On the Eve of Forever

1

Clippings

Murder trial of attorney general’s son over

Tanya Oliver, reporter, Applevale Gazette

Aubrey Jamieson was sentenced to 15 to 25 years in prison today for the murder of his lover, Patric Murphy, during a sex party at The Blue Glo, a nightclub on Eton and Amheurst. Last week, a 12-member jury, 8 men and 4 women, convicted Jamieson, 25, after 2 weeks of trial.

Jamieson showed no emotion when the verdict was read, but smiled at his family in the gallery as he was led away. Murphy’s family made no comment after the decision was announced, but Attorney General Jamieson, the accused’s father, vowed the state’s investigation into corruption and civil rights violations in the Prosecutor’s Office would continue. The attorney general’s special corruption office has already made numerous arrests. Sources who wish to remain anonymous have suggested Jamieson’s second-degree murder conviction is tied to the attorney general’s investigation. Jamieson claimed Murphy’s death was accidental.

Several witnesses during the trial testified to a heated argument between Jamieson and Murphy shortly before Murphy’s death. Evidence presented by the state portrayed Jamieson as a drug and alcohol fueled party boy who was a regular patron at many popular nightclubs throughout the city.

Jamieson was arrested at the murder scene without incident and was, according to veteran police officer, Henry Krasnek, cooperative and subdued.

Three years later…

Mystery virus kills 55

Doctors stumped, By Drew Matteson

Health officials search for answers in the deaths of 55 patients in New York City linked to a virus of unknown origin. Ages range from 3 months to 78 years. The US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention are investigating 648 fatalities throughout the country, possibly attributed to the same virus. Doctors express concern that many more fatalities may be unaccounted for…

Fatal virus christened

Staff writer

New virus suspected in more than 100,000 deaths worldwide dubbed Eve…

Doctors race for a cure!

By Angel Leonardo

… Information from the World Health Organization states that Eve produces an influenza-like illness that rapidly progresses to symptoms similar to hemorrhagic fever, such as Ebola. The fatality rate is potentially 100 percent, and the virus is taking a particularly catastrophic toll on women. Eve appears to be spread by coughing and sneezing, direct contact with infected individuals, and touching contaminated objects and surfaces.

No end to Eve in sight

Christa Rivera, staff reporter

Authorities are advising the public to stay indoors, work from home if possible, and limit social activities. Schools across the nation cancel classes…

End of days looms!

Airports close. Fatalities exceed 4 billion! Governments worldwide shut down. Is this the end…?

2

Broadside

Somebody was chained up in Thom’s garage.

Definitely a guy, not a thing, though Hank wasn’t close enough yet to get a good look. Three others were laughing and lounging around the outside of the auto bay. Hank might have come to some other conclusion about what was going on down there, except this was Thom, former insurance salesman turned sex trafficker.

He was back in the area a week earlier than Hank expected, probably to unload his surprise merchandise.

Dammit.

Hank gripped his pommel and swept his gaze around the countryside while Trixie cropped the weeds under her nose.

Coward.

Though it was perfectly legit for him to circle the garage. It wasn’t as if there was anything he could do. To Thom and everyone else in Waterfall, retainees were legal. Hank had nothing to say about it, but that didn’t mean he was letting it go. He planned on stopping it somehow, which was why he spent so much time at Younger’s encampment, trying to figure out a way to save their reservoir before it dried up. Though Waterfall owned the canals and spillway, Younger’s group controlled the dam. Hank had come up with a plan to divert a river about fifty miles away and included a contract of release for every retainee who worked on the project. The downside was getting both Younger and Waterfall to cooperate on the terms.

Getting into it with Thom and his crew over one person? It wasn’t a good idea.

So Hank sat on Trixie’s back, taking in the sparse woods and dry hills. The air stung with dust, long stripped of the piney scent of the mountains he’d ridden out of. Over the treeline, rocky peaks sheared the hard blue sky.

He sighed as Trixie shifted and patted her neck.

What about it, girl? Should we chance it?

They were probably in the middle of raping the guy. He gritted his teeth, the thought burning through his head, once again torn by the weird relief he didn’t have to worry about Beth and the girls. They were dead. Nothing could hurt them now. He couldn’t fail them worse than he already had. But this time?

