like it just got shattered. It's pitch black in the room, but I can see it all clearly, hear the explosions, smell the blood and burnt flesh, mine, that of the others. I'm awake, I know I am, but I'm there also, the sheet sticking to me like I’m covered in blood.

I get out of bed as soon as I can move again, dress, lace up my boots and storm out of the house, not caring how much noise I make. A light turns on in my sister's room, illuminating the back yard, as I run across it. But I don't stop, not until I'm halfway up to Hunter's Point, still not sure if I'm completely awake.

The moon's no longer full, but it's casting enough light to see by. I don't want to go up to the peak, don't want to see the mine. Haven't been back there since Davy died. That's a whole different sort of nightmare, one I never want to relive.

So I turn east, find the main road, follow it to the turn off that leads to Taylor's cabin. A light is shining through the trees, and my heart starts racing. Maybe she came back, maybe she reconsidered, and I'll find her there, waiting for me, willing to take me back.

But the light's from the neighbor's porch. Taylor's cabin is just a massive shadow in the darkness. Whatever drove me to come all the way here is gone, and I can't take another step. At least the elation followed by the nauseating let down chased away the last dregs of the dream.

I sit on the porch, lean against the wooden walls and try to think of nothing. But it's all coming back in flashes, more vivid than they were in real life.

Taylor on the sidewalk in Brooklyn, looking so lost and alone. Her huge eyes when I came to fix the plumbing. Her soft body nestled in my arms as we slept. I'm not even thinking about the sex. If I went there, I'd probably never claw myself out from this fantasy.

I'll ask Pat for her dad's number. Call and beg her to reconsider, to come back. Just as soon as I get the rest of my life under control. Find a home for Mom, locate Dad. Then I'll call her. Because, yes, I can be in love with her after just a few days and more to the point, I am.

* * *

I get back home just past daybreak, am waiting outside in the chill at eight.

"Get in," Pat barks through the window of his truck as he pulls up right on time. Brad's already in the car, huddled in the middle seat like it's freezing outside.

His face is set, but he's biting the inside of his cheek. He's not looking forward to this. I really don't care one way or another. I've mostly just heard about Gramps' meanness from Pat and my dad, never really seen much of it. Except that one time…but I stifle the thought as I collect myself to focus on just the task at hand. I'm so practiced at doing that, I don't even have to try very hard.

"Better take that gun from the glove compartment," Pat tells me once we're driving.

I don't take it. "Why? We're just going there to talk."

"Yeah, but we should be prepared," Pat muses, but it has an ominous sound to it, so I get the gun, check that it's loaded.

"Why would grandpa know something no one else does?" Brad asks in a squeaky voice. There's a purple ring around his throat where I grabbed him the other night, but I don't think that’s is what's causing it.

"Chill out," I say. "He's just an old man."

"Yeah, right," Brad mumbles. "He's a sicko. He once left me in the middle of the woods at night."

I forgot about that. It took us like a whole day to find him.

"He did the same to me," I say anyway, kinda enjoying Brad's discomfort.

"Yeah, well, we're not all forest creatures like you," Brad snaps.

"He just wanted you to man up," I counter, trying real hard not to laugh.

"I was five."

I lose the battle with laughter when I catch his shocked, scared little boy expression.

"Shut the fuck up, Adam!" He wants to hit me, I can feel it, but he's too scared. It only makes me laugh harder.

"Why don't you make me, Brad?" One of Theo's favorite pastimes was getting Brad to pick on me too. So there was this eight year old calling me a faggot, and all sorts of other shit. He might've gotten bigger, but he's still the same bully.

"I don't need you two bickering right now," Pat says. "Both of you shut up."

I want to tell him to make me, but I refrain. I'm over proving myself to them. Now, I just want to leave again.

Pat pulls up on the shoulder in the middle of a road that could use some maintenance. There's nothing but thick forest all around.

"What happened?" I ask. "You run out of gas?"

"We go on foot from here. There are no roads leading in." Pat climbs out and slams the door shut.

"How the fuck does he get his groceries up here?" Brad asks, scanning the surroundings.

"He eats what he hunts," Pat says and strides off into the trees.

"This was a bad idea," Brad mutters, but softly so only I can hear.

"Oh come on, Brad, man up," I say and chuckle, stuffing the gun behind my belt and walking in front of him.

