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2-13-15
For everyone who has been patiently waiting for the audiobook version of PHOENIX, it's available! Just go to Audible and, if you're a new member, download it for free. Thanks! _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 
10-10-14
All this month, go to my Facebook page for a chance to win a signed copy of Phoenix! Just click on the link at the top of this page. New contests every week until Halloween. I've been hearing back from readers concerning Phoenix, and what I've been hearing is, "Don't read this one before the others!" Sure, while it can be read as a stand-alone, some pretty key reveals throughout the story lose their punch. And unfortunately, I didn't realize this until now. Authors tend to go blind when it comes to their own work, and I'm no exception. So I want to thank those of you who've pointed this out to me, and a huge thank-you to everyone who has been spreading the word. I promise to try harder at avoiding brain-farts in the future. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
PHOENIX is now available in all formats.
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Early Praise for PHOENIX:
"PHOENIX is the kind of psychological thriller you don't expect in a tale of the zombie apocalypse; Dulaney's got parallel paths to hell, and they're all great rides." -Thom Brannan, author of SAD WINGS OF DESTINY and LORDS OF NIGHT
"Just when you think the story is over...
A master of her craft, C. Dulaney hits us with a fresh take on her own brand of the apocalypse. PHOENIX expands the RLT universe, providing more depth to the story than ever before. A must-read for zombie aficionados." - Clyde Wolfe, author of DOWN DARKENED PATHS, THE SIEGE OF ANTRELL, and GUARDIANS: DESOLATE SOULS
"One part X-Files, two parts X-Men, and three parts The Walking Dead make for a fantastic fourth book for ROADS LESS TRAVELED." - Peter Clines, author of the EX- series and -14-
“Walking corpses, tortured psychics, covert agencies, an unstoppable pandemic, and a slow-burning apocalypse that a few can see coming but are powerless to prevent… C. Dulaney’s PHOENIX is the stuff that all your paranoid nightmares are made of.” - Rob Pegler, author of COPPERTOWN RED
“Crisp, elegant prose makes this zombie novel stand well above its peers. With ROADS LESS TRAVELED: PHOENIX, book four in her series, Dulaney proves she has full grasp of her world and the characters inhabiting it. Character development was excellent, the story flowed well, and the action spot on. I had a hard time putting this novel down and you will too!” - R. Thomas Riley, author of IF GOD DOESN’T SHOW and THE MONSTER WITHIN IDEA
"Dulaney has once again crafted a story which raises the bar in the genre. Fans of the ROADS LESS TRAVELED series are in for one helluva ride!" – Michael S. Gardner, author of DOWNFALL
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Early Praise for PHOENIX:
"PHOENIX is the kind of psychological thriller you don't expect in a tale of the zombie apocalypse; Dulaney's got parallel paths to hell, and they're all great rides." -Thom Brannan, author of SAD WINGS OF DESTINY and LORDS OF NIGHT
"Just when you think the story is over...
A master of her craft, C. Dulaney hits us with a fresh take on her own brand of the apocalypse. PHOENIX expands the RLT universe, providing more depth to the story than ever before. A must-read for zombie aficionados." - Clyde Wolfe, author of DOWN DARKENED PATHS, THE SIEGE OF ANTRELL, and GUARDIANS: DESOLATE SOULS
"One part X-Files, two parts X-Men, and three parts The Walking Dead make for a fantastic fourth book for ROADS LESS TRAVELED." - Peter Clines, author of the EX- series and -14-
“Walking corpses, tortured psychics, covert agencies, an unstoppable pandemic, and a slow-burning apocalypse that a few can see coming but are powerless to prevent… C. Dulaney’s PHOENIX is the stuff that all your paranoid nightmares are made of.” - Rob Pegler, author of COPPERTOWN RED
“Crisp, elegant prose makes this zombie novel stand well above its peers. With ROADS LESS TRAVELED: PHOENIX, book four in her series, Dulaney proves she has full grasp of her world and the characters inhabiting it. Character development was excellent, the story flowed well, and the action spot on. I had a hard time putting this novel down and you will too!” - R. Thomas Riley, author of IF GOD DOESN’T SHOW and THE MONSTER WITHIN IDEA
"Dulaney has once again crafted a story which raises the bar in the genre. Fans of the ROADS LESS TRAVELED series are in for one helluva ride!" – Michael S. Gardner, author of DOWNFALL
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The release of PHOENIX (the next book in the ROADS LESS TRAVELED series) is just around the corner, so here's a little something to wet your appetite...
