Dead World: Hero Read online

  DEADWORLD

  “HERO”

  D. N. HARDING

  Copyright © 2016 David N. Harding

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1541326059

  ISBN-13: 978-1541326057

  Chapter Pictures Designed by Freepik

  To Friends, Both Past And Present

  PROLOGUE

  Eve, The Ice Woman (Official News Report)

  O n Monday, March 8th, 2017, while flying over Antarctica, an American geologist by the name of Dr. William Murphy noticed a sizeable crevice along the northern coast that had not been seen previously. While exploring the base of the crevice on Tuesday, March 16th, 2017, Murphy and two other geologists discovered the frozen remains of a human corpse. The corpse was fully encased in ice. After a cursory examination of the body, it was determined that the international community should be made aware of the discovery so that proper measures could be taken to ensure the integrity of the specimen. It was vital that the mistakes made during the excavation of “The Iceman” in the snowfields of the Tyrolean Alps in 1991 were not repeated.

  On Monday, March 29th, 2017, paleontologist Herbert Wilson, from the Center for Archeological and Biological Research (C.A.B.R.) in Chicago, supervised the excavation. A block was cut from the ice wall that contained the frozen corpse. The following day, it was placed into a specially designed freezer and then loaded onto a cargo plane headed for Chicago. The corpse remained untouched encased in ice as facilities were prepared to house the specimen.

  In April 2017, Eve (as the corpse was affectionately referred) was transferred into a special high security chamber within the C.A.B.R. where a sophisticated computer-controlled environment would preserve Eve while she was extracted and studied.

  Modern dating techniques show the body to be two thousand years older than “Otzi, he Iceman” discovered in 1991 and, by comparison, four thousand years older than the mummy of King Tutankhamen.

  The only artifact discovered with the body was a prehistoric bone knife that was inserted at the base of the skull so that the tip punctured the brain cavity. Charles Rudolf, a forensic scientist, postulated the fact that the knife entered Eve from behind suggests that the manner of death was homicide.

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 10th, 1987

  T he porch squeaked and Jack froze. He smeared the sweat from his brow and looked over his shoulder at George. In the darkness, he could only imagine the irritation that was painted on his partner’s face. George had been watching this house for over a week and was absolutely sure that the owner was loaded.

  It was a Thursday. The family was gone and the house empty — for now. The thought made Jack smile. The smell of rain permeated the night air like a promise. Rain always made for great cover.

  “Move,” George whispered. Jack stepped up to the back door and opened the screen. It yawned without a sound. In another moment, the two men were standing in the kitchen, surveying their newly conquered domain.

  The room was large enough to fit Jack’s entire apartment. He smiled as his eyes passed over the shadows of cooking utensils hanging from the ceiling over the marbled island in the center of the room. There were three sinks. Three sinks! The refrigerator was a large steel monstrosity with double doors. George brushed passed him heading for another room. Jack opened the fridge and was blinded by the luminous interior. When his eyes adjusted, he took in the landscape of food that filled the tiered heart of the appliance. Grabbing two inches worth of honey-baked ham, he closed the fridge, taking note of the temperature change.

  He chuckled as a thought occurred to him. He felt like the Grinch who had just stolen several slices of roast beast and he wondered if he returned to the fridge if he might find the Who Pudding.

  The floor creaked behind him under what Jack thought was George’s substantial weight and he started to crack a joke about Cindy Lou Who when it occurred to him that George didn’t usually growl like that. Turning slowly, he caught sight of the dog out of the corner of his eye. The mastiff was a colossal, well-groomed, ribbon-tied beast that surely would have foiled even the great and powerful Grinch had such a drooling mammal been found in Whoville.

  Jack watched as slobber fell from the dog’s grimacing lips. The light from the street lamp pouring through the kitchen window illuminated the hackles on its back while managing to cast the dog’s shadow to its left across the kitchen tile. For some reason, Jack half expected the slobber to sizzle when it came into contact with the floor. It didn’t, but he was sure that it should have.

