The Risen: Dawning (34 page)

A
walk to the gallows would have been easier than to the cafeteria. Eerily with the sad faces around me, it feels the same. Rhett parts the crowd that has grown the way well-wishers do at the most inappropriate times. Marxx walks behind me, keeping them from overtaking me, with their sad eyes and the need to touch me giving me false comfort as they gain their own. It is hard for them to think of someone they saw as being so formidable lost to us. It brings their own fears of their fates too close to their surface. If one of us can fall, then what chances do they have?

Every step we take holds a visual ghost for me. The phantoms are the strongest in the suffocating stairwell where so many moments were shared. Fate is strangling me with dawn upon us. The sun reaches every once dark corner, forbidding me to hide from her.

“Just keep one foot in front of the other.” Marxx encourages me, as the distance grows between Rhett and me with each failing step of mine.

“I can’t breathe.” Marxx wraps his arms around me, helping me to sit upon hearing my words.

He holds my back against his chest, rocking me with his body. “Yes, you can.”

I shake my head as panic sets in with the sensation. Rhett catches my head in his hands, steadying it so I am forced to look at him. “You can do this. Just look at me. Breathe with me.”

Together, he and I, focus upon filling our lungs and nothing else, with patterned inhales and exhales. Slowly the pain subsides as the panic leaves me. My numbness penetrates the space it once filled, and I feel weaker with its cold blanket around me.

“That one wasn’t so bad.” Marxx helps me stand when my sagging body disobeys me.

“That one?” I feel as if I am walking on quicksand. Each step could be my last should it suck me below forever.

“You’ll have more. Each time a little less till there are no more.” Marxx’ hands rest on my waist and guide me down the stairs.

I want to ask him what it is he is talking about, but with the numbness chilling me, I lack the energy to care. Besides, every time I ask a question the answers get worse. Perhaps I should save some answers for later, before I am so far into them, that I have none to spare. When the noise from the cafeteria hits me, I have a lot less than just answers. I have lost all my bravery to continue.

At what point is it okay for me to go running off screaming, regretting my decision to do this? The answer? Five minutes. Now, six minutes passed, I am fully regretting not running off screaming back up the stairs. I have a good idea of what I would scream, too.

Breakfast is painfully silent as we all feel his loss. There are muffled condolences as people go by. Each time I begin to breathe normally, someone leans in to remind me of what I cannot forget. It is a vicious cycle of my endless regrets, brought on by those that only mean well with their soft touches and silent nods. That is normally how bad things happen. People always mean well.

“We should hold a funeral.” Aimes is making her idea of art again on her plate. I have no clue as to what it may have started out. I have no clue what it is ending up as either.

With no one agreeing with her, she pouts harder, taking her emotions out on the artwork.

“We should do something. It’s Larance.” She whispers his name like a Catholic at Mass, holding it sacred upon her lips.

“We will.” Of course, the Preacher’s son would volunteer, as the rest of the men sit stone-faced and sour with their grief.

“Tonight. Around the fire. He would like that.” Aimes’ masterpiece of oatmeal, and something thicker, is clumping from her abuse.

“He’s dead. He don’t care what we do now. He’s gone.” J.D.’s anger is startling among such levels of silence. I almost welcome his rage. It feels more real than the sad faces and long stares of the sheep.

“It’s not for him. It’s for us.” Chapel attempts to calm the beast beside him. It only propels J.D.’s rage deeper.

“You want to do something. You want
to ease
that suffering of yours? You want to paint it all pretty, the facts of what happened to him? Then get off your padded ass and get to killing them things instead of holding up here like cowards. He died a man. The rest of us, we just gonna die. There is your pretty little fact.” J.D.’s voice carries through the cafeteria with the depths of his anger.

The families closest to us huddle their children to them with protective arms. Some begin to whisper as the fears they have been thinking all day long are now in vocal form floating around them. Soon, the room becomes alive with the whispered hissing of fear and the many different reactions it causes.