Wait. I should probably explain something first. This next installment isn't a direct sequel to SHADES OF GRAY. You need to know that before you grab this one up thinking it is, then immediately try beating me over the head with it when you find out it's not.
It's more of a parallel story. The events in PHOENIX take place during the events of books 1-3. We also follow a new cast of characters, though you may or may not get a visit or three from some old, familiar faces. Those of you who have followed the series should recognize our protagonist, Brad, from the ending of SHADES OF GRAY. It's his story we see, and how everything ties together.
And you'll also find that Kasey and the old gang may be in for a world of hurt down the road...
Now, a preview from PHOENIX.
***
Chapter One
“Have the locations been agreed upon?” said a man wearing a black suit not unlike all the others floating about. Ignorant businessmen on their way to work, rushing to meetings, or perhaps rendezvousing with a mistress. He cared little. His business was with the gentleman sitting at the other end of the bench.
“Yes, sir. The group has been in contact with our colleagues around the world. All locations have been determined and preparations have begun.”
They sat next to a fountain, located in the center of a vestibule of some kind. The details were hazy. The people passing to and fro were vague, humanoid figures carrying briefcases. Only the two men speaking in clandestine tones were clear, a stark contrast to the rest of the scene. Suit Number One was pale-skinned with a thin mustache. His head was nearly bald, though what was there had signs of gray streaking through the dishwater blonde. He was slight of build, narrow at the shoulders and a torso that barely filled out his jacket. Suit Number Two was night to One’s day. Head full of brown hair, clean-shaven face, and hands that could grip Number One’s skull like a basketball. Two was younger than his bench-mate, and judging from his body posture, he was inferior in rank as well.
“Very good. Return and report that I am awaiting instructions.” With that, the older Suit stood and blended with the crowd, disappearing from the younger Suit’s sight. He, in turn, lingered a few moments longer, so as not to draw attention.
The image gradually faded, like a window fogging over on a cold winter’s day, and then it was gone.
A steady murmuring had been coming from the television for the past hour, ever since the Late Late show had wrapped up and was replaced with useless infomercials peddling useless bullshit. The man reclined in his Lay-Z-Boy took no notice; he was passed out drunk. This happened often, though admittedly it had become more frequent in the past couple months. His eyes fluttered beneath their lids, his breath came in short gasps, and his heart pounded within his chest. It always happened this way when he dreamed. Most would call it an active imagination. Some still would blame the booze. Drunk or not, it didn’t matter.
Nothing stopped the dreams anymore.
Suddenly his body went rigid. His breath caught in his throat. Brad’s eyes moved faster now; the second dream was beginning.
The city was burning. Sirens blared near and far. The sky was red, the streets were red, everywhere he looked, Brad saw red. He witnessed people being dragged from their homes, from their cars, from their beds. Above it all, hovering in the sky over the flames, were six spectral figures. Larger than life, filling the heavens. Watching over all they had created.
This one always followed on the heels of the first. While his dreams of the men in suits always varied, this one remained the same. Always the same, no matter how much whiskey he soaked his brain in. Brad’s longtime friend and mentor, Mort Kinney, had theorized that alcohol might actually increase dream frequency, and that getting skunk-faced drunk would be counterproductive. Brad didn’t care. He just wanted them to stop. If he could have one night, only one night of relief. He didn’t think that was too much to ask.
The foot of the recliner slammed down and Brad was on his feet. He thought he heard screaming, but realized it had been coming from his own mouth. Unfortunately, that moment of fear-induced lucidity ended quickly.
“Shit,” Brad mumbled, then fell to his knees next to the small trashcan beside his chair and proceeded to lose the sweet and sour chicken he’d eaten before passing out. Arms braced around the can, he groaned and waited for it to pass.
This has to stop, he thought. I can’t do this anymore.
He rested his sweaty forehead in the crook of his arm, wishing the world would stop spinning long enough so he could at least crawl back into his recliner. This wasn’t his first time around the block, however. He knew a whirling room meant more vomiting was most likely imminent. The phone started ringing during the second bout. The clock next to it said it was only three in the morning. Whoever was calling could leave a message.
Brad leaned heavily on the trashcan, his head limp against his arms. He didn’t even bother trying to see what name was showing on the caller ID; he knew who it was.
“Pick up. I know you’re there.”
