Kiss of the Lazaretto: The Trilogy Comes to an End

After many years of work, and a great deal of sweat, blood, and thrills, I'm finally closing the door on the Lazaretto Trilogy with book three, Kiss of the Lazaretto.  A reader once asked me why Gregor Lepov seemed so defeated, adding " He hasn't given up, but his dreams have certainly shrunk."  She was sure there was someone to blame for his troubles.  Would it surprise anyone to learn that there's a woman lurking in his past?  That might explain why he's a little rough on the women he meets.

Lepov's past catches up to him when his ex-wife Gloria arrives in the Lazaretto.  Even worse, against his better judgement, he agrees to allow her to hire him.  He knows it's a bad idea but he also knows it just might be the best way to keep an eye on her as well as a way to help get her out of the Lazaretto as soon as possible. 

In the following excerpt, Lepov arrives at his apartment to find Gloria waiting for him.  He's been expecting her to try something like this, and wondering how he would respond.  After all, old habits die hard.  Even the bad ones.  Especially the bad ones.

"Here's to foolish people doing foolish things."

(excerpt from Kiss of the Lazaretto)

  She was there, sitting on the top step, huddled against the wall, difficult to see in the stairwell’s poor lighting.  A shadow hid her face, but he could see her eyes, big and scared and he knew it was an act before she said the first word.

  He climbed the last steps, brushing past her without saying a word.  He pushed through the door and let it swing shut without waiting for her.

  Gripping the handle of his apartment door, he heard the door lock disengage.  She hadn’t followed him yet.  He stepped into his front room and left the door open.

  Maybe she really hadn’t been there.  Maybe she was just the product of an unbalanced nervous system.  Maybe it really was just a lack of vitamins as Lilly had insisted.  How nice to think that Gloria would go away if he diligently took his supplements.

  He heard the door beside the elevator finally swing open, its rusty hinges seemingly louder than usual.  Her heels tapped lightly on the wooden floor; her pace too measured to suggest she was upset.  She was, as she always had been, firmly in control.

  He pulled off his coat and stood a few steps inside the door, waiting for her.  When she finally appeared, she stopped at the door, partially hiding herself behind the frame.  She leaned against it, her head tilted so that half of her face was illuminated from the lamp in his front room.

  “If you’re waiting for an invitation you’ll have to stand there a very long time.  I never invite clients into my home.  It’s not professional.”

  “Grey…” her voice was almost too soft to be heard.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” he said, tossing his coat on a hook behind the door.  He turned his back on her and walked away.  “I don’t hear as well as I use to.”

  “Grey, wait!”

  “I’m not gonna wait!”  He spun around and fought the urge to strike out at her.  “I waited plenty when you left.  Gave you time to make as big a mistake as any husband was willing to put up with.  I was willing to wait then.  I waited too long.  You didn’t know that, did you?  You moved on and never looked back.  I’ll bet it never dawned on you that your husband was standing still, letting life flow by him as he waited for you to return.  You can ask me to work for you and what’s-his-name, but you don’t get to ask me to wait anymore!”

  He retreated deeper into the apartment, hoping she would leave.  He jerked open his refrigerator, its single bulb shining bright in the dark kitchen.  There was nothing there he wanted.  He’d opened it just so his hands would have something to do.  Just so his hands wouldn’t ball into fists.

  The glow of the light bulb shone on the counter and he saw his half empty bottle of bourbon.  He slammed the door and grabbed the bottle.

  “Grey.”  She’d followed him.  She was just inside the kitchen now.  “You’re angry at me.”

  “Angry at you?”  He reached next to the sink and switched on a light.  It’s harsh blue-white glare caught her by surprise and she winced.  He grabbed two empty glasses and tossed them on the counter.  One of them fell over.  Righting it, he poured out drinks for both of them.  “Why would I be angry with you?  You left me because I bored you.  Now you show up here with husband number…three, isn’t it?  Or was there another one crammed in there between this guy and the one I carried the furniture for?

  “Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter.  This present husband of yours walks into my office with you in tail and you announce that you’re not only involved in a criminal undertaking but you’re also going to emotionally blackmail me into helping you.  You’ve got me tracking down your new lover and now you show up because you want to remind me that your husband is a danger to you and me and your missing lover.

  “I’m not angry with you, Gloria.  I actually think I’m more amused than angry.  You really ought to see what this looks like from my side of the rubber room.”

  He gave her one of the glasses and lifted his with a nod of his head.

  “Here’s to foolish people doing foolish things.”

  “You aren’t foolish,” she said, grabbing his hand to prevent him from taking the drink.  “Maybe I am, but you’re anything but foolish.  It’s why I came to you.  Why I convinced Kry that we should hire you.  I knew that once you were involved, you’d know the best way to deal with this.”

  He pulled away from her and finally took that drink.  She took a sip of hers before speaking again.

  “At least you aren’t angry, Grey.  That’s important to me.”

  “I never said I wasn’t angry, Gloria.  You’re missing the point.  I said I wasn’t angry at you.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry at me.  And I can assure you that I’m plenty angry with me.  I hate watching a man stick his head into a noose for no logical reason.”