“You want to light a nice pretty fire out there? Gather all around it? Share your precious little memories? Tell yourself his death was worth it? That he lived
a long
and full life? That these sheep are worth more than our man? Then you go right ahead. Go right ahead. Don’t be looking for me to be standing out there. I know the real truth. This whole place just got a whole hell of a lot weaker without him. We keep getting messed up and they keep sittin’ safe and pretty behind these walls. We are done.”

J.D. stands staring at the many frightened faces around us. They clutch their children tight to them, trying to protect them from his anger. Tiny wide eyes peer around shoulders with an innocent curiosity.

“Yeah, you hear me. All of you do. We are done. You want your supplies? Then you take your candy asses out there. You want your high fences all safe so you can sleep at night? Pick one of your fat bastards to go out there. And tell me,” J.D. pauses with the heat of his anger to chuckle with his thought, “tell me how when food is in such a high demand, so many of you are so fucking fat? I got your weight loss plan right here. We gonna gather all of you up, tie you together, and say run. You run for your lives for a day or two. Dangle you fat bastards out for those things while we stroll around.”

He laughs now, fully lost in his mental image of the event. One of us should stop him. By one of us, I mean one of the men. I am enjoying the show. My own small laugh joins with his. Yeah, I am a bad person. I am becoming okay with that.

“Oh man, I would sell tickets to that shit. Watching you upper crust, with your still pressed linens at the end of the world, running for your over-priced lives. It would be golden.”

He turns to me, taking my laugh as endorsement and agreement.

“What is it you say, Hells? The cherry? The cherry would be to see how many of you sheep actually ran or just stood there cryin’ and pissin’ on yourselves. Yeah, that would be the cherry.”

The laughter dies from him as suddenly as it came over him now that he looks to us. His steel eyes burn with the pits of rage again. “So if you want to throw a little going away party, you go right ahead. But me, I know our man died for nothing. These sheep, they don’t even care. They will kill us all off before they lift a finger for themselves.”

“He died for us. He died so that we could make it home. Don’t tarnish that.” Chapel stands, staring at our leader and trying to edge him down.

“Yeah man, I guess he did. I guess he did.” J.D.’s agreement is more unsettling than his rage. I know there are more hidden thoughts in his mind to that statement than he is expressing. The way his eyes roam the room only proves it. The Devil may walk the earth outside, but he may have his match waiting for him inside.

“Whatever you are thinking, don’t.” Chapel is also watching the stillness slide over J.D. Predators do that before it goes graphic. The prey must be located and watched for weakness. There is a lot of pretty, pretty prey around us for J.D.

It is not the sheep that his need to destroy lands on first. It was so fast and sudden the room erupted with the shock of it. Even our men, so well attuned to the shifts around them, missed the clues reminding them why we should always fear J.D.

J.D. swings, fully connecting his fist with Chapel’s face, knocking him to his knees. His head bounces off the table as Chapel succumbs to the force, so unprepared for it, and the damage it does. Blood already pools between his cupped fingers holding his face.

Our leader hauls Chapel up and onto the table by the vest they love so much, pinning him to the table on his back. He tugs on the vest as if he is looking for something that he can’t find before securing Chapel to the table. This time, he uses the other man’s throat and leans in, keeping his words between those closest to him.

“I don’t see a rank on this vest of yours. There is just your name, Son. You ain’t earned the right to talk to me. I give it to you. Which means you sure as hell don’t have the right to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. You ain’t nothing more than a chair warmer around
my
table. You got me, Son?” J.D.’s voice is viper deadly. One wrong move and he will strike with poison so deadly it will cripple Chapel.

“Yeah, I got you. Want to call a vote?” Chapel’s words are acid to the other man’s poison with his bleeding nose still spilling forth.

“There ain’t nothing to vote on, Son. Unless you want me to call it on your place by my side?” J.D.’s threat hangs heavy in the air.

“I’m just a seat warmer, remember? I’m not by your side.” Chapel shoves J.D. off him, tired of the threats, he does not flinch under the steel eyes upon him the way so many do.