Brad spit a few times and coughed. “Kiss my ass.”
Feeling the nausea pass, he fell back against the chair and stared at the answering machine. It was on the end table next to him, right behind his puke receptacle. The voice squawking from it belonged to Mort.
“Goddamn it, Brad. Pick. Up. The. Phone.”
“I’m not here right now,” he said to his television. His voice was raspy. “Please leave a message after the beep.” Then he laughed. Yeah, I’m still drunk.
“That’s it. I’m coming over.”
Brad jerked and started scrambling to reach the receiver, but the booze made him slow and clumsy. Mort hung up before he could answer.
“Oh, this is great.” He gripped his hair with both hands. “This is just fucking great.”
***
Ten minutes later, Mort was letting himself into Brad’s apartment.
“Hey, asshole! You left your door unlocked! You better be sick or dying in there!” Mort tossed his car keys on the small stand just inside and hung up his jacket. The nights had been unseasonably cold for August, and the days weren’t much better.
He flipped lights on as he walked through the apartment. The only noise he could hear was coming from the TV in the living room. Mort stopped in the kitchen and stared. Trash littered the floor, dirty dishes filled the sink and were scattered all over the countertop. The microwave door stood open with something half-cooked inside. Mort thought he saw a fly buzzing over whatever it had been. It looked to be at least a week old. What linoleum wasn’t hidden by scraps of garbage and pieces of food was covered in muddy boot prints.
“Jesus-wept,” he whispered.
Shaking his head, Mort moved on to the living room. There his friend lay, on his back. One leg was bent and the other was stuck between the end table and the recliner, a small trash can between his thighs. Brad’s arms were spread wide and his face was turned away, toward the TV. Mort could tell by the rise and fall of his chest that his friend wasn’t asleep. Several different things leapt to the front of his brain. Sarcastic remarks, barking orders, nagging complaints. Instead of voicing these, which he had a right to do, he walked over and grabbed Brad by the hand. After getting a good hold on his arm, Mort jerked him into a sitting position.
“Glad to see you’re not dead. Come on.”
Brad mumbled something, craning his neck to stare at the television screen.
Mort followed his line of sight. “What? It’s nothing but those damned Sham-Wows.” He struggled some more, finally getting Brad to his feet.
“It’s all red…” Brad whispered.
Mort pretended not to hear, instead turning his very drunk friend around and helping him toward his bedroom. Before turning the corner, Mort looked over his shoulder, back at the TV screen.
The lanky guy was still going on about those marvelous rags that, in Mort’s opinion, couldn’t even soak up spit.
“C’mon, buddy.” He patted Brad’s back. “Let’s get you to bed.”
***
Mort was busy over the stove when he heard the bathroom door slam shut. He tilted his head to listen, his spatula-hand paused over a pancake. Either Brad was coughing or puking again, he couldn’t be sure.
“Serves him right. I told him drinking wouldn’t help.” He spoke to the two pancakes as he scooped them from the skillet and tossed them onto a plate. “Didn’t I? Damn right I did.” Mort moved from the stovetop to the coffee pot, still mumbling complaints. He pulled a couple of mugs from the cabinet and filled them, making a snorting noise and shaking his head.
Heavy footsteps coming down the hall and toward the kitchen cut off the rest of Mort’s rant. He turned to see Brad enter, his hair standing out all over, clothes wrinkled and stained, large black circles under his eyes.
“You look like hell. Sit.” Mort nodded to the table in the center of the room and set a cup of coffee on it.
Brad wrinkled his nose. “You know I hate that crap.”
“Drink it anyway.”
Brad fell into the seat and hunched over the brew. He stared at it as though it had been the thing to bite him last night. Mort sipped his own, leaning back against the sink and a little more than slightly amused at his friend’s misery.
“You deserve to feel that bad, you know,” Mort said. “I’ve been warning you‒”
Brad choked down his first sip so he could interrupt. “Just how the hell would you know anything about it? Huh?” He lowered his voice and turned his disgusted look away from Mort and back on the coffee, where it belonged.
Mort’s only reply was a twitch of his bushy right eyebrow. Brad stared over the rim of his cup while Mort scowled down the ridge of his nose. After several ticks from the cheesy, spotted cat clock hanging beside the door, the older of the two decided to be the bigger man. Technically he was anyway. Mort was almost as big around as he was tall. For a man his age, it was considerably unhealthy.