They're both making a shit load of noise walking through the woods, even though Pat keeps warning us to be quiet. I'm just about to tell him to be quiet, when we reach a clearing, the cabin in the center of it reminding me of something a witch might live in. Animal pelts are drying on the rafters and there's a huge set of antlers adorning the front door. I have no doubt Gramps caught the deer by himself, skinned it, ate the meat, and hung up the trophy. It's really kind of impressive.

"Alright, stay behind me," Pat says and walks into the clearing, calling, "Pop! Are you home?"

A shot rings out, the bullet whizzing past me so close I can feel the wind on my cheek.

"Get down!" I yell, crouching and pulling out the gun in a split second, my training taking over.

Brad’s crouching behind me, and Pat's laying on the ground in the clearing.

"Crawl back," I tell him as another shot rings out, hitting the dirt not a foot from Pat's prone body. "Now!"

I pull them both farther into the trees as a third shot rings out.

"Why the fuck's he shooting at us?" I ask.

Pat shrugs and Brad is shaking.

"Let's just leave, this was a mistake," I suggest.

"No, he doesn't know it's us," Pat insists. "We have to talk to him."

"To a crazy old man trying to kill us?" Brad asks in a very shrill voice. "Fuck that!"

"I'm with Brad on this," I say. "Though I could probably get up behind him and disarm him."

"Do it," Pat says, nodding his head.

Brad grabs my arm. "Don't do it. He'll kill you. He was like in Vietnam or something."

"Yeah, well, I was in Afghanistan," I say, softer than I planned to because it sounds like Brad really cares. "I'll be fine."

He lets go of my arm, and I aim the gun at the house, shooting off a round, then hand the gun to Pat. "Cover me."

"What's that even mean?" Brad asks.

"Shoot at the house and keep him engaged while I go around back and take him from behind. Just don't shoot me," I explain to make sure they both know what I mean. "There’s a back door to this place, right?"

Pat nods, swallowing hard. I walk away through the trees, my heart racing as it always does before the action starts. But once I have the back door in sight, my heart rate will be steady, I know that too. The rush I always get when risking my life starts flooding me, turns my vision into a tunnel, until all I see is the cabin, the back door once I reach it. I just focus on each step I take, letting no other thought keep my attention. Shots are still going off—the louder clipped sound of Grandpa’s rifle, the softer sound of the Beretta. I break into a run as soon as I have a clear line to the back door, slam into in and roll as it crashes open.

Gramps turns toward the noise, pointing the gun in my direction, but he's too slow. I have him pinned against the wall with his own rifle, before he can even blink.

But the old bastard is strong, and I can't just the gun from his grasp. I'm more than forty years younger than him, but knowing how to fight for your life is not something you just forget. I know I never will.

He fires off a shot, the muzzle burning my palm. But I'm holding it right, so it's not enough to make me let go. The rage twisting his face gives way to shocked surprise then pain as I kick him in the knee, hear the bone crunch, and I can finally twist the gun from his hands. He goes down hard, and I stop myself just in time from slamming the butt of the rifle against his temple.

I flip it around instead and press it to his cheek. "Is this any way to greet family?"

I was always dead on with these one-liners, though maybe it's a bit over the top here.

"Pat! Brad! Come!" I yell keeping my eyes on Gramps. His eyes are all shiny like he's planning more tricks.

"I didn't know it was you," he says as Pat enters the cabin. "Thought someone was coming to rob me."

"So you shoot first?" Pat asks.

"At my no good son? Why not?" Gramps' laugh turns into a hacking cough almost immediately.

"Has Mike been here? Do you know where he is?" Pat asks.

"You can put the gun down now," Gramps says to me, ignoring Pat.

I'm not so sure I can, so I don't. "Answer him. And keep your hands where I can see 'em."

"Spoken like a real soldier," Gramps says, and hacks another laugh. I can see the hilt of his hunting knife in his boot, and I'm pretty sure he's planning to use it. "I was in the Army myself, but you Marine boys could be quite useful too. Even though you are just part of the Navy."

I know this jibe, it’s as old as the Marine Corps. And I know just how to respond. “Yeah, the men’s department.”

I feel really stupid right after it leaves my mouth. He's just an old man.

But it seems to amuse him, since he laughs again.

"So, have you seen Dad?" I ask pointedly.

"Nope," he says, and sits down on the floor, massaging his knee.

I press the rifle harder against his cheek and crouch, yanking the knife from his boot. His eyes turn black, anger contorting his face. He was going for it, and I just foiled that plan. I did read him right. He's one of those that won't go down, won't admit defeat until you rub their nose in it.