Rhett steps between the two when Dolph and Richard arrive. Their added presence will only intensify J.D.’s need to force Chapel into submission. That is the one thing Chapel will never do again, and as he stands toe to toe with J.D., we all know it.

“If you two want to play touch my ego, we need to go elsewhere.” Rhett tells both men as he watches the area around him.

Dolph and Richard have noticed the room’s anxiety, and it is not hard to figure out the source. It is a visual tennis match with the residents watching the two groups from their sidelines. Make it three groups, as Ross and Leslie stroll in. It is a piñata of a morning, as I get beat from all angles. Tie a rope around my neck and hang me in a tree. Let’s just call this done already.

Ross is showering Leslie with his support as the woman sags with her movements. Her sobs are evident with the amount of shoulder motion she portrays. Ross’ smile is nowhere to be found with his mouth moving so rapidly to smother her in comforting words. Ironically, watching them, my smile is firmly in place. Funny how some things work out that like.

“You have got to be kidding me. Skankerbell is totally not trying to sponge. Shiv her Rhett. Shiv her!” Our ever-darling pixie once again shares with us her true feelings about the situation.

“Don’t tempt me.” Rhett mutters, watching the two who have seated themselves across from our table. “I already promised Law that coward would die for what he did. I am about ready to cash in that chip.”

I remember a day not too long ago where Lawless and Rhett both stood staring down Ross with a mutual understanding between them. Ross has been very careful with his presence. I guess someone is feeling braver now. I guess he forgot that the vests are not black because of their grief. They are black because of the grief they cause others. I think he is about to be reminded of that fact.

“We can do that.” J.D. agrees with Rhett, patting the man’s shoulder as he slides by in their table’s direction. “We can do that real well.”

“Not here,” Rhett stops him with the sound of regret in his voice. “We can’t. Not here. Not with what I have planned for him. Not now. I will make it perfect.”

“We are going to make a lot of things perfect real soon.” J.D. walks away, leaving his statement hanging in the air like a cloud of poison. It will choke someone, somewhere, soon. It will not be toxic. It is going to be bloody. The casualties will be numerous.

“Y
ou really going to this thing?” J.D. brushes my dark hair as he watches my reflection in the square bathroom mirror of the restroom.

It is longer now than I normally wear it. Something with its new length encourages the men to touch it, and play with it, in an unconscious fashion. It freaks me out a little. The fact that J.D. is standing behind me brushing it, freaks me out a lot.

I shrug, not having a real answer for him. I do feel a little silly going to this bonfire. I also know how painful it will be to hear, and share, in the memories passed along tonight. The bonfire farewell is not a new event for me. This is how G.R.I.T. says goodbye to their lost Brothers.

A funeral demands a certain level of decorum. It is a respect that is paid not only for their passing, but also for their family’s grief. Depending on the rank of the Brother, the trail of motorcycles can extend for miles to show the family a sign of support, and to let the community know the level of respect he held in their world. Aimes and I have often rode, surrounded by so many somber men repressing their grief. Men do not handle such emotions well. That is the purpose of the bonfire.

It is a true farewell for them. Hours will be spent swapping stories of the deceased that can only be shared in their circle. Stories they share would have wives, or girlfriends, livid, ruining their memories of the man. Drinks will be passed. Stories will be swapped. Memories will be shared. It is their way of saying goodbye. Not with their tears and sobbing, but with their laughter, and the camaraderie of their club.

“Why aren’t you going?” I ask, watching him become still at my words.

“I have things to do.” I shiver under the intensity of his eyes. I watch their shade melt from blue to the steel, ice coloring of his mood swing.

“Are you asking for my help?” His eyes have never left mine. They don’t now either.

“Tell me Hells, you don’t want pay back. Convince me they don’t need to pay for this.” His voice is neutral. Its deadliest tone.

“It wasn’t their fault.” I say these words out loud, but my heart beats a different pattern with my thoughts.