  Slowly, Jack pulled the nine-millimeter pistol from the back of his trousers. He didn’t want to have to shoot the dog. Wait. Scratch that. He wanted to shoot the dog, but he was sure that after doing so, there would be no time left to burgle the house.

  “That’s a nice puppy,” Jack cooed. The dog’s ears lay back against its head. “You hungry?” The grease from the meat in his hands made his fingers look shiny. He held the morsel out to the dog. “Come on. That’s a good puppy.”

  Unconvinced, the dog took a menacing step forward. Jack found himself sweating. It was that cold trickle down his back that made him realize, instinctively, that he was in serious danger. This dog was not about to be bought off by something he was probably fed every day.

  He watched the dog’s feet shift slightly. The movement was enough to let Jack know that the time for thinking was over. The dog was going to force him to act. Jack knelt and raised the pistol so that the barrel was pointed directly at the agitated animal. In that moment, he thought it strange that he should wonder at how the light from the window, shining on its glossy fur, should contrast so well with the pitch darkness of the hallway behind it.

  The animal attacked. Jack squeezed the trigger. The shot deafened him for a moment and left his ears ringing. His night-sight was stolen by the muzzle flash. In a few moments, he could make out the dog lying on its side breathing heavily. It wasn’t dead. He raised the pistol to finish it off when the hall light came on blinding him further.

  Through his upraised hand, he could make out two figures. One was bent over the other. It took no more than a moment for the reality of what he was seeing to take root in his mind. A little girl in pink pajamas was sprawled on the floor with blood blooming from her chest. Her little chin quivered. Her father was bent over her small frame trying to staunch the wound. The shock of the situation was apparent on his face.

  “Juliann!” the father shouted. “Come on, love. Stay with me. Mary, call 911!”

  Lying next to the dying child was her father’s pistol. It was a small revolver. It looked like a toy. Jack knelt on the kitchen floor stunned by what he had just done. The bullet had passed through the animal and struck the child. The horror of it was beginning to sink in when his eyes met those of the child’s father. Seconds passed. He watched as the truth of the situation dawned on the man. Both of their eyes went to the pistol on the floor beside the girl.

  “Please,” Jack pleaded softly. His lip trembled as he raised his weapon at the man reaching for his pistol. Both weapons discharged. Jack felt his right shoulder explode in pain as he was toppled by the impact of the bullet.

  Time seemed to ooze by as Jack stared at the textured ceiling and the unmoving ceiling fan in the kitchen. He could hear his heart pound in perfect time to the pulsing pain in his shoulder. George’s broad Italian face finally filled his blurring vision. His thick lips moved, but no sound was heard. Jack was pulled into a seated position.

  Through the tears, he saw the man’s body draped across the body of his daughter. There was a single bleeding hole in his forehead. The last thing Jack remembered as George pulled him from the house was the look of terror on the face of the woman who stepped into the hallway. From outside, he could hear her screa
ming. She screamed for her dead child. She screamed for her dead husband.

  Tuesday, August 31st, 2017

  “Oh, God! I’m sorry,” Jack croaked into his tear-soaked pillow. His eyes crusted with sleep. It was the same reoccurring dream he’d had since his arrest almost thirty years ago. It was more of a memory than a dream, though.

  Stifling a momentary sob, Jack rubbed the tears from his eyes and yawned. Rising onto an elbow, he looked at the small plastic clock that sat on the steel table next to his bunk. 6:30 A.M. Outside the bars of his cell, he could hear the prison coming to life as men prepared to be released for breakfast. The clank of keys, the slamming of steel doors, punctuated by the hum of electric lights and doors, made Jack feel right at home.

  He was 21 years of age when he and George — God rest his soul — burgled that house. Now he was 51. He grew up in prison. It was here he became a man in every sense of the word. This was the only life he knew or understood. The rules were clear and concise, whether spoken or unspoken. The life he lived prior to his arrest was no more than a few distant memories that came back to him on black and white 35mm film. You know, with all the scratches, smudges, and hairline cracks.