He used to arrest assholes like Thom. He used to break up fights and put bad actors away. He’d been one of those cops who’d known the people he’d served. He’d called the derelict who rummaged in the alleyway behind the Thai Palace by name. He’d dodged a portable TV a tweaker named Brittany had tried to drop on his head from a fifth-floor window. He’d taken complaints and made reports. He’d hauled in pimps, and drug dealers, and drunk and disorderlies. He’d gone after bad guys.

But now…

People like Thom, the friendly salesman, who bounced and wobbled in the too hot sun, made the rules, and Hank was the cop who broke up squabbles and let everything else go.

Laughter floated in the air.

He squinted at the garage again. You can’t do anything. Except interrupt them. Stare them in their fucking eyes. Dare you to tell me this is okay. Though they would. The world was different since Eve had laid waste to it. Littered with the dead and the weak and the… scared.

He took a breath and nudged Trixie down the hillside.

Where the fuck was he?

Brey lifted his head and blinked at the blurry gray wall in front of him. Except he was looking up… wasn’t he?

What the hell. He racked his brain for his last memory, but his head was filled with the same blurry gray that made up the wall that maybe wasn’t a wall. Random images shot past his inner eye, but he didn’t think they had anything to do with how he’d gotten here. Or where here was.

Shadows floated by, disembodied laughter rolling over him.

He shivered, pretty sure he had reason to be afraid of them. But fear was his whole fucking life. Had been for years. The images in his head sharpened. A blue rectangle stretched out, rippling and twinkling with sunlight—his parents’ swimming pool. His feet appeared in front of him, crossed at the ankle, shadowed by the shades snug against his head. The sun crept up his bare, freckled legs. But it was so hot, and his throat was so dry. It hurt to swallow, but his gaze fell on a glass on the table beside his chaise lounge. Tall and icy, dripping slow trickles down its sides. A lemon slice floated on the pale drink. Groaning, he reached for it. The glass floated away, blurry in front of the picture of his brother bounding off the diving board, knees hugged to his chest, a barking Goldy racing alongside the pool. A splash of sun-glittery spray exploded into the air.

Laughter floated past him.

So thirsty.

Why was he here? His head hung, dragging him down and down.

Help!

The laughter exploded like his brother’s cannonball splash, splattering him with ice-cold drops. Another shiver racked him. His stomach ached. Something hard was pressing into it. For fuck’s sake, Aubrey, you didn’t do this to yourself, did you? God knew he’d done some crazy things, but this…

It hurt, and he was scared. He wanted to go. Why didn’t anybody answer him? Please. Hey!

Pain shot out from a slap to his ass. The burn spread, warm against the cold. He twisted, straining to see behind him. Who the fuck was that?

Dodgers. I’m telling you it was the Giants and the Dodgers.

Were you there? No. I don’t think so. It was over forty years ago. I remember it.

I’m forty-two. I remember it too.

Somebody snorted. Thom. It sounded like Thom. Thom… The name rolled around in Brey’s memory, and he clenched his eyes shut again and searched for a face. Was he a hook-up? Who were the others? Though it wouldn’t be the first time Brey had landed in the middle of a group. But pain… Pain really wasn’t his thing. It was hard to believe.

He opened his eyes on a pant. Fuck, he wanted that lemonade. The gray under his gaze swirled with cracks and darker gray splotches.

I wanna go home.

A cracked whisper left his dry throat. Help me.

A palm landed on his back. Who’s gonna help you, pretty boy?

Him. And this time, he would. He’d help. He had to.

As he got closer, Hank unsnapped the holster attached to his belt. Not that he planned to use it. But he didn’t mind its message. He wore his uniform shirt too, always did when he went to Younger’s. Younger’s people liked to pretend Hank had no authority over them. Hank liked to remind them this was still the United fucking States of America.

Not that it mattered now, because the three lowlifes at Thom’s were already moving on. He wasn’t close enough to identify them before they disappeared around the corner of the garage, not following the road to Waterfall, but not heading to Younger’s either. There was a swimming hole nearby, still high from the last rain, but drying up fast probably. It was only March and already crazy hot. Hot and dry. Hank swiped his forehead, but maybe the sweat he found there was just nerves. For a cop, he was unusually averse to confrontation. Hated it, in fact. But here he was, riding up on Thom, who stood at the corner of the garage yelling after the retreating figures.