A part that I am not proud of does agree with J.D. It is our men that have sat in the cold night’s air watching the perimeter while the others slept in warm beds. It is our men that have helped hunt and supply food while so many just show up for meals. It is Marxx that may be permanently disabled with the extent of tissue damage done from their testing of us. Now we have lost Lawless. How many more scars do we obtain while the rest remain untouched?

“Don’t say that. Not you, too.” He throws the brush against a far stall door with his disappointment churning into rage. It shatters, filling the room with the loud noise of its destruction. I wasn’t really done with it but I am not sure now is the time to point that fact out to him.

“Out of all of them, I thought you would be the one to agree with me. You have always seen things better than the rest. You always know what has to be done. You may not like it, but you and I, we get things done.”

His face is one of pleading to understand him, to help him. J.D. is one minute from falling to his knees asking for my support. It scares me more than any fit of rage, or threat, he has ever said to me. His hands wrap around my shoulders with a strength that makes me afraid I will hear the popping of my bones under them.

“We can do this. You and I, we can right this. We can take over this place as we should have when we first walked in here. Instead, we take orders from a bunch of sheep. Simon, that man would jump at his own shadow if Dolph wasn’t there to stroke him off. This is what we take orders from? Us? Rhett wanted to kill them all when we got here. You know that? Slice them right up in their sleep. I should have let him. We might be whole now if I had.”

“We can make them pay for it all. No more games or trying to play nice with them. We can’t get him back. We can never have my boy back. But we can get them back for it.”

He folds over with the pain of his words, bringing him to the ground beside me. “They took my boy. They took my boy, Hells. I watched them take my boy.”

His eyes are seeing something far away. Something that is deep within his pain to a place that I cannot go with him. I sit on the cold tiles beside him and do the only thing I can. I hold his hand while he cries. We do not acknowledge it. We just sit in the silence of the room around us, and support one another, until we are strong enough to stand again.

His body maybe warm, sitting beside me, but his mind has escaped from the room around us, and his eyes are cold with wherever he is. The room that echoes with the words he keeps repeating in his pain. Each time he says them, my heart sinks a little lower. “My boy. They took my boy.”

We sit for hours on the cold floor together. I almost startle when he turns to me with how accustomed I had become to his behavior. He stares at me as if he does not recognize me before kissing my forehead and standing.

“You’re a good girl, Helena. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Anyone.” His voice trails behind him as he leaves me sitting there, still confused and startled by his random actions.

The walk alone to the bonfire refills my numbness. My eyes see what is ahead of me, but my brain does not admit to the images. It blocks the many sad faces around me, and the still bare ever-green tree that mocks my mood. It shields the sighs of Leslie sitting in what is our corner with many people surrounding her, giving her comfort. It keeps the view of Ross, who now wears his smile, from my fragile state. If only it could remove the sounds as well. Maybe if I clap loud enough? Nope, they are still there, but Leslie isn’t as weepy anymore. Small bonus.

The winter wind bites my face with its dark hello. It sucks the air from my lungs with its kiss as I make my way to the little family I have acquired, standing around one of the barrels. The fire casts sparks and shadows into the air around them. Their faces glow with the warmth-giving light. It is beautiful to watch.

“You’re late.” Aimes tells me with a hug and smile. I embrace her back, letting our past finally bury itself. It is what he would have wanted. It is what I want.

“J.D. isn’t coming.” Marxx is not asking me. He is accepting the fact with admitting it out loud. I know he sees this as an insult, and as much as I want to explain what happened three floors up, I remain silent. J.D.’s grief is not mine to share.

A bottle is passed to me and I take a deep drink before I look to see what it is. The fire in the barrel is not the only source of heat as it slips past my tongue. My throat and stomach ache as the liquid slides down them, bringing coughs and rapid motions of my spare hand. Male laughter builds around me as my body burns with their betrayal.

