The Gathering Dead (38 page)

“Five, this is Six. The Coast Guard won’t allow us to come ashore and rescue you. You have to find a place and hole up, over.”

Click. Click.

“I’ll be back, Gartrell. As soon as I can get some fellow legionnaires or even lightfighters, we’ll be back for you. Over.”

Click.

No? What the hell does that mean?
“Five, this is Six. We’ll be back for you. I’ll bring you back to your wife and kids. I swear it.”

Click.

“Gartrell… we’ll be back, Gartrell. You know the code, we never leave our own behind.”

There was no response.

“Gartrell? Five, this is Six. Come in. Five, come in, over.”

The radio remained silent. McDaniels stepped back to the railing and watched as New York City slid past. The
Escanaba
turned to starboard, and the city fell away.

“Gartrell? Gartrell!” McDaniels repeated the calls, but the radio remained silent. As the Coast Guard cutter retraced its course to the open sea, McDaniels heard nothing further from First Sergeant David Gartrell.

The man he hated.

The man who had saved him.

The man who had saved them all.

Just as no man is an island, no novel is written entirely by a single person.
The Gathering Dead
is no different. I’d like to thank a pack of fine folks who lent me their expertise, wit, and wisdom over the past several months it took to generate this book. They are:

Derek Paterson. For the past fifteen years, he’s been sounding board, reader, editor, proofer, and all around great guy. My friend, thank you for being such a remarkable resource.

Fred Anderson, for all the good advice, and for sharing your own work. Seeing what you can do has made me brave enough to find new directions for my own efforts.

Joe Lebert, for his “every man” opinions and quick ability to detect what works and what does not. Even though you forget all about a book a week after you’ve read it, for those first seven days you’re an excellent source of information.

Kevin G. Slater, for all the good stuff on life in the U.S. Coast Guard in general, and the USCGC
Escanaba
specifically. Any mistakes or errors found in this work are my fault, not his. And thanks for all the great parties over the past 30 years, Kev!

Special operators SFC Carlson and CPT Braedenton, as always, you are the total stud muffins when it comes to articulating the specifics of the Special Forces mission.

Residents of New York City’s Upper East Side will not recognize the office building on the corner of Lex and East 79th, because it does not exist. It’s a total fabrication, invented for the story. I’ve also taken great liberty with the topology of New York City where it suited the writer.

Errors regarding the excellent NYPD are my responsibility.

The same for errors regarding the U.S. Army’s Special Forces branch, the greatest collection of fighting men ever assembled. These are multifaceted individuals who likely have a greater education than most of the rest of us who epitomize the very ideals of honor, of courage, of selfless sacrifice. Gentlemen, if my portrayal of you in this work is not accurate, please accept my most heartfelt apologies.

And a great big thanks to you, those who bought this book. I hope you enjoyed it.

---

Stephen Knight lives in the New York City area. You can find more of his fiction at:

City of the Damned

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004Q3RIHK

Hackett’s War

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004W48LZQ

Ghosts

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004PLNQ6U

Family Ties

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004P5NS2S

Stephen Knight on the web:

http://knightslanding.wordpress.com/

Did you like this story? Did you hate it? Compliments and/or complaints should go to:

[email protected]

Cover Art Copyright © by Jared Rackler

http://bookworld.editme.com/JaredRackler

Excerpt:

NO LIMIT

By Fred Anderson

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003LBSJT4

The westering sun hung low in the sky by the time I pulled the Jeep into the driveway. I checked the mailbox—nothing—and walked across the threadbare lawn to my two-bedroom bungalow. Bungalow. That’s what the realtor had called it when she led me on the grand tour, all four rooms of it.
Shanty
might be more appropriate. The cool amber light did nothing to mute the hideous teal of the flaking stucco, and so many shingles were missing from the roof I worried I might be in danger of drowning should it ever rain. Maybe it was nice forty years ago when it was built, but the ensuing years had not been kind.