Hey, come on. A guy could feel taken advantage of, you know.

The only reply he got was a shrill giggle that ran up Hank’s spine like claws.

Thom had let his captive loose. The guy gone to the far wall, a shadow huddled on what looked like a rubber mat. Acid from Hank’s hot stomach burned his throat. Fucker.

The clop of Trixie’s hooves must have reached Thom by now. He turned, soft belly wobbling, arm over his eyes blocking the sun.

Who’s that?

Kresnak.

Not Hank, not to this slime bucket.

Thom grinned. Chief. You’re just in time. I need your help.

It wasn’t beyond Thom to offer him the retainee, though everybody knew Hank’s stand on that. His and Jack’s. Jack made no bones about what he thought of people who kept retainees. Knuckle-draggers was the politest name he ever came up with.

A few feet from the garage’s entrance, Trixie shied away to the side of the road. Christ. Even in the fresh air, the stench from the guy inside hung heavy in the stillness. How long had Thom had him? That didn’t bode well, because Thom wasn’t the kind of person to lose money on merchandise he couldn’t turn over. Which he confirmed a second later. I have a deal for you. Won’t come your way again.

Hank made sure nothing showed on his face. He wasn’t giving Thom the satisfaction. Back before Eve, Thom was probably the type who collected sick jokes and one-liners to spring on unsuspecting strangers and potential customers he’d pinned as his own kind. Hank doubted he’d had much else to make him memorable. Now he was the salesman of the times.

What would Hank have done if he hadn’t been able to protect his girls from monsters like Thom? Usually, his memories of his family broke his heart, but not today. They were gone and safe from Thom’s toxic survival skills. After the grid had fallen, Hank and Jack had packed up and driven away. They’d had nowhere to go. For weeks they’d found only stragglers, random car jams, and empty stretches of interstate.

Until Waterfall.

His first image of the small city’s silhouette against the setting sun was still burned into his memory. Its dark skyline and the rose and orange backdrop had hinted at nothing catastrophic. But the end when it came snuck up from behind.

Hank nudged Trixie closer to the garage. Thom’s arm fell. He grinned, squinting in the rays of sun.

On my way home, Thom, so make it quick.

Profitable visit to Younger’s?

Asking me questions I’m not going to answer isn’t making it quick.

Remember the world series that had an earthquake in the middle of it? No Dodgers in that, right?

Why the hell did his blood boil more at this than at the heap of a guy lying on a rubber mat?

Hank tipped his head from side to side. Cracked his neck. Quick, Thom.

Thom nodded and jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the garage. Answer right an’ I gotta treat for you.

For fucksake. Much as Hank wanted to move on or just puke, he wasn’t going to now. The rough edges of his conscience scraped over his soul at Thom’s nasty wink.

Sleazy bastard.

The sun shed yellow and orange rays, setting the golden leaves on fire.

Brey danced naked and barefoot, the leaves cool underneath him, tendrils of relief rising up his hot body.

Just dance. Just dance and don’t think. No reason to think about the strangeness of autumn leaves and his bare skin.

Just dance.

Because he loved to dance, though usually in a club with flashing lights and pounding techno beats hammering in his chest, thrumming with his hips, gliding with his feet and the wave of his arms. Bodies bopping against his, booze in his veins, heat under his skin. All good, the night his, nothing to haunt him, because… Something slithered in his guts.

Where was he?

Shadows slid through the trees and clouds slipped over the sun. Cold shade fell over him, and he stumbled in leaves gone brown and slimy.

He hit his knees and staggered back up.

Dance…

A hard laugh rocked through him. He spun in a circle, the trees whipping like an out-of-control carousel, mad-laughing horses eyeing him.

Patric? He stared between the trees. Where are we?

Why was Patric here, and why couldn’t he remember how he’d gotten here? Something about Patric’s presence wasn’t right, and it scared him, though he couldn’t pin down the reason why. It was like the pain and heat that never stayed in one place, chased by cold and numbness, flaring back to boiling life seconds later.

Who’s gonna help you, pretty boy? Nobody… You’re all alone, ain’t you?

Patric… Patric would help him. But that wasn’t right either. Patric was… gone.

But he didn’t want to think about that.

