D-Boy

Chapter 1-3

Derek woke the next morning when the sun hit his bed through the east window. For a moment he wondered why it was so late and why Michael hadn’t rousted him. Then he remembered.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” he swore, slamming his hand against the side of the bed. He ignored the pain as he sat up. Glancing at the floor where he had found Michael’s body, he saw a pinkish stain, even though he had been certain the night before that he’d washed away all the blood. He shivered, remembering walking into the cabin and the horror of what he’d found.

Then he remembered something else. The box. He leaned over the edge of the bed, feeling for it, surprised at how relieved he was that it was still there. He pulled it out and got up, setting it on the table.

Next he went through his morning routine, going out back to what Michael had called the composting latrine to take care of the most pressing business, then washing up as best as possible in the stream, and bringing back fresh water in the bucket he brought with him. He lit a fire in the fireplace and hung a pot of water on the hook to boil for tea.

With that accomplished, and after changing into another pair of pants and a soft, deer-skin shirt that had belonged to Michael, he sat down at the table. Opening the box, he took out the sheaf of papers and began to read.

The top two pages appeared to be a will in which Michael left everything he owned to a shelter for wounded veterans. Like they need a cabin in the middle of nowhere. But still…Derek fingered the wads of bills in the box. That’s a lot of cash for someone who said he’d been living here ‘forever’.

Next was an official-looking paper titled Honorable Discharge. It was from the United States Marine Corps and the name on it was First Sergeant Michael W Long. It was dated May 8, 1971.

I wonder if he came here right afterwards. That was twenty-eight years ago if it’s really 1999 now, and he had no reason to lie to me about that.

He put the discharge paper on top of the will and then looked at the next ones. They were letters, some from Michael’s mother, Derek knew, since she signed them ‘Love, Mom’, and also from a girlfriend from the tone of the others. The last one, according to the dates on them, came to him in 1970. They weren’t in envelopes, so Derek had no idea where Michael was at the time. Putting them aside as well, he picked up a thin, manila envelope.

He wasn’t quite certain what to make of the contents. There were four crudely handwritten notes. Each one was threatening, but not in any specific way that said what the writer planned to do. Instead they warned ‘Mike’ that his time would come and when it did, he would ‘suffer the consequences’ and other words to that effect.

“Was whoever sent these the person who killed him?” Derek wondered aloud. “And if it was, should I get out of here before they come back looking for—whatever? For sure it couldn’t have been what’s in the box. I mean it’s a lot of money, I guess, but enough to kill for? And what’s with the gun?”

He picked it up. It was heavy, as if it would do a lot of damage if he shot it. But what do I know? There was an imprint on the well-worn grip which said ‘lock’, which didn’t make any sense to him. Then he found a second imprint on the barrel and realized it was ‘Glock’, not ‘lock’. He had the feeling it was a pretty powerful gun, though he didn’t know why.

It didn’t take him long to figure out how to load it. Once he had, he felt somewhat safer. But I’m still not sticking around waiting for someone to come back.

He stopped long enough to make some herbal tea, using the leaves from one of the tins on the shelf next to the pots and pans. While it steeped, he tried to figure out how he could carry what he needed to take with him. He thought Michael must have had something he used when he made his rare treks into town. Finally he found a battered backpack stuffed away in a dark corner far under Michael’s bed.

By then he was hungry. He remembered the rabbits he’d gotten yesterday but one look at them, lying on the stoop covered in maggots, and he discarded that idea. There was dried meat on one of the shelves. He cut off a few slices, dropping them in the pot with what was left of the water he’d boiled for tea. Then he went to the garden, intending to pick a squash to add to the meal. The minute he saw Michael’s grave, his eyes filled with tears. Going to it, he knelt at the side, vowing to himself at that moment that he would find whoever had done this to his friend. The only friend he’d had.

I don’t care if I’m too young—or most people would think I am. I’m going to find the bastard and he’ll wish he’d never set eyes on Michael—or me.