Glen Tate - 299 Days - The Restoration

Steve devoured the paper. He read every single word in it. He almost fell over when he saw a long story about Grant Matson. Grant was a war hero and heading some Reconciliation Commission. Thank God he was okay, Steve thought. As Steve read the story, he got goose bumps. All those things about Grant’s past that Steve knew about seemed to have been planned long ago. The miracle of getting the cabin and of knowing that Special Forces guy who trained them. All those weird things in Grant’s life, Steve could now see, had been planned and allowed Grant to do what he’d done.

“Here for a reason,” Steve said out loud. That’s what Steve always told Grant when Grant was down. “You’re here for a reason, dude,” Steve would say, and as it turned out, Steve was right.

Steve went on to become the mayor of Forks. He refused to take a salary. He was living just fine on fish and deer, although he was glad to see that first semi of food come to Forks about two weeks after the first soldiers arrived. A few weeks after that, someone from Steve’s old company showed up and started to take orders for car parts. Many vehicles were not running and now, with a little gas being available, people wanted to drive again. Boy, did they want to drive again. And now Forks could sell timber again because that was a “critical industry” under the new laws, which meant that they cut the red tape to get it moving. People had jobs again in Forks. It was a miracle.

The Collapse had changed Forks. It had brought them together as a town. They had fed each other and saved each other’s’ lives. The churches stayed strong. So many people had experienced tragedies and miracles and there was only one explanation to many people. Thanksgiving would never again be about overeating and watching football. Thanksgiving was real in Forks now. It was about giving thanks. Everyone who lived through the Collapse in Forks knew why they should be thankful.

Later, when Steve got to Olympia to visit Grant, he couldn’t believe how much that place had really changed. For the better. He and Grant had a grand old time, telling stories about their upbringing and the Collapse and all the “coincidences” in their lives. “Here for a reason,” they would both say time after time.

Warden Jason Wallace walked onto the second floor of the old Olympia High School prison.

“I need to speak with Eric Benson,” he told the guard.

“Yes, sir,” the guard said.

The warden was let into the classroom housing Eric.

“You’re dismissed,” he said to the guard. The guard left.

“We need to talk,” the warden said to Eric.

“Whatever,” Eric said. He was still stunned that the Patriots were holding him as a prisoner when his only crime was working too hard to help them. He could not understand why they didn’t give him a medal for killing so many Limas.

“You know who Grant Matson is?” Jason asked him.

“Yes,” Eric said. “He’s the guy who isn’t giving me a pardon.”

“Grant asked me give you a message,” Jason said. Eric was silent. He could care less what Grant Matson had to say. “Don’t you want to know what he said?” Jason asked.

“Okay,” Eric said sarcastically, “What did he say?”

Jason whispered, “Nice work at the carwash.”

Eric smiled and briefly relived the thrill of killing Bart Sellerman. He could see the blood and the sudsy carwash foam on the cement when he was done with Sellarman.

“He wanted to ask you a favor,” Jason said. “And I know you’re gonna love doing it.”

Eric’s curiosity was piqued. “Yes?” he said.

Jason told him the plan.

“I’m in,” said Eric. “Let’s go.”

“Okay” Jason said as he took a knife wrapped in cloth out of his suit jacket.

“How do you know you can trust me?” Eric asked.

“Because you asked that question,” Jason said. “If you were going to kill me, you’d enjoy it more by surprising me.”

“Excellent point,” Eric said with a laugh.

“Besides,” Jason said, “you want to be a Patriot hero. I’m giving you the chance, and if you kill me, you won’t be a hero. You want to be a hero, don’t you, Eric?”

Eric nodded like a child.

“Remembered for a hundred years as a man who did a great, great thing?”

Eric nodded again and let out a slight guttural sound.

“Okay,” Jason said, “make it good.”

Eric, feeling like a giddy child, gave Jason the thumbs up.

Jason handed Eric the knife, careful not to touch it so his fingerprints wouldn’t get on it. The only fingerprints on it would be Eric’s.

“Oh God!” Jason screamed. “He’s got a knife! Help! Guards!”

The guard came running to the door but was afraid to open it.

“Open that door or I kill him!” Eric screamed. He felt a rush of pleasure just screaming those words. He felt alive again, like he hadn’t felt in months. He was going to get to kill someone. And not just anyone.

The guard unlocked the door and watched in horror as Eric held the knife up to Jason’s throat and slowly walked out of his classroom cell.

Eric took Jason down the hall. By now, several guards stood petrified, unable to believe that a prisoner had taken the warden hostage. When he came to classroom 210, Eric screamed, “Open the door!”

The guards were still frozen.

“Open the damned door!” Jason screamed.

A guard slowly came up and opened the door. The prisoner in room 210 started to scream, too.

A second or two later, the screams turned to shrieks of agony, shock, and slaughter. The shrieks got quieter and quieter as the slashing sounds got louder and louder. Eric was started to cry out with pleasure and Jason cried out in horror.

And Nancy Ringman lay dead.

Grant and the Team were in Mark’s truck, driving to Yakima. He was in the back cab with Pow, as usual. Pow was checking his kit to make sure he had everything. He looked stunned. He had everything all right; he had something he forgot he had.

He looked sheepishly at Grant and said, “Oh, dude, I totally forgot I had this,” as he handed Grant the letter from Lisa.

Grant looked at it in disbelief. “How long?” he started to ask.

“Like, two weeks,” Pow said. “Oh, I’m super sorry, bro. Super sorry. Things got crazy. That Tillimook at the rest stop, going on R&R, all the stuff that’s going on. I put in it my kit so I wouldn’t lose it, then I forgot. I’m sorry, Grant.”

“No, it’s not your fault,” Grant said, politely. Because it really was his fault that Grant had lived two weeks or so without knowing what Lisa really thought.

“If it’s bad news,” Grant said to Pow, “then thanks for two weeks of me not worrying.”

“But if it’s good news?” Pow asked.

“Then I hate you,” Grant said with a slight smile. He had far more important things on his mind now than being mad at Pow. The future of his marriage was in that envelope. He could see it going either way.

Grant carefully opened Lisa’s letter. It was written in her familiar handwriting, her crappy chicken scratch doctor handwriting that no one but Grant, and a handful of pharmacists, could read.

This was the divorce letter, Grant kept thinking. He didn’t want to read it, but he also could barely wait to learn what it contained. He had to know where he stood. He had been getting hit on by many attractive women—there were an abundance of widows and broken marriages from the war—and wondered if it was time to start saying yes to inquiries.

“I don’t hate you anymore,” Lisa wrote. “I’m still pissed. But I don’t hate you.” Grant felt his heart warm up. He felt a surge of joy and relief. He felt a comfort, like things were going to be okay.