  Jack stood up in his boxers and stretched. His muscled body was fit and in great condition for a man who had topped 50. Thirty years of exercise and lifting weights will do that to a body. He looked into the small mirror that he had taped to his locker. His hair was graying at the temples and the stubble on his face was almost white. He remembered a time not too long ago when there had been some dark hair peppered amidst the gray.

  “Anyone know what’s for breakfast?” a voice yelled from down the hall.

  “Biscuits and gravy!” was the reply.

  Jack turned to look out the window of his cell. The sky was overcast and the wind was blowing enough to move the rolls of razor wire coiled atop the fifteen-foot fences that stood sentry down the hill from his window. The trees in the field beyond swayed signaling the approach of a storm. Jack smiled. Ever since he was a child, he’d loved rainy overcast weather. The only thing that could trump rain would be a good old-fashioned thunderstorm. He couldn’t have picked a better day to go home.

  Home. The thought wiped the smile from his face. This had been his home for thirty years. Was there a place beyond these fences that he could call “home”? His parents had passed away years ago. He had no siblings and his daughter had managed to write him a total of two times over the years. How old was Susan now? Thirty-one?

  Jack turned from the window and sat on the bed. His chest constricted in fear of the future. Was he ready to face the freedom the parole board had granted him? He looked to his hands, like so many times before. Though they were hard and strong, they were also the tools used in taking the lives of a father and his daughter. Again, he considered rejecting the freedom they had granted him. He ran both hands back through his hair. All he would have to do is ask to see the Shift Captain. Then, demand to have his parole removed. If they refused, he could always make a fuss and force them to lock him in the hole. That would surely revoke his parole, he thought. Yet, there was something else. It was a feeling down deep that told him he needed to be free — a sensation that he couldn’t quite describe. It was as if someone else needed him to be free. Maybe he was feeling the need to be reconciled to his daughter and her family. That had to be it. He did have family out there. The thought was encouraging.

  “Shake a leg, bra,” Black said, smiling. The gold in his mouth seemed over extravagant, Jack thought to himself, every time his friend bared his teeth in what could only be interpreted as a smile. Black was a large Jamaican who had befriended him several years ago. His name was coined from the color of his skin. He was so black that he was nearly purple. His real name was Cassias Domingo. The two hit it off right away. It was an ebony and ivory friendship.

  Jack stood six foot four inches and still had to tilt his chin up at Black to look him in the eye.

  “Tis’ ya’ last day. No skeepin’ breakfast ‘cause ya goin’ home, bra.”

  “Give me a minute. I’m slow on the move this morning. I’ll catch you on the walk in a few minutes,” Jack said as he stifled another yawn.

  “Sho, man. I be waitin’ on ya’,” Black said. He winked and lumbered off.

  Jack’s cell was eight feet by ten feet — the bunk taking up most of the room. He had spent most of the previous evening packing his property into trash bags so they could be easily carried out of his cell and across the yard to be inventoried by the Property Officer this morning. After dressing and brushing his teeth, Jack tossed the remainder of his stuff into an open bag. The cell door echoed through the hall as he slammed it and headed for the front of the dorm.

  The exterior door was jerked open by the wind when he pushed it. It made him smile. Black smiled back, knowing how much Jack loved his storms. The two walked to the chow hall, silently enjoying one another’s company. Once inside, they barely had the opportunity to talk. Everyone knew that Jack was going home this morning and wanted to say their goodbye’s. Men crowded around Jack’s table cracking jokes about all the women he’d be meeting and the food he’d soon be consuming. His departure from the chow hall was punctuated by man hugs (you know, arms clasped between as pats on the back are exchanged) and fist bumps. A number of the correctional officers offered their own congratulations as he passed by them heading back to the dorm. Black could tell that his friend was moved by it all.

  “Ya’ goin’ to be joost fine, ma friend. Joost fine.” Black’s long arm encircled Jack’s shoulder and squeezed him affectionately. Jack smiled at the gesture. There were not too many people who could get both their arms around Jack’s broad shoulders let alone one. In return, Jack put his arm around Black’s waist. The two men managed about two steps before Jack turned his eyes up at Black and blinked them in mock femininity.