Just dance. Dance and remember the stuffy air, hot with sweat and cologne, vibrating like a heartbeat. Remember the dry vodka and herbal gin, toothpaste and mouthwash and the musky flavor of strangers in his mouth. Dance…

They’d said nobody would help him, but he would. Him. All Brey had to do was hang on and… dance.

Help me.

"Remember When, said Thom. That was the game we were playing. Remember it?"

Hank forced his lips and tongue to work. No.

The retainee’s rank odor still assailed him. Maybe Thom was used to it, though Hank’s mind boggled at the thought of getting any closer to the poor bastard curled on his mat. A chain attached to his neck led to a plate in the garage floor under a U-shaped metal divider that separated the auto bay into two sections.

Why don’t you put a collar on him and take off the chain?

Violent.

Hank had no doubt Thom didn’t believe that for a second. Thom was an overblown actor most times and right now his face was picture-perfect bland. Probably laughing on the inside, pretending he didn’t know how pissed off Hank was. Wasn’t playing him with his stupid Remember When game.

It was the Giants and the A’s, Hank said, putting an end to Thom’s farce.

The retainee moved, arms and legs jerking in a weird rhythm.

Thom spread his arms, palms up. Right. That’s what I said. I was there.

Hank was willing to bet Thom had never made it west of the Rockies, but he also didn’t give a rat’s ass. What do you plan to do with him?

I’m giving out samples to a select few. Now how about a taste? You earned it. I told those idiots it wasn’t the Dodgers.

Hank chomped down on the question jumping to get out of him. He wanted to know who Thom’s customers were, but he wasn’t giving Thom the satisfaction of refusing to tell him. He also didn’t want to piss Thom off too much. Something was telling him that retainee didn’t have long to live. And it wasn’t even a crime, murdering people in cold fucking blood. His bile rose again, his inner voice mocking him. And you do not do one damn thing about it.

That’s okay, he said. I have to be getting back.

What for? You got guys covering for you, don’t you? You work too hard, Hank. You need to relax. Worrying and working didn’t get us much, did it?

It had given them laws, standards, civilization.

A thunk in the garage drew his attention. Thom glanced back too. Shut up, you!

The retainee hadn’t said anything. He sat upright against the wall—Hank squinted in the shadows—only to flop back down, this time with his opposite flank facing out and…

God, is that—?

It couldn’t be, but Hank’s heart jumped a beat, and his sweat froze. He nudged Trixie up, almost knocking Thom aside.

Whadda you doing? Thom asked.

How long have you had him?

What if it is him?

The AG’s kid? Here?

Five, six days, said Thom. I don’t know. I picked him up by Grants.

That was sixty miles away. How’d you get back?

Hitched a ride.

He didn’t have to say how he’d paid for the gas. Hank slid off Trixie’s back and curled the reins around the pommel. He stepped nearer the auto bay, gaze fixed on the retainee’s side. A tattoo came into focus. It covered most of his ribs, disappearing behind his back and reappearing over his shoulder.

It can’t be him. Hank didn’t want it to be him. Not like this. Out of prison and into worse. It was hard to get worse than Thom.

His shadow fell over the figure beneath him.

The tattoo was black and grey and curved like the snake it was. The retainee had gotten it because he’d been born in the year of the snake. That was part of the caption below a photo of him that read A snake for a snake. He’d been standing beside a swimming pool in not too small but sexy as fuck swim trunks that had hugged his lean curves. The photo had appeared in a magazine on someone’s desk in the precinct. Some conservative rag. Hank had glanced at it long enough to know it bemoaned the attorney general’s corruption investigation as funding the AG’s deviate of a son. Hank had moved on, not thinking of it again for almost a year. And when he’d seen it once more, the deja vu feeling had unnerved him. A desperate surge of energy rose inside him, jangling through his body. He clamped down on it. Held still. Why did this guy keep showing up in his life? Why have you never really forgotten him?

Skinny, he said.

I can’t afford him. I’m being honest here. There’s nothing wrong with the guy. Well, except for being kinda violent, but I don’t want to hurt him or anything. Can’t afford to feed him though. Winter’s always tough on me. The market for stuff doesn’t pick up until spring.