“I’ve been warning you about the drinking. It won’t stop the dreams.” He carried his silverware and plate of pancakes over and sat down across from Brad. Mort didn’t see the face Brad made, or the lip-syncing, because he was aligning his fork and butter knife just so on the right side of his plate. “But I suppose, being young and full of piss and vinegar, you just had to find out for yourself. Couldn’t take my advice. Because you know it all.”
Brad glanced around the room and noticed he could see the kitchen floor. The trash had been picked up and the tiles mopped clean. His eyes moved to the countertops. Clean. Sink? Empty. His entire kitchen had been cleaned from floor to ceiling.
“Mort?” he asked with the cup still paused before his lips.
“And another thing. I’ve spent the better part of twenty years researching this, making contact and forming connections with people like us. And I’ve tried to teach you,” Mort barely paused before shoving a forkful of breakfast into his mouth, “how to live some semblance of a normal life. But still, you continue to‒”
“Mort.”
“What?”
“Did you clean?”
Mort’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “And that’s another thing!” He sprayed bits of flapjack, some of which landed directly on Brad’s nose and forehead.
Brad set his mug down and wiped at his face.
Mort scrambled for a napkin. “Sorry about that. But this pla‒”
Brad flung his hand up, palm out. He took a deep breath, rose from the table, and moved in a measured pace toward the bathroom. A moment later, Brad was retching and Mort was dumping the rest of his pancakes into the trash.
***
An hour later, Brad emerged from the bathroom freshly showered and shaved. He was still hung over, but no longer felt like killing Mort. As soon as he stepped through the doorway, he heard the vacuum running from somewhere in the vicinity of the living room.
“Jesus Christ,” Brad muttered and stomped through the apartment. He found Mort pushing the Hoover back and forth between the coffee table and the TV. “Hey!”
No response from Mort. He wasn’t pushing the vacuum back and forth as much as he was carefully maneuvering it around the furniture with the kind of precision that only comes from someone completely fixated on what they’re doing.
“Mort!” Brad barked.
Mort continued pushing and pulling the Hoover around the legs of the coffee table, underneath the coffee table, then along the edges of the TV stand. The expanse of carpet between the two pieces of furniture he broke up into a grid, and ran the vacuum over each column five times before moving on to the next.
Brad muttered to himself, “I hate it when he does this,” then he walked up behind Mort and poked his shoulder.
Mort stiffened, skipped sideways a few steps, and brought his fists up.
“Whoa, whoa, easy,” Brad coaxed. He grabbed hold of Mort to steady him.
“How many times have I told you? Don’t do that!” Mort jerked free and bent to right the fallen Hoover.
“Right. You’re right. Here, let me help.” He took the sweeper’s cord from Mort’s hands. “Hey… thanks for cleaning up.”
Mort snatched the cord back and glared at Brad, then started rolling it around its hanger. Brad didn’t argue. The second he saw Mort’s lips moving, he knew the older man was counting the number of times the cord was wrapped, so he backed off and gave Mort some space. Brad sat down in his recliner and waited until the vacuum was put away in the hall closet. “Hey, I’m sorry. You okay?”
Mort ignored him and took a seat on the couch. “We need to talk.”
Brad raised a finger. “Every time you say that, I end up getting lectured.”
“No.” Mort shook his head. “Not a lecture.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “I’m worried about you.”
“I know, I know.” Brad waved it off and slumped back. “I already know what you’re going to say.”
“Damn right you do. You know what I’m going to have for dinner tonight, know what I’ll watch on television. You can know anything you want, Brad, if you’d only try.” Mort sighed. “And that’s why you also know what’s at the end of this road you’ve put yourself on. Hell, you’re driving it like you stole it. Are you really going to sit there and pretend you have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“I was right. Lecture.”
Brad stood to leave, but Mort latched onto his arm. “Please, please, talk to me. Let me help you before it’s too late.”
Brad stared into Mort’s pleading eyes. He knew what his friend had been talking about. He wasn’t fooling himself; Brad knew he was self-destructing. What surprised Brad, though, was Mort hadn’t yet figured out that he was doing it intentionally.
The dreams would stop, one way or another. If he had to drink himself to death, or do something stupid like walk out in front of a bus, then that’s what he would do. The nights had driven Brad to the edge of his sanity.
“I’m going for a walk. Lock up when you leave.” He shook free of Mort’s grip and strode out the front door.
