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  Joe

  A Novel

  H. D. Gordon

  Copyright 2013 © Heather Gordon

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  For everyone who has ever been haunted or misunderstood.

  Books by H.D. Gordon

  The Alexa Montgomery Saga

  Blood Warrior

  Book 1

  Half Black Soul

  Book 2

  The Rise

  Book 3

  Redemption

  Book 4

  A Surah Stormsong Novel

  Shooting Stars

  Book 1

  Prologue

  The Decider

  It was a Monday.

  The worst days are typically Mondays. But this one was alright. Different, sure, but alright. He’d made plans for today. He’d not only made plans, but acquired the artillery to back them up. Put them into action. Bang-Bang.

  One song had played on a continuous loop in his apartment for the past three days.

  Come Monday

  He didn’t much care for music. Never really had, but this particular song amused him. Perhaps would have comforted him. If he were able to feel any emotion required to be in need of comfort.

  It’ll be all right

  He couldn’t wait to see their faces, to watch as they fled and cowered in fear. In fear of him. The thought of it all made his heart leap in his chest. And, oh, what a wonderful sensation that was. Potent. They should fear him. Hell yeah, they should. He could take his pick, and he would. They just didn’t know it yet, which was great, because they would know soon. They would know today.

  Come Monday

  He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel in time to the tune, but had no mind of doing so. He was excited. Such a rare, beautiful thing this was, this excitement. The anticipation of it all, all his plans coming to life, of all their….faces. He bet some would try to beg, and wouldn’t that be amusing, to watch them crawl at his feet? They would know in that wonderful moment right before he ended their worthless existences that he had made the decision.

  I’ll be holding you tight.

  He reached down and brushed his fingers across the semi-automatic pistol sitting atop the passenger seat. It was the smallest of the lot, but his favorite. His baby. In the end, it would relieve him of his existence as well, but oh, the wonders the two of them will have seen together. He thought about what they would say in the news about him and his…decisions. Lunatic, Gunman, Madman… Massacre.

  The last was his favorite.

  If things went according to plan he may be able to take out a hundred, hundred-fifty people. If the bombs he’d built went according to plan he would take out many more. Hundreds. He dared to dream even thousands as he cruised down Highway 71 toward the Wilker campus of the University of Midwest Missouri State. UMMS for short. He hated that. Stupid fucking acronym. Man, he hoped his bombs worked. He’d followed the instructions on the internet as precisely as he could manage, but wiring the timers on the damn things had been tricky. It didn’t really matter, though. He would watch them fall to him either way.

  In fact, he knew just what they would do.

  They would be heartbroken and crying to their mommies. They would light candles and say prayers and mutter condolences, like any of them were even intelligent enough to give a shit about another worthless human being. The police chief and reporters would call him a madman, a psychopath, a murderer. They would analyze the video journals and poetry he left scattered about his apartment. And they won’t learn a damn thing. Because that’s how fucking stupid they were.

  Oh, and there would be a body count. If things went according to plan, if the rockets’ red glared and bombs burst in the air, they would stamp his Decisions in the book of records.

  The worst massacre in the history of the U-ni-ted States of Amer-i-ca.

  The thought made his heart soar.

  Chapter One

  Joe

  First, I should tell you I am no hero. At some point I feel you may come to the conclusion that I am, but this would be a misconception, and though I am not heroic, I am not a liar, either.

  I am no exceptional beauty. I do not have the voice of an angel nor the body of a model. When I enter a room it doesn’t light up as a result of my presence. Rather, some might describe me as…strange. Considering the events that take place in my life, they wouldn’t be too far off. Not so much because I am strange-looking–and I believe that I may be that too–but because I truly am strange. By nature.

  I am twenty-one years old and my name is Joe Knowe. I am not a boy. Joe is not short for Josephine or Joleene or any other variation, nor is it a nickname. Joe is the name my father gave me, and on many occasions he admitted this was because I was supposed to be a boy. This doesn’t bother me. Never has. I know for certain that the cruelties of humans go far beyond a backwards-naming father, and it is the least of my troubles.

  Until recently, I attended the University of Midwest Missouri State, UMMS for short. Due to the events of last semester I have decided to take the next year off, and though my story does not begin with that last semester, I figure it is as good a place to start as any.

  I have aspirations, though they mostly involve survival. I do not consider myself a writer. I write simply because it is easier for me to recount my stories on paper rather than to speak them. I suppose, in an ironic attempt of the Creator to even-out the “gift” I’ve been cursed with, He decided to bestow upon me a most debilitating stutter. Over the years I have managed to suppress my speech impediment if I speak slowly and concentrate on the words I wish to say, but in times of stress or discomfort my stammer is still prominent. I do my best to speak as little as possible. I write this only because I feel I must get it out. These truths, upon completion, will never leave the bottom drawer of my desk. These pages are for me, for my sanity, and for nothing else.