Hank’s perusal of the garage Thom used for his makeshift store didn’t show many products. Waterfall had stores and cafes and the residents didn’t need for much. But Younger’s people were a different story, and Thom often collected items nobody could find in Waterfall. So he had a business, and he had his rights, and the sale of retainees wasn’t a crime in the county. But outside it…

You brought him in from outside, Thom.

He swiveled a look at Thom, who bristled. I got ’im from somebody else. Other people have their own laws, Hank.

The law for Waterfall retainees was ridiculous but stuck on the books before Hank had arrived. No Waterfall citizen could grab some stranger and hold them. All the retainees came from Younger’s people who’d run lone survivors down for their own benefit but also seen some profit in renting them to the Waterfall farmers. Hank was pretty sure they’d been doing it even before Younger had appeared on the scene and taken over. Younger didn’t stop it, but Hank had a feeling he didn’t like it either.

Three years ago, the population of Waterfall didn’t account for much. People who passed through didn’t necessarily stay. They still didn’t even with the security Waterfall had to offer. Who knew? Maybe there was something better somewhere else. So muscle was a commodity people were willing to pay for. But the payment was rent. Hank could buy this guy if he wanted. Keep him, use him, tire of him. But when he did tire of him, ownership reverted back to the original purchaser who had the option of reselling. Retainees were the gift that kept on giving. Forever.

How long since he ate?

Thom shrugged, averting his gaze to the retainee. Couple days.

Jesus, Thom.

Thom bristled again, and his face reddened. It ain’t my fault, Hank Kresnak. I didn’t make this world. I have myself to take care of, and it’s not easy. I can usually sell my merchandise better than this.

What about the farms or the cannery?

Thom shrugged. Maybe in a couple months. I can’t keep him for that long though. Thom perked up. But hey. Try ’im out. Keep him for a while. I’ll take him back when business picks up. We’ll split the difference of whatever you paid for him.

I know how it works.

I’m just saying.

Hank approached the retainee. Take the chain off.

You buying?

Did I say I was?

I told you. He’s violent.

He tossed a glare back at Thom. He’s not violent. Take it off.

Thom narrowed his eyes but was probably still hoping for a sale. Your responsibility, he muttered as he crossed the auto bay to an old counter and reached underneath it. A moment later, he returned with the key and handed it to Hank. His name is Brey. Spells it with an e.

Hank ignored that—Idiot—and bent down. The guy’s wavy hair, which Hank knew was light brown, was dark and matted to his head. He kept his eyes scrunched tight, hands clasped under his chin, shivers running through him. Fuck, the poor—

Hank tamped down on the anger boiling inside and stuck the key into the padlock holding the chain together. Pissing Thom off wasn’t going to get him what he wanted. Thom had nothing to lose by refusing the sale.

The chain fell loose, and Brey scrambled away.

Told you he was violent.

He couldn’t help himself. That’s not violent. That’s scared.

Well, I don’t know why. I haven’t hurt him. I haven’t hit him once.

That’s good of you, Thom. Though it was a bald-faced lie because Brey had whip marks on his back, but Thom didn’t look as if he’d heard any sarcasm. How much?

A smile spread over Thom’s wobbly face. Once he’d sold insurance, worn a suit, gone home to a wife, maybe had a kid. But as normal as that was, this was Thom’s world. It might not feed his body well, but it sure as hell fed something broken in him.

You want him?

I said so. You can have two hundred dollars or my saddle.

That put a damper on Thom’s mood. Money’s not good for much, and I don’t have a horse.

Waterfall traded in money, but the lion’s share of Thom’s customers bartered with him. Hank shrugged. Take the money and buy one. Or take the saddle and sell it.

Thom’s stare narrowed. How come you want him?

Hank considered his answer. He could tell him he was lonely, but he had friends and Ken for sex. He could tell him about the photo of Brey grinning beside the pool that had stayed with him in a teenaged, romantic way. He could tell him he’d arrested him for murder and just couldn’t shake him. But none of that was exactly true. He turned into the slitted stare coming from the corner of the garage. Bet he cleans up nice.

He does. He cleans up real nice. I saw that potential right away, but like I said, this is a bad time of year.

Hank gazed back at him. Money or saddle?

Saddle.

Okay.

Thom clapped his hands together. You won’t regret this. Hang on. I have the paperwork in my office.