I guess I could say the same about myself.

The creak of the wooden steps up to the front stoop shattered the still evening. With each step the stoop shuddered. Bits of stucco, rubbed off the side of the house by its movement, rained to the ground below, and wisps of dust puffed out of the gap between the two structures. I wondered if the whole ramshackle thing was going to peel away from the side of the house with a scream of rusty nails and dump me unceremoniously in the dirt in a pile of splinters and broken bones, but it didn't. Thank God for small favors.

Inside the house, I tugged off my tie and draped it over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. I rummaged in the refrigerator for something to eat, but nothing looked appealing. Why couldn’t Sara have at least gone out for a meal with me? Was I that low in her eyes now?

I opened a can of food for Mister Boogers and fed him from a saucer on the counter. Who did I need to impress? I stroked the cat as he ate, soothed by his purr and the brushed cotton feel of his fur. No matter how awful you are, or what you’ve done, a pet loves you unconditionally.

I wanted a drink, anything to ease the ache in my chest, even though I knew it wouldn't. Alcohol offers itself as a panacea, promising to fix all your problems if you'll just let it.
One more drink will wash the pain away
, it says, but it's a liar. It only makes things worse. Harry told me that, and he was right. Instead of whiskey, I poured a glass of orange juice and took some aspirin for the headache I felt building at my temples.

I carried the juice into the living room and turned on the TV. Something mindlessly entertaining might keep my thoughts about Sara and Andrew at bay. Settling into the recliner, I picked up the remote and tried not to think.

The electronic burring of my cell phone pulled me to consciousness some time later. My cheeks were wet, and the phantom smell of smoke from my dream filled my nostrils. Despite the aspirin I'd taken, it felt like a construction worker was in my head working my brain over with a jackhammer. The taste in my mouth led me to suspect the cat had used it as a litter box while I lay in a stupor, and a large Rorschach blot of orange juice from the empty glass now lying in the floor stained my slacks. Another night in paradise.

I looked at the digital clock on the cable box. Who calls at 12:17?

An overwhelming certainty seized me: something had happened to Sara on the way back to Henderson. A drunk driver or juiced-up trucker, maybe, losing control and slamming into her, two lives destroyed in a fireball. Or maybe she nodded off at the wheel and drifted onto the shoulder, waking just in time to realize—

My cell phone rang again. I pulled it from my pocket and answered the call.

“Matt Freeman?” a woman’s voice asked.

Great, a telemarketer.

“I'm not interested in buy—”

“Mr. Freeman, I’m an operator with AT&T, and I have your son on the line. He says it’s an emergency. Will you accept the call?”

Her words stung me like a slap. Why would someone play such a cruel joke?

“Listen, lady, I don’t know who you’ve got on the—”

Then a single word that took my breath away.

“Daddy?”

I would know that voice anywhere. He sounded tired and scared, but it was my son. My baby.
Alive.

“Will you accept the call?” the operator asked.

“Yes!” I nearly screamed. I struggled to catch my breath, but my lungs didn't want to cooperate. In my mind, I knew it couldn't really be Andrew. I remembered his death, and the funeral. All the well-wishers hovering around Sara and I for the first few days, offering their support.

I knew it in my mind, but my heart told a different tale.

“Daddy?” he asked again, and burst into tears.

“Where are you, buddy? Tell me where you are!”

“I don’t
know
,” he sobbed. “At a store by the road.”

“What road? Where? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I was out of the chair, pacing. Frantic.

“I’m okay. Please come get me, I’m scared!”

My cell phone beeped, a sound I knew all too well. The battery was low. I didn't have much time. Sudden terror gripped me. What if I lost him again?

“Tell me what you can see. What’s the name of the store? Is there a sign?” As I spoke, I hurried back to the second bedroom, where I kept my computer.

“There’s writing on the side of the store. It says ‘Little Alley Inn.’”