  Currently I sit in a cabin owned by my mother’s sister, located in the Lake of the Ozarks of Missouri. It is the first of June, and though I have been here since the beginning of the previous month, I only now have found the strength to begin telling of the events of last spring. I have spent my days in solitude–alone, and without communication with the outside world. I know I cannot stay here forever, that at some point I must leave this cabin and resume my life, but that day is not one I wish to concern myself with at the moment.

  My Aunt Susan, whose cabin I am currently occupying, owns a small bar in Peculiar, Missouri, and though my distaste for alcohol is closer to disgust, I figure I will spend the majority of my life keeping bar for her and earning a living by those means, as I have done since the age of sixteen. Aunt Susan has always been good to me. She is one of the few people who know about my gift. She has been like a mother to me and loves me for who I am.

  My biological parents are both…strange people, which is fitting, as I’ve mentioned that the apple did not fall far from the tree. My father is in jail, and I do not speak to him. I do not consider this any great loss. He blames me for having put him there. He is half right on the matter. My mother is agoraphobic in the extreme, which means she has a deep fear of open places, and very rarely ventures outside of the confines of her home. Her condition has always resided inside her, but it worsened after the incident that
landed my father in prison. Though she doesn’t say so, I believe she also blames me for this shortcoming. She is half right as well. This is the outline of my family dynamics.

  Other than Aunt Susan, the only people who know about my gift are my two best friends, Kayla and Kyle. I have known them since elementary school. I suppose the fact that they both learned of my ability as children helped in their acceptance of it. As children we have no trouble adopting the extraordinary into our world. In fact, we expect it. When we grow older and find out that magic is technology and stars don’t grant wishes, we inevitability become skeptics, non-believers. I am sure that two things would happen if I were to let my secret out: I would be committed to a mental institution, or I would be held captive in a lab somewhere with men in white coats marking things down on clipboards as they prod and test me in inconceivable ways. These are my greatest fears.

  Time for the story.

  ***

  I awoke sweaty and stiff. Sunlight streamed through the thin lime-green shades covering the double windows behind my bed. Glancing over at the clock hanging above the mirror, I saw I had awakened at my desired time: seven a.m. I never had need for an alarm. I knew what time I had to wake and so I woke when I needed. My first class of the day would begin in an hour. It would take me thirty minutes to get to the university. Fifteen minutes to get from my car to my classroom. I only needed ten to get ready as long as no distractions arose.

  Pushing the covers aside, I sat up, rubbed my eyes and rolled my neck. I didn’t remember dreaming, and the temperature in my modest bedroom was a perfect seventy degrees, but my oversized nightshirt clung to my body, and my hair stuck to the back of my neck. My nights are often fitful.

  I took a five minute but thorough shower, combed my hair, dressed, grabbed a Pop-Tart and headed out the door. My apartment is small, simple. It consists of one bedroom, one bathroom, and a combination living room/kitchen/dining room. I have lived here, in Peculiar, Missouri, for my entire life. I have lived in this apartment since I was seventeen. The rent is low and the area is decent. It provides all I require.

  I locked the door behind me, stepping onto the landing that served my second floor apartment and one other, Mr. Landry’s. Mr. Landry is eighty-one years old and a veteran with a bum left leg. He owns a small tobacco store two blocks over. He isn’t talkative, but not rude either. I have grown fond of him over the four years we have been neighbors, and though I have on many occasions tried to persuade him to move his apartment to a ground floor, he has refused. The concrete steps leading down to the apartment complex parking lot can be treacherous for someone his age, but he insists on remaining on the upper level. While I am glad to have him as a neighbor, mornings like these prove that he should heed my advice. I was going to be late to my first class.

  Landry’s, the name of his tobacco store, opens promptly at eight p.m. and closes at eight p.m. Mr. Landry is the owner and sole employee. I help him from time to time with shipments. He offers to pay, but I refuse to accept. The way I see it, he has done enough for me and my fellow citizens of the United States to warrant free help a couple of days a month. And he doesn’t talk much, so I am comfortable knowing that in turn I won’t be forced to reciprocate a conversation.

  I looked down at my wrist watch. The time was seven-ten. Mr. Landry would be leaving for his shop at seven-twenty, not a minute later or sooner. Taking a seat on the top stair of the landing, I removed a book from my backpack and flipped to the earmarked page. Waiting for Mr. Landry would cause me to be about ten minutes late to my first class. I am loath to be late. The attention it invites discomforts me. But I knew if I left right now, without waiting for Mr. Landry, he would suffer a fall down the concrete stairs outside of our adjacent apartments this morning. So I would just have to endure the attention my tardiness would more than likely invoke.

  Sometimes I see things before they happen. I suppose the term for this would be clairvoyance. I do not control this. It just happens. I cannot foresee, nor have I ever tried, the winning lottery numbers or the rise and fall of the stock market. Mostly I see disaster, bad things, misfortune. It’s not as fun as it may sound.

