Unknown - The_Growing_589064

He’ll never leave this office alive, he knows that. And with the realization comes a feeling of almost blessed relief. The irony of being killed by his own creations isn’t lost on him. In fact, it seems a rather fitting punishment for what he’s done.

But still…

Oh, back to that again, are we?

Shut up, Johnny. Just…shut…up.

…

“I’m forgetting something. I know I am.”

A quick glance at the security monitor shows he’s still got some time left. Not much, granted, but some. And some is a start.

He looks around his office again, and his eyes alight on his personal computer, the only one in the office that was spared his fit of rage earlier. It sits proudly on his secondary desk, as if lording its veritable wholeness over its shattered buddies.

“That’s it!!”

Forcing his body out of the chair, he stumbles over broken computer bits until he’s at the desk housing his computer. It’s booted up and ready for him. A quick flick of the mouse, and the email he had typed earlier is brought to full bloom before his eyes. It’s not much of a letter, no, but he thinks it spells out the whys, wherefores, and by-these-present-know-ye-thises pretty darn well.

Giving himself a sharp nod, he aims the pointer at the “send all” button, only to nearly cancel the damn thing as the soft beeping from the security camera causes him to jump almost a foot in the air. A quick glance at the monitor shows the hallways filled to the brim with advancing enemies.

Breathing heavily, he tosses a hank of stringy, greasy, straw colored hair away from his brow and looks back at the computer. His eyes are round, flat and shining discs set deep in his head. His hands are sweat-slicked and trembling so hard that he misses the “send all” button yet again.

“Come on! Come on, dammit!!”

One final try and he scores a direct hit. The email disappears, to be replaced by a “message sent” notification box.

“Oh, thank God. Thank you, God!”

Getting’ a little foxhole religion, sport? There goes your nomination to the Atheist-of-the-Month Club.

Ignoring the voice, Peter turns away from the computer and returns to his seat. He picks up the gun and stares at it as if it might soon sprout wings and fly away.

What are you gonna do with that, hmm champ? Go out in a blaze of glory? Stiff upper lip and all that rot?

I can’t leave the men behind, sir. You go. I’ll hold the Alamo for all of us. Viva la USA! Hell. Viva la WORLD!

He can hear them now, their booted feet stomping in almost obscenely regulated step as they come closer and closer to their goal.

(London Bridge is falling down…)

Hefting the gun, he points it at the door. He’s surprised, and gladdened, to notice that his hands aren’t shaking anymore. The suddenly wet warmth in the crotch of his pants tells him that his bladder has a different take on the whole situation, but at least his hands haven’t betrayed him.

Betrayed. Funny word, that. That’s what they’ll call you, you know. The Betrayer. Fitting epitaph, don’t you think?

“All I ever wanted to be was accepted. Not popular. No, never that. But just accepted, you know? That’s why I did this. I wanted to help. I wanted to be liked. That’s not such a bad thing, is it?”

…

“Well, is it?!?!?”

…

Letting go a small sigh, he shifts his gun’s focus, lifting it and turning the muzzle toward his temple instead.

“I’m sorry. I know that’s not enough, but…for what it’s worth…I am.”

(…my fair lady.)

CHAPTER TWO

“Goodbye everybody, I’ve got to go. Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth.”

1

WHEN THE CROWDED rooms and the close press of humanity gets to be too much, Dakota escapes to the glassed in porch, closing the door behind her and reveling in the silence of a South Dakota winter evening. It’s snowing again. The flakes, heavy and wet, hiss through the air in a soothing monotone.

It’s been two days since the shooting, and her wound, not much more than a graze, is healing, though still painful.

The storm door squeals in protest as it is opened again, and the floorboards groan out accompaniment as Dakota’s father joins her on the porch. She hears a slight rustle, then the flick of a match being struck against the wooden casement, and soon the air is filled with the sweet smell of pipe tobacco. Its scent brings Dakota back to the days of her childhood when her whole world was the man standing beside her and her only goal in life was to see the light of pride in his eyes. Eyes that are, like hers, a brilliant, pale blue; a queer genetic anomaly going back as long as anyone can remember.

For long moments, the porch is silent save for quiet breaths and the hissing of the snow.

The remnants of the MacGregor family, Kimberly, her two grown daughters and two granddaughters, have taken up residence in a small house just to the west of the main home. Dakota’s mother helps them through their grief as best she can, trying to break through the silent, staring shock that melds them to their beds and chairs; living statues crafted by the hand of a madman.

The rest of the family spends its days huddled around the CB radio, gleaning and hoarding each bit of information the way a prospector pans for gold dust. Wild speculation paints the airwaves in crazy, neon colors. Space aliens have landed in Washington DC. Peter Westerhaus has sold out to certain Middle Eastern interests, handing them the United States on a silver platter. And the most popular: God is using Satan’s tools to cleanse the earth in preparation for the return of His Son.

Each rumor is treated as Gospel truth; examined like a diamond for clarity and flaws, and kept or discarded based on its possible merit.

“Your spirit wanders.”

Shaken from her reverie, Dakota lets out a small sigh, tips her head slightly, and leans a shoulder against the sturdy frame of the porch. She eyes her father directly, taking in his gentle, somber countenance.

“Where will you go?”

“Home. At least, at first. I need to….”

Her voice trails off, but her father nods his understanding.

“And then?”

“South, I think. To Rapid City.”

“To the base?”

“Yes.”

“Very dangerous.”

“I know.”

“Your mother will forbid it.”

Dakota nods, dropping her gaze to the worn boards. “I know that, too.” Her voice is no more than a whisper, its timbre blending with the falling snow.

A soft rustle of cloth eases the silence, and when Dakota raises her eyes, her father is holding an object out to her. Her eyes widen as the significance of the object becomes abundantly clear.

“Your medicine pouch….”

“Take it.”

“But….”

“Le icu wo, chunkshi.”

Reaching out, she allows her fingers to curl around the small, worn pouch. In turn, her father’s warm fingers curl around her own. Their eyes meet. He gives her a rare and precious smile.

“If I were younger, and did not have a family to protect, I would do as you are now, Dakota.” His face sobers and he releases her hand. “Go now. Say goodbye to your brothers and sisters. I will talk to your mother.”

Rising to his feet, he is gone before she can open her mouth to thank him.

2

Twenty minutes later, Dakota stands by her truck, gazing one last time upon her family whose faces are pressed against the large windows, fogging them and making the watching figures dreamy and indistinct.

Her mother’s face is the only one she can see clearly, and her expression is a swirling thundercloud of anger, love, and fear. Her heavy arms are crossed against her ample bosom, and as Dakota meets her eyes, she scowls and turns away.

Clenching her jaw in frustration, Dakota also turns and opens the door to her truck. Before she can step in, her mother comes at her from behind, wrapping her arms around Dakota’s slim waist and pulling her back.