“I wanted to warn you, but they thought this would be more amusing to watch.” Aimes takes the bottle of dark liquid from me. “Somewhere these clowns found whiskey and scotch. Neither was enough to make a full bottle, so what did Rhett-stein decide to do? Mix them. Clap for Rhett. He is very proud of himself.”

Rhett reaches for the bottle, and in a salute to his brilliance, he takes a long drink. He mockingly shudders at me when he finishes. His eyes glow with his amusement. “Got to love when a plan comes together. Want another?”

He points the bottle at me with a smile. My rejection only adds to their mirth. The fire of my belly only adds to my resolve to never take a bottle from Rhett again.

“Law would drink it. He could out drink us all.” With that, Marxx has started the bonfire. “He would never admit to the hangover the next day either.”

“Do you remember that one St. Patrick’s? The next day we had a charity ride. The boy kept calling for a break to hide the fact he was losing his guts in the bushes.” Rhett laughs with the memory.

“Getting sick on the tot-banger that day though. That was priceless.” Marxx adds to the story and the laughter from the men.

“Do I even want to ask?” Aimes caustically voices her concern over Lawless’ past. I know the story, so I just smile.

“No. No you don’t.” I tell her, and with the admittance of knowing the story, the men form a complete uproar of laughter.

“I miss his music. He always had that beat up black guitar with him.” Aimes shifts the mood with her memory.

“He made up some twisted songs.” Chapel smiles and we are back on track. “Singing about drunken hookers and addicts with his face all serious. I don’t know how he did it as the rest of us were losing it all around him.”

We all laugh with the memory of his antics. The way he would walk around Grit strumming that black guitar of his, while strolling from table to table, making up lyrics using those he came across as the subjects. Each lyric would become more ridiculous than the last with his twisted sense of humor. There was not a topic he would not twist into a song for his amusement.

“I didn’t think he’d survive his Mom’s death,” Marxx pulls from a different pool now. “Even when she had him arrested for defending her from his old man, he was still there for her. He took a lot of blows that were meant for her. He was always there for her.”

“That’s how he was.” His sentence pulls a cord too recent in my heart. “If he cared for you, he was there. No questions. No judgements. Just how he was.”

The turn of the memories requires the men to pass the dark bottle around as each mentally relives their own version of it.

“He was loyal. Never asking whys or hows. He did what he had to do. Then he buried it.” Rhett stares at the crackling fire, seeing something other than what is before him. “He did shit no one should ever have to do. He did it for the club. He did it for J.D.”

The men grunt their approval of Rhett’s words. The fire has become a safe beacon for their eyes, and they watch it, trying to not drown with their memories. The bottle makes another round.

“That damn bike of his. I wanted to kick his ass when he showed up with that V-Rod.” Rhett brings the mood back around again with another long draw from the bottle. I am not helping them carry this large man up the three flights of stairs.

“….until he left your ass behind on it.” Chapel taunts Rhett with his smile.

“No, then I wanted to kick his ass twice.” Rhett’s answer revitalizes their laughter.

“You would have to catch me first, Old Man.”

The voice freezes us faster than winter’s deep kiss. My heart climbs into my throat with hearing it. The feel of his arms sliding around me unhinges my knees, making him catch me, pulling me close to him. I feel his lips on my temple, and as if he pushed a button, scalding tears escape.

“You have to catch me to kick my ass.” Lawless smiles at the stunned faces standing around the barrel. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“This is so much better than an Ouija board.” Aimes whispers, before springing into him with ear shattering squeals.

Laughter fills the courtyard now, his laughter, my tears, and Aimes’ squeals of joy vibrate the walls around us. This is not one of my haunting ghosts that demand to walk beside me. This is not a judging memory to shred me with its presence. Lawless stands beside with his warm eyes watching me, battle worn and tired. Only Aimes is secure enough in her emotions to fully embrace him as the rest stare wide-eyed and slacked faced at someone we had thought forever gone from us. Truth howls in the winter winds that whip around us with the disappointment of her failure and I know she is plotting to make us pay.