Mort, in turn, fell back into the couch and buried the sadness swelling inside him.
Wait. I should probably explain something first. This next installment isn't a direct sequel to SHADES OF GRAY. You need to know that before you grab this one up thinking it is, then immediately try beating me over the head with it when you find out it's not.
It's more of a parallel story. The events in PHOENIX take place during the events of books 1-3. We also follow a new cast of characters, though you may or may not get a visit or three from some old, familiar faces. Those of you who have followed the series should recognize our protagonist, Brad, from the ending of SHADES OF GRAY. It's his story we see, and how everything ties together.
And you'll also find that Kasey and the old gang may be in for a world of hurt down the road...
Now, a preview from PHOENIX.
***
Chapter One
“Have the locations been agreed upon?” said a man wearing a black suit not unlike all the others floating about. Ignorant businessmen on their way to work, rushing to meetings, or perhaps rendezvousing with a mistress. He cared little. His business was with the gentleman sitting at the other end of the bench.
“Yes, sir. The group has been in contact with our colleagues around the world. All locations have been determined and preparations have begun.”
They sat next to a fountain, located in the center of a vestibule of some kind. The details were hazy. The people passing to and fro were vague, humanoid figures carrying briefcases. Only the two men speaking in clandestine tones were clear, a stark contrast to the rest of the scene. Suit Number One was pale-skinned with a thin mustache. His head was nearly bald, though what was there had signs of gray streaking through the dishwater blonde. He was slight of build, narrow at the shoulders and a torso that barely filled out his jacket. Suit Number Two was night to One’s day. Head full of brown hair, clean-shaven face, and hands that could grip Number One’s skull like a basketball. Two was younger than his bench-mate, and judging from his body posture, he was inferior in rank as well.
“Very good. Return and report that I am awaiting instructions.” With that, the older Suit stood and blended with the crowd, disappearing from the younger Suit’s sight. He, in turn, lingered a few moments longer, so as not to draw attention.
The image gradually faded, like a window fogging over on a cold winter’s day, and then it was gone.
A steady murmuring had been coming from the television for the past hour, ever since the Late Late show had wrapped up and was replaced with useless infomercials peddling useless bullshit. The man reclined in his Lay-Z-Boy took no notice; he was passed out drunk. This happened often, though admittedly it had become more frequent in the past couple months. His eyes fluttered beneath their lids, his breath came in short gasps, and his heart pounded within his chest. It always happened this way when he dreamed. Most would call it an active imagination. Some still would blame the booze. Drunk or not, it didn’t matter.
Nothing stopped the dreams anymore.
Suddenly his body went rigid. His breath caught in his throat. Brad’s eyes moved faster now; the second dream was beginning.
The city was burning. Sirens blared near and far. The sky was red, the streets were red, everywhere he looked, Brad saw red. He witnessed people being dragged from their homes, from their cars, from their beds. Above it all, hovering in the sky over the flames, were six spectral figures. Larger than life, filling the heavens. Watching over all they had created.
This one always followed on the heels of the first. While his dreams of the men in suits always varied, this one remained the same. Always the same, no matter how much whiskey he soaked his brain in. Brad’s longtime friend and mentor, Mort Kinney, had theorized that alcohol might actually increase dream frequency, and that getting skunk-faced drunk would be counterproductive. Brad didn’t care. He just wanted them to stop. If he could have one night, only one night of relief. He didn’t think that was too much to ask.
The foot of the recliner slammed down and Brad was on his feet. He thought he heard screaming, but realized it had been coming from his own mouth. Unfortunately, that moment of fear-induced lucidity ended quickly.
“Shit,” Brad mumbled, then fell to his knees next to the small trashcan beside his chair and proceeded to lose the sweet and sour chicken he’d eaten before passing out. Arms braced around the can, he groaned and waited for it to pass.
This has to stop, he thought. I can’t do this anymore.
He rested his sweaty forehead in the crook of his arm, wishing the world would stop spinning long enough so he could at least crawl back into his recliner. This wasn’t his first time around the block, however. He knew a whirling room meant more vomiting was most likely imminent. The phone started ringing during the second bout. The clock next to it said it was only three in the morning. Whoever was calling could leave a message.
Brad leaned heavily on the trashcan, his head limp against his arms. He didn’t even bother trying to see what name was showing on the caller ID; he knew who it was.
“Pick up. I know you’re there.”
Brad spit a few times and coughed. “Kiss my ass.”