“Hang on, buddy, I’m trying to find you,” I said. A quick Google search showed lots of Little Valley Inns all over the country, but no Little Alley Inn. Panic rose in me like a dark tide. “Can you see anything else?”

“Just the road. It’s really dark here, and there’s nothing around
anywhere
. I want to come home!”

“I’m coming for you, Andrew, but Daddy has to figure out where you—”

Of course. Caller ID.

I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at the tiny screen. Area code 775. I added the word “Nevada” to the search phrase and tried again.

The Little A’le’Inn, Rachel, Nevada. I felt a glimmer of hope.

“Andrew, is the ‘alley’ on the sign spelled A-L-E?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I knew exactly where he was.

Rachel is a wide spot in the road about 150 miles from Vegas, a place where the nuts gather to look for extra-terrestrials and UFOs near the infamous Area 51 at the Groom Lake Air Force base. The Little A’le’Inn got its name from a play on the word ‘alien.’

“Daddy’s coming to get you. Just stay on the phone with me, you hear?”

I checked my pockets for my keys and wallet, and ran for the front of the house.

The cell phone beeped a second time.
Please God, just let me make it to the Jeep and I can get it plugged into the charger.

“Hurry, Daddy, I’m scared! They’ll be coming for me when they find out I’m gone.”

His words stopped me cold. “Who, Andrew? Who’ll be coming?”

“Bad people.”

An icy finger traced its way up my spine.

“Do you know who they are? Where are they coming from?”

“I—”

With a third beep, the cell phone shut itself off.

Excerpt:

CITY OF THE DAMNED

By Stephen Knight

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004Q3RIHK

Sharon hit the brakes when she came around the bend and saw the coyotes on the road. The vintage Mustang almost fishtailed as the drum brakes did their job, but she kept the vehicle under control. Five of the coyotes scampered across the road, disappearing into the brush on the other side. The sixth—the largest and probably the pack’s leader—halted momentarily and faced the idling Mustang, its eyes gleaming in the glow of the headlights. Then the coyote let out a harsh yip and bolted after its pack mates.

Sharon relaxed behind the wheel. Coyote sightings were not uncommon. She wondered how they managed to survive so close to the city, and remembered that they occasionally ate people’s pets. It was an unusual circumstance, living in a place where man’s buildings and highways coexisted with the raw, sometimes dangerous wilds of nature.

As Sharon pulled her Mustang into the driveway minutes later she saw the Mulholland Drive house was dark. She busied herself with the two bags of last-minute groceries she had bought—including some freshly cut tuna steaks, the night’s main course—then closed the car door behind her. She fumbled with her keys as she headed for the house.

When she reached the front stoop, she noticed the door was open. Not just ajar, but
entirely
open. For a heartbeat, she was perplexed. Her sister knew better than to do this, and her husband didn’t seem to be a fool...

From inside the dark house came a coughing cry. Her infant niece.

Sharon dropped the groceries to the pavement. She pulled the Glock .40 caliber pistol from its kidney holster with her right hand while going for the cell phone with her left. She hit the speed dial for Acheson’s cell and lifted the phone to her ear, pistol at ready.

Ringing... then, “
This is Acheson. Leave a message.
”
Beep!

Sharon hit the speed dial for the office line. The phone rang, then went into voice mail. “
Hi, you’ve reached Mark Acheson. I’m either on the phone or away from my desk, so please leave me a—
” Sharon pressed the # key, and was transferred into Acheson’s voice mail.

“Mark, there’s a shake at the house,” she said before disconnecting.

He’s either in the elevator or in the parking garage,
she thought, her mind starting to whirl in several different directions at once, on the verge of panic.
Cecil—call Cecil, or Rick or Nacho—

Again, the baby cried. This time she kept on crying.

Sharon hit the speed dial, going for Cecil, but hit the wrong combination of keys.

“This is Rick. Sharon?”

“There’s a shake at the house,” Sharon blurted. “No lights, and I can hear my niece crying.”