  When I’d stepped outside of my apartment door, a rapid flash of images skated through my mind: Mr. Landry standing straight-backed despite the effort it required, wide shoulders square, a look that could be mistaken for either severe disgruntle or mild anger stuck on his face, blue eyes hooded with drooped lids, yet as sharp as only a soldier’s can be, gray hair still trimmed in the military-style crew cut. Gray slacks ironed, and his progressions of steps slow but strong. Then the old man falling, having misjudged the top stair made of concrete. Stumbling, descending the hard stairs and fracturing his right ankle, his good ankle, and bruising his tailbone before catching himself on the metal railing, jerking his left shoulder back with the weight-yanking impact.

  If I was to get to class on time this morning Mr. Landry would not shed a tear as he sat in agony on the cold steps, though the weather was still quite warm even at this early hour. I would get to class on time, but Mr. Landry would have to struggle his way back into his apartment and call for help. He would need serious medical attention.

  My first class this morning was American Literature, and while I respected the instructor’s intellect, she was strict about tardiness, which made me dislike her just a touch. I had on multiple occasions seen her stop to spare a few words for those who dared to show up late, embarrassing the person and drawing attention to their tardiness. The way I saw it, it was more of a distraction to stop the class and to address the person than to let the latecomer slip in quietly and take their seat. But she seemed to take it as a personal offence. Today I would be the offender.

  I didn’t begrudge Mr. Landry the help he unknowingly required of me. For the past four years I have looked over him, and it has helped me in personally atoning myself. A few months ago I had a vision of him going to bed and leaving the stove on. Images of smoke and flames went flashing through my head. It was about eight at night. I was in the shower with conditioner in my hair. For twenty whole minutes I knocked on his door in my robe, still dripping wet, before he got out of bed and answered my calls.

  “You luh-left your stove on, sir,” I’d said, shifting uncomfortably as a result of my attire.

  His bushy brows furrowed, and he’d studied me for a bit. “Okay,” he’d said, “Thanks, Joe,” and shut his door.

  What I liked most about Mr. Landry was that he didn’t ask questions. Ever. In our four-year acquaintance I had come to him several times with random statements such as this, and he had accepted them as easily as children do the ideas of magic and imagination. He always thanked me, and took my words as truth. He knew I was different but didn’t concern to know the details. Mr. Landry was a good man.

  The door to his apartment swung open. I finished the paragraph I was reading before replacing my book in my backpack. A glance down at my watch read seven-twenty. I stood from my seat on the concrete stair and put my arms through the straps of my backpack. From inside the apartment emerged Mr. Landry, in his crisp gray slacks and buzzed gray hair. He didn’t smile when he saw me. I was not offended. I have never seen him smile.

  In his aged voice, he said, “Gonna be late for school, Joe.”

  I waved a hand in dismissal. “Be fine, s-sir.”

  Mr. Landry paused before closing the door behind him. “Do I need an umbrella?” he asked.

  I shook my head, speaking slowly to ensure the fluency of my words. “I would uh-appreciate it if you would assist me in my wuh-walk down the stairs this morning.”

  Mr. Landry grunted and held out his elbow. I laced my arm through his. “So, no rain today?” he asked.

  “Wuh-wouldn’t know, sir,” I replied.

  He said nothing else. We descended the stairs together. I held onto the handrail. He followed suit. When we reached the bottom of the concrete stairs unscathed, he released me and turned in the direction of his black Lincoln Town Car. “Thanks, Joe,” he toss
ed over his shoulder.

  “Ditto,” I said.

  I dashed over to my beat-up El Camino and threw my backpack onto the cracked red leather single seat on the passenger side. The time was seven-twenty-three. I didn’t need clairvoyance to know I was going to be stammering apologies as I entered American Literature ten minutes later than scheduled.

  ***

  I ended up being eight minutes late instead of ten. I didn’t allow myself to pause outside of the classroom door, even though I wanted desperately to take a few moments to steel myself before entering the classroom. Nine minutes late seemed somehow infinitely worse than eight.

  Pushing the door open, I stepped inside and closed it behind me as might a past-curfew teenager. I cringed inside at the silence in the room. The class was not a large one, consisting of only about thirty-five students and the instructor, so the size of the room itself was not much bigger than those more common to a community college. I made it three steps to my seat before Professor Johnson interrupted me. I stood in my tracks.

  She said, “You’re late.”

  I could feel the oven click on behind my cheeks. I nodded, and resumed my progress to a desk. I usually preferred sitting in the back row. My goal at the moment was the nearest open seat. Apparently, my nod hadn’t been a sufficient response.

  “What’s your name?” Professor Johnson asked, her tone flat and unpleasant.

  My lips pressed into a hard, thin line. I stared down at my Converses, letting my hair fall forward a little into my face as I continued my dash to a desk. I could feel the students in the classroom staring at the new focus of the instructor’s lesson: me. I opened my mouth to reply, shut it, pressed my lips together. I could feel the word sticking to the back of my throat, and my head dipped and bobbed a couple times as I struggled to release it. “Juh-Juh,” I began, snapping my lips together and taking a deep breath. “Juh-Joe,” I said. I took my seat.