Feeling the nausea pass, he fell back against the chair and stared at the answering machine. It was on the end table next to him, right behind his puke receptacle. The voice squawking from it belonged to Mort.
“Goddamn it, Brad. Pick. Up. The. Phone.”
“I’m not here right now,” he said to his television. His voice was raspy. “Please leave a message after the beep.” Then he laughed. Yeah, I’m still drunk.
“That’s it. I’m coming over.”
Brad jerked and started scrambling to reach the receiver, but the booze made him slow and clumsy. Mort hung up before he could answer.
“Oh, this is great.” He gripped his hair with both hands. “This is just fucking great.”
***
Ten minutes later, Mort was letting himself into Brad’s apartment.
“Hey, asshole! You left your door unlocked! You better be sick or dying in there!” Mort tossed his car keys on the small stand just inside and hung up his jacket. The nights had been unseasonably cold for August, and the days weren’t much better.
He flipped lights on as he walked through the apartment. The only noise he could hear was coming from the TV in the living room. Mort stopped in the kitchen and stared. Trash littered the floor, dirty dishes filled the sink and were scattered all over the countertop. The microwave door stood open with something half-cooked inside. Mort thought he saw a fly buzzing over whatever it had been. It looked to be at least a week old. What linoleum wasn’t hidden by scraps of garbage and pieces of food was covered in muddy boot prints.
“Jesus-wept,” he whispered.
Shaking his head, Mort moved on to the living room. There his friend lay, on his back. One leg was bent and the other was stuck between the end table and the recliner, a small trash can between his thighs. Brad’s arms were spread wide and his face was turned away, toward the TV. Mort could tell by the rise and fall of his chest that his friend wasn’t asleep. Several different things leapt to the front of his brain. Sarcastic remarks, barking orders, nagging complaints. Instead of voicing these, which he had a right to do, he walked over and grabbed Brad by the hand. After getting a good hold on his arm, Mort jerked him into a sitting position.
“Glad to see you’re not dead. Come on.”
Brad mumbled something, craning his neck to stare at the television screen.
Mort followed his line of sight. “What? It’s nothing but those damned Sham-Wows.” He struggled some more, finally getting Brad to his feet.
“It’s all red…” Brad whispered.
Mort pretended not to hear, instead turning his very drunk friend around and helping him toward his bedroom. Before turning the corner, Mort looked over his shoulder, back at the TV screen.
The lanky guy was still going on about those marvelous rags that, in Mort’s opinion, couldn’t even soak up spit.
“C’mon, buddy.” He patted Brad’s back. “Let’s get you to bed.”
***
Mort was busy over the stove when he heard the bathroom door slam shut. He tilted his head to listen, his spatula-hand paused over a pancake. Either Brad was coughing or puking again, he couldn’t be sure.
“Serves him right. I told him drinking wouldn’t help.” He spoke to the two pancakes as he scooped them from the skillet and tossed them onto a plate. “Didn’t I? Damn right I did.” Mort moved from the stovetop to the coffee pot, still mumbling complaints. He pulled a couple of mugs from the cabinet and filled them, making a snorting noise and shaking his head.
Heavy footsteps coming down the hall and toward the kitchen cut off the rest of Mort’s rant. He turned to see Brad enter, his hair standing out all over, clothes wrinkled and stained, large black circles under his eyes.
“You look like hell. Sit.” Mort nodded to the table in the center of the room and set a cup of coffee on it.
Brad wrinkled his nose. “You know I hate that crap.”
“Drink it anyway.”
Brad fell into the seat and hunched over the brew. He stared at it as though it had been the thing to bite him last night. Mort sipped his own, leaning back against the sink and a little more than slightly amused at his friend’s misery.
“You deserve to feel that bad, you know,” Mort said. “I’ve been warning you‒”
Brad choked down his first sip so he could interrupt. “Just how the hell would you know anything about it? Huh?” He lowered his voice and turned his disgusted look away from Mort and back on the coffee, where it belonged.
Mort’s only reply was a twitch of his bushy right eyebrow. Brad stared over the rim of his cup while Mort scowled down the ridge of his nose. After several ticks from the cheesy, spotted cat clock hanging beside the door, the older of the two decided to be the bigger man. Technically he was anyway. Mort was almost as big around as he was tall. For a man his age, it was considerably unhealthy.