"Nice knife," I say, checking out the blade. "Can I keep it?"

"Hell, no," he snarls.

"Do you know where Mike is?" Pat asks again.

Gramps shakes his head. "And you won't find him neither."

"Why?" Pat asks.

"You ain't the only ones looking for him," Gramps says, looking up at us like we're just lounging about. "Came up here all threatening like, waving their guns around. I thought you was them come back, that's why I shot first."

"People wanna kill Dad?" Brad asks, speaking for the first time.

"He done crossed the wrong folks this time. Cyril and them wackos. And this time he’s gonna pay." Gramps starts coughing again.

It makes sense now why Cyril wouldn't see us last night.

"Is the family in danger?" I ask.

"They ain't come calling yet?" Gramps asks.

I shake my head.

"Well, they will. Mark my words. Mike's in some deep shit with them. They wouldn't tell me what, but it's bad."

"We should go," I tell Pat. I need to get Mom out of the house. Julie too. Then I'm leaving. And that's my advice for Pat and the rest.

Pat nods and Brad just walks out.

I'm debating whether I should knock Gramps out, so he doesn't come after us, but I can't do it. He's just an old man living alone in the woods. He could die from a concussion.

I drag him over to the door by his collar. "Sit here and don't move. Or I will shoot you," I warn, backing out of the cabin and towards the trees, keeping the rifle trained on him.

"When we get to the tree line we should run," I tell the other two quietly.

I toss the gun and knife into some shrubbery as soon as we reach the treeline, then start running, not even caring if Pat and Brad are behind me. Sure enough another shot rings out soon after. The old man won't rest easy until he gets his revenge on us for overpowering him like this.

"I wouldn't go for another visit for awhile," I tell Pat once we're back in the truck.

"You don't have to tell me twice," he says, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. "If Cyril and the Iron Knights have it in for Mike, why'd they let us walk out last night?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say they only have it in for Dad," I offer. "Or they already got him."

Brad's face turns green, and Pat's hands start shaking on the steering wheel.

"Don't even say shit like that," Brad says, sounding like a little boy.

"He could be right," Pat says.

I probably am. "Mom and Julie don't need to know."

They both nod, so I hope it sticks.

"But we don't know so I'm still getting the fuck out of this town, and I'm taking Mom with me," I say. "I suggest you both do the same."

"No," Pat says. "We need to find out what happened."

"I'm not staying past tomorrow," I say. This is as far into this shit as I'm willing to wade.

"But I need you for this," Pat snaps. "Don't you have some military buddies that can come help you out?"

"No, everyone I was close to is either dead, crippled, or still fighting," I say. "And even if they weren't, I wouldn't ask this favor."

"He's your father," Brad says and it stings, but it doesn't change much.

"And he dug his own hole," I say more calmly than I feel. "Besides, I could never depend on him for shit."

"You're like the only one of his children he's proud of," Brad says.

"Yeah, so you already said. It doesn’t mean shit."

I'm fully expecting Pat to pick up this argument too, but he's staring straight ahead, looking slightly catatonic.

I'm still expecting the nausea to hit after all that excitement, but all I'm feeling is a general sense of elation at a job well done as the adrenaline slowly wears off. Haven't felt that in ages.

"Brad’s right," Pat says, turning to me. "Don’t you think it’s about time you stopped fighting us all the time? Became part of this family again? We don’t hate you like you think we do."

Those words are too reasonable to have been spoken by a member of my family, yet here’s Pat speaking them. He’s right, I have been giving them shit since I came back. But they deserve it.

"Could’ve fooled me growing up," I mutter.

"We all went through the same shit. And you’re not making anything better, just worse," Brad says. "You’re my brother, and I don’t want to keep fighting with you."

I was gonna argue more, but he has a point. Maybe I should let bygones be bygones with him. He was just a kid when I left. But Dad, that’s another story.

"Just so you know, your father wouldn’t stand for anyone badmouthing you around town after you enlisted," Pat says, staring straight ahead again. "Spent a few nights in jail shutting people up."

"That’s supposed to make up for everything?" I ask, but it has no bite to it.

"Just saying," Pat replies and falls silent.

And I’d enjoy the silence, but it’s marred now by the stone cold weight resting in my stomach at the thought that my Dad is most likely dead. But that has a lot to do with my fear of how Mom will take it. I won't miss him. He was a cancer, a bad disease, a poison ruining everything and everyone he touched. I know all that, yet I’m now wishing I still had the chance to reconcile with him.