  “You can quit if that’s what you want.  I would walk away and I wouldn’t come back.  If it’s what you really want.”

  “Oh, don’t be a hero.”  He poured a second drink—he was well aware how bad an idea that was—and carried it into the front room.  He set it on a side table and began unrolling his sleeves.  The room was becoming unexpectedly hot.  “You really don’t get it, do you?  If I thought I could just quit this job whenever I decided you and Dannen had lied to me one too many times, I wouldn’t be angry with myself.  But I knew full well the moment I said I’d listen to your story I was in this thing all the way.  I knew you’d get hold of me and I wouldn’t be able to get free.  And don’t stand there with those big eyes and your innocent look of surprise!  You knew it too.  You probably even knew it before the first day you rode the elevator to my office.  You counted on it.”

  “Grey—”

  “And cut out that Grey nonsense, Mrs. Dannen.  Cut out all of it and tell me why you’re here—the truth—or so help me God I’m gonna throw you down those stairs.”  He tossed down the second drink and wanted badly to throw the glass at her.  Instead, he dropped it on the table and dropped himself into the corner of his sofa.

  Lepov’s head was spinning.  The drinks weren’t to blame, but they weren’t helping either.  He knew he was overreacting to her but he couldn’t find a way to turn it off.  Her scared eyes and shaky voice had not only failed to elicit his compassion, they had awakened a dormant anger he had not realized still existed.  He took several deep breaths and stared at her, willing her to either explain herself or exit the apartment.  He didn’t care which one she chose.

  “I told you I can help you find him.  But you have to promise me—you have be sure you don’t tell Kry when you’ve found him.  Tell me.  Only me.  Kry would kill him.”

  She had slowly been moving toward him.  Now, she stood beside him.  The light was behind her and he could only see her silhouette.

  “And you too, I suppose?”  His tone had softened.  He recognized that it had and though he didn’t want it to, he couldn’t hold on to his earlier fury.

  “I don’t know.”  Her words a mere whisper.

  “So tell me where he is.”

  “Promise first.”  She put a hand on his.

  “Not to tell your husband where your lover’s hiding?”

  She pulled her hand back.  “I told you he’s not my lover.  You’re being just as jealous as Kry.”

  “It’s an inherent fault with all past and present husbands.  We don’t like our wives running around with future husbands.”

  “He’s not a future husband.  And the only man Kry really needs to worry about is—” she slowly sank onto the edge of the sofa.  Before he could stop her, she’d leaned against him and her lips brushed his.  He turned away at the last moment.  Her kiss wet his cheek.

  “You just called me your wife.”  Her breath was hot.  The drinks were souring his stomach.  He pushed her away but she resisted.

  “So now you’re gonna tell me where to find Jardyn, and I tell you where he is, and you two slip off into the night and Dannen gets drunk and waits for you long enough to realize you’re never coming back.  Is that the picture you were hoping to draw?”

  “It isn’t my first choice.  There are other possible outcomes.”

  “Yeah, I guess there are.”  He turned to look in her eyes.  He had to know just how far gone he was.  He needed to know if he had any chance of surviving her game.  He shifted so that he could put an arm around her, pulled her tight, and kissed her.  She was no longer resisting him.

  Despite the years, despite the bitterness, in that moment they were young lovers again, saturated with the familiarity that overtakes two people who have managed to become one: the taste of her mouth, the feel of her tongue on his, the knowledge that her hands would slide up between his shoulders even as his slid down the curve of her legs.  The feel, the smell, her transformation from scared girl to a hungry woman, it was a moment that Lepov had feared and desired and known he would have to conquer.

  He pulled back and looked into her eyes again.  She waited, her ragged breathing yet one more distraction.  He waited too.  Long enough to allow the fog to lift.

  “You’re gonna have to remember something, my dear.”

  “Okay, I will.”  She put her head against his shoulder.

  “I’m an investigator.  I may not be a damned good one, but I’m competent enough.  Enough that I’ve already found a witness who saw Louis Jardyn leave Alpha quadrant shortly after his pal Frobe was killed.  A witness who has a very good memory.  Good enough that his description of Jardyn’s traveling companion was very detailed.”

  She sat up, wide eyes sparkling in the lamplight.

  “You see, I would have known he was describing you even if I hadn’t known you were in the Lazaretto.”

She drew back and he was sure she was going to hit him.  Instead, she simply pushed away from him and stood to her feet.  "You’re trying too hard, Gloria.  And for no reason.  I told you I was going to find Jardyn.  I already agreed to the job.  Stop treating me like I’m made of glass.  I’m not gonna fall to pieces.  I’ll do what you want.  Because I want you out of here more than you want to get out of here.”

  “He called me the night Frobe was killed.  He was scared—”

  “I don’t want to hear your story.  I really don’t care.  I told you to tell me the truth.  You didn’t do it.  That was stupid.”  He could taste her lipstick on his lips and he wiped it away with two fingers.  “Now tell me the truth this time.  Do you know where he is?”

  “The Malibu Hotel.”

  “I already know about the Malibu.  He wasn’t there.  Something—someone spooked him.  Where was he supposed to go if that happened?”