“I’ve been warning you about the drinking. It won’t stop the dreams.” He carried his silverware and plate of pancakes over and sat down across from Brad. Mort didn’t see the face Brad made, or the lip-syncing, because he was aligning his fork and butter knife just so on the right side of his plate. “But I suppose, being young and full of piss and vinegar, you just had to find out for yourself. Couldn’t take my advice. Because you know it all.”
Brad glanced around the room and noticed he could see the kitchen floor. The trash had been picked up and the tiles mopped clean. His eyes moved to the countertops. Clean. Sink? Empty. His entire kitchen had been cleaned from floor to ceiling.
“Mort?” he asked with the cup still paused before his lips.
“And another thing. I’ve spent the better part of twenty years researching this, making contact and forming connections with people like us. And I’ve tried to teach you,” Mort barely paused before shoving a forkful of breakfast into his mouth, “how to live some semblance of a normal life. But still, you continue to‒”
“Mort.”
“What?”
“Did you clean?”
Mort’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “And that’s another thing!” He sprayed bits of flapjack, some of which landed directly on Brad’s nose and forehead.
Brad set his mug down and wiped at his face.
Mort scrambled for a napkin. “Sorry about that. But this pla‒”
Brad flung his hand up, palm out. He took a deep breath, rose from the table, and moved in a measured pace toward the bathroom. A moment later, Brad was retching and Mort was dumping the rest of his pancakes into the trash.
***
An hour later, Brad emerged from the bathroom freshly showered and shaved. He was still hung over, but no longer felt like killing Mort. As soon as he stepped through the doorway, he heard the vacuum running from somewhere in the vicinity of the living room.
“Jesus Christ,” Brad muttered and stomped through the apartment. He found Mort pushing the Hoover back and forth between the coffee table and the TV. “Hey!”
No response from Mort. He wasn’t pushing the vacuum back and forth as much as he was carefully maneuvering it around the furniture with the kind of precision that only comes from someone completely fixated on what they’re doing.
“Mort!” Brad barked.
Mort continued pushing and pulling the Hoover around the legs of the coffee table, underneath the coffee table, then along the edges of the TV stand. The expanse of carpet between the two pieces of furniture he broke up into a grid, and ran the vacuum over each column five times before moving on to the next.
Brad muttered to himself, “I hate it when he does this,” then he walked up behind Mort and poked his shoulder.
Mort stiffened, skipped sideways a few steps, and brought his fists up.
“Whoa, whoa, easy,” Brad coaxed. He grabbed hold of Mort to steady him.
“How many times have I told you? Don’t do that!” Mort jerked free and bent to right the fallen Hoover.
“Right. You’re right. Here, let me help.” He took the sweeper’s cord from Mort’s hands. “Hey… thanks for cleaning up.”
Mort snatched the cord back and glared at Brad, then started rolling it around its hanger. Brad didn’t argue. The second he saw Mort’s lips moving, he knew the older man was counting the number of times the cord was wrapped, so he backed off and gave Mort some space. Brad sat down in his recliner and waited until the vacuum was put away in the hall closet. “Hey, I’m sorry. You okay?”
Mort ignored him and took a seat on the couch. “We need to talk.”
Brad raised a finger. “Every time you say that, I end up getting lectured.”
“No.” Mort shook his head. “Not a lecture.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “I’m worried about you.”
“I know, I know.” Brad waved it off and slumped back. “I already know what you’re going to say.”
“Damn right you do. You know what I’m going to have for dinner tonight, know what I’ll watch on television. You can know anything you want, Brad, if you’d only try.” Mort sighed. “And that’s why you also know what’s at the end of this road you’ve put yourself on. Hell, you’re driving it like you stole it. Are you really going to sit there and pretend you have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“I was right. Lecture.”
Brad stood to leave, but Mort latched onto his arm. “Please, please, talk to me. Let me help you before it’s too late.”
Brad stared into Mort’s pleading eyes. He knew what his friend had been talking about. He wasn’t fooling himself; Brad knew he was self-destructing. What surprised Brad, though, was Mort hadn’t yet figured out that he was doing it intentionally.
The dreams would stop, one way or another. If he had to drink himself to death, or do something stupid like walk out in front of a bus, then that’s what he would do. The nights had driven Brad to the edge of his sanity.
“I’m going for a walk. Lock up when you leave.” He shook free of Mort’s grip and strode out the front door.
Mort, in turn, fell back into the couch and buried the sadness swelling inside him.