Thom hurried through a door in back and Hank returned to Trixie, who retreated with a huff before venturing back to nuzzle the palm he held out. That’s a good girl.

He patted her neck, unbuckled the saddle, and set it inside the garage entrance. Now there was just a blanket and saddlebags on Trixie’s back. Hank took a bottle of water from one of the bags and returned to Brey. He slowed a few feet away and lowered to his haunches. I have some water here.

He stretched it out, but Brey didn’t reach for it. His eyes had shrunk to slits. But they’d be blue—blue as water.

At Thom’s return, he stood.

Paperwork, said Thom, waving a single sheet at him. That’s how I know he spells his name with an e. Age thirty. Five-foot-eleven and about one sixty-five. A flush appeared in Thom’s cheeks. Well, maybe a little less now. I wrote down our deal and the date. You sign too.

He held out a pencil. Hank took it, scrawling his name, balking at the image of Brey providing his personal information to the used-to-be chubby salesman who planned to sell him. Best for the good people of the world not to be here anymore, but he had a tough time trying to grasp that one too. Wasn’t life best? Wasn’t there always hope?

He handed Thom his paperwork and pencil back with a shake of his head. Not much hope. That it?

Thom nodded. He’s all yours.

What about his things?

Thom blinked. Things?

His clothes? Belongings?

Oh. Thom gave him a one-shouldered shrug. Well, I sold his clothes to get us some food, which I gave him half of, but it didn’t get us much. That’s all he had.

You sure about that? Hank asked.

Thom opened his arms. Look around. See anything?

I need a blanket.

You got one on your horse.

Another to cover him with. The sun’ll fry him.

Thom huffed. You sure are trouble, Chief. Let me see what I got.

Hank hunkered down again. Was he lying to me?

This time there was no sound, just a slow curling of Brey’s fingers into a fist that made him smile. Not that Hank planned to do anything about Thom’s lies. If Brey had been carrying anything of value, it was long gone by now. Getting him to Waterfall was the most important thing. And after that, dealing with Jack. He wasn’t going to like Hank bringing Brey home. You shoulda just let him go.

But Brey wasn’t going anywhere the way he was, and Hank wasn’t about to break the law. Didn’t matter that he didn’t like the law—until it changed, he was the one who’d sworn to uphold it.

I found this. Thom walked out of the back room with a square of tarp. Think it’ll work?

If that’s what you got, I’ll take it. Help me with him, will you?

Thom grimaced but circled to Brey’s other side. Together, they got him onto Trixie’s back and draped him over her neck. Hank climbed on behind him, took the tarp from Thom, and nudged Trixie with his heels. She cantered away. Not one to leave the last word unsaid, Thom bellowed after them.

Enjoy!

Jack pointed over the steering wheel as he drove. Look at that.

After staring at nothing but flat land for days, Hank’s gaze rested on a smudge of green and brown. Farms. Picked clean by now, though.

Worth a look.

The smudge of brown formed into hills and pine-studded mountains. When they reached the farmland, Jack hit the brakes, and they slid to a stop. People.

And lights. And running water…

The sun beat down on Hank’s head, so it had to be hot under the tarp. He flapped the edges of it, working a breeze underneath. Brey still wouldn’t take any water, and he made no sounds now.

What if he’d died under there, and Hank didn’t even know it?

He patted Brey’s back through the thick canvas. It’s okay now. We’re almost home.

Waterfall was a strange name for a city that didn’t have a waterfall anywhere near it, though once there’d been a working fountain. Now bird droppings and dust crusted the fountain’s blue tiles. Electric cars with long dead batteries littered empty neighborhoods. A few of the SUVs and jeeps had become patrol cars. Waterfall had been an experiment in small hydro self-sufficiency far more prescient than its builders had probably imagined. The dam that supplied the local grid also watered its farms, which fed not only Waterfall’s citizens but Younger’s people too. Jack provided medical care to both communities, so they were linked, though they might not have wanted to be.

He bent down. Want some water?

Nothing.

He pulled the tarp back and stroked a dirty cheek. Christ, he was hot. Don’t die, okay?

What a crazy thing to say. But it had just popped out of his mouth. It would probably solve a lot of problems if the guy did die. Jack had been all set to move on when they’d found out about the retainees,