  “Aboot enough o’dat,” Black said as he stepped away from Jack. “Folk liable to tink we’s funny or sumptin’.”

  Jack could tell that Black wanted to look around to see who had been watching them, but he resisted the urge. Looking around might have been seen as evidence of a guilty conscience. It made Jack smile even more.

  “ATTENTION ON THE YARD! ATTENTION ON THE YARD! INMATE JACK WAGES REPORT TO R & D WITH YOUR PROPERTY, IMMEDIATELY!” The electric voice repeated the order.

  “Well, Bro, that’s me,” Jack said, raising his brows.

  “Sho’ is. Let me help get ya’ stuff.”

  * * *

  The time Jack spent having his property inventoried was brief. Most of it went into the garbage. He had no intention on packing a bunch of stuff across the state in bags he couldn’t carry on his own. In the end, they gave him a small knap-sack that could easily be carried over his shoulder. Toothbrush, toothpaste, his gym and underclothes, a small twenty-year old MP3 player and ear buds was all he had to his name. They had given him a check for the wages he’d manage to save over the years, but two dollars a day didn’t offer him much of a retirement. Probably have to get on Social Security or something, he thought as he headed up the main walk toward the gate.

  Jack turned the corner and could see the bricked facade of the prison chapel ahead of him. He’d spent many nights in that little building. Maybe he should stop in and say goodbye to the chaplain. He’d had some pretty inspiring conversations with the man.

  As he approached the brick building, Smiley stepped through the door onto the small concrete porch and lit a cigarette.

  Exhaling smoke, he turned and saw Jack coming up the walk. Smiley’s face took on the very reason for his nickname — he frowned. It was like calling a fat guy, Tiny. Smiley never expressed emotion one way or the other. In fact, he reminded Jack of one of those pages he’d seen in the psychologist office. The page was covered in different facial expressions depicting various emotions with one difference. Smiley’s face would be a perpetual frown for all the emotions listed.

  “Hey, Smiley, is the Chap in?” Jack asked and then subconsciou
sly adopted an over exaggerated smile. He always felt the need to counter the cloud that seemed to follow Smiley everywhere.

  “Nope. Ain’t come in yet,” Smiley said a bit too slowly.

  “Well, will you tell him I stopped in to say goodbye?” Jack asked.

  “Sure. Where ya’ goin’?” Again, Smiley managed to draw the sentence out. It made Jack want to lean forward and finish the sentence for him.

  “I made parole. I’m . . . going home,” Jack said. Smiley merely nodded his head and looked up the sidewalk toward the gate. A couple of officers were coming through.

  “Wish ya’ all the luck, Jack. All the luck,” Smiley said.

  “Thanks. Tell Chap I stopped in?”

  “Yup.”

  Jack tossed the satchel higher on his shoulder and headed up the hill. The wind pressed at his back as if urging him onward. Yet, his feet and heart felt heavy. His world was behind him, not in front of him. Inside these fences, he was known and respected. Out there, he would be a stranger in a foreign world — faceless and nameless. The thought made him pause.

  Jack’s eyes took in the massive tower that was known as the Main Gate. An officer paced the narrow catwalk that surrounded the stone structure. Faceless and nameless, the words came back to him. He had everything in here and nothing out there. How could he be so stupid as to think that he can make it in a world beyond the regimented life he was so used to? The parole board was not sending him home. They were sending him from his home.

  To his right was a door that led to the Captain’s Office. Through that door was the answer to his problem. Just tell the Captain that you are rejecting your parole, he thought momentarily. Convince them to let you stay. Make them understand. Jack’s hand curled around the handle of the door. Yet, under all the panic he felt in that moment, there was this sense that he must leave. He must get out. An image of Susan, as he remembered her all those years ago, came to his mind. She cooed and giggled in his arms. She was so small and her diaper too big. It was the first and last time he’d changed her diaper.