  “He said he would leave a message.”

  “Where?”

  “With a bartender, at a little place called The Maple Leaf.”

  There were any number of reasons to kick her out and quit the case.  But the fact remained he wanted to do whatever it took to get her out of the Lazaretto.  The only real good news had been his victory over their past.  At least for that one moment he had proven that he could keep his head no matter how much she worked at confusing him.

  Now he just had to figure out a way to take all of her lies and reshape them into the truth.  If he could do that, he’d be a miracle worker.

Officially, the book's release is listed as April of this year but due to the oddities of modern-day publishing, the book is already available.  If you want, you can grab an early copy at the link below.  Signed copies are also available at Rocket Fire Books.

And be sure to get books one and two if you don't have them yet:

The Lazaretto on Sale

In anticipation of the release of the third book in the Lazaretto Trilogy, Rocket Fire Books is making book one, The Lazaretto available as a Kindle Countdown Deal.  This week, until Thursday, you can buy the Kindle version of this dark, thriller for just 99 cents.  After that, it will be $2.99 until the end of the week when it will go back to its full price.  So be sure to grab a copy if you don't have one already.

Cities of the Dead: Double Vision

Cities of the Dead, Jason Phillip Reeser

For newer readers of Room With No View, I'd like to let them know about my most popular book, which is perfect for this time of year.  Cities of the Dead is a ghost story collection set in the cemeteries of New Orleans, Louisiana.  Tales of ghosts, pirates, thieves, and dead rock-and-rollers can be found in this eclectic congregation of mystical chronicles.

Back in 2006, my wife and I took a guided tour of Lafayette Cemetery Number One in the historic Garden District of New Orleans.  It was the first time I'd been to one of the many above ground cemeteries that are nestled into the various neighborhoods of the Crescent City.  Due to the fact that the city sits below sea level, burying the dead is not possible, since the dead seemingly refuse to stay buried.  Citizens of the early city discovered that the saturated ground always shoved the dead back to the surface.  The simple response was to bury the dead above ground in crypts.  As a result, the cemeteries look like...well, let's let Mark Twain describe it.  His view on it sums it up the best:

Lafayette Cemetery Number One

There is no architecture in New Orleans, except in the cemeteries. They bury their dead in vaults above ground. These vaults have a resemblance to houses--sometimes to temples; are built of marble, generally; are architecturally graceful and shapely; they face the walks and driveways of the cemetery; and when one moves through the midst of a thousand or so of them, and sees their white roofs and gables stretching into the distance on every hand, the phrase 'city of the dead' has all at once a meaning to him. Many of the cemeteries are beautiful and kept in perfect order...if those people down there would live as neatly while they were alive as they do after they are dead, they would find many advantages to it.

Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi, 1880

During our 2006 tour, which was just one year after Hurricane Katrina devastated that venerable city, amid the rasping wail of power-saws and chattering hammer blows (evidence of New Orleans' second reconstruction phase), we followed our guide past sun-bleached sepulchers and vibrant green alleys of thick, recently mown grass.  As a writer, I was struck by the crowded nature of this necropolis.  I began to wonder just what it would be like for ghosts to live here.  We generally think of ghosts in lonely, empty places like an abandoned house or a distant moor.  But here, if a ghost were to haunt the earth, it would not be lonely.  It would, in fact, be heavily beset by other ghosts.  Many of the crypts are family crypts, and family members are stacked in on top of one another like chord-wood.  Imagine, I thought, what sort of complications would arise between them all?

At the 2012 Louisiana Book Festival--look for us again on Nov. 2, 2013

Before long, I had begun to write a few stories along this theme.  Over the next four or five years, I added more stories, until I'd completed thirteen of them.  It seemed an appropriate number on which to stop.  Since the book's publication, it has been well-received.  It is a mainstay on the tables of a handful of stores down in the French Quarter, and was a popular item during its release at the 2012 Louisiana Book Festival.

Several of the stories are available here at Room With No View.  Just click on the links below to read them.

The Wanting Dead  (originally printed in The Louisiana Review, Spring 2008)

The Soldiers' Home

And now for the Double Vision!  Beginning this month, Saint James Infirmary Books has made it possible for costumers who purchase the print version of COTD to receive a free eBook version along with it.  Even better, if you purchased a copy of this book through Amazon in the past, you can log in and receive your free eBook copy also.  We are offering the same free eBook copy from the Saint James Infirmary Books website.  If you purchased a print copy from us (and all of our copies can be signed if you request it) or you choose to purchase one from us now, we will send you a free eBook copy of the book.  So be sure to get a copy today if you don't already have one.

For more information on the book, check out our website here.

To order a signed copy, just click this link.

Or you can use one of the Amazon links below.  The Kindle edition is on the left, the print edition is on the right.

The Lady in the Lazaretto

This week marks the release of my second novel in the Lazaretto Trilogy: Lady in the Lazaretto.  If you missed out on the first book of the trilogy, you can read about it in my post A Preview of the Lazaretto.  The Lazaretto is a dark and disturbing world where travelers must endure a forty day quarantine before traveling from one planet to the next.  It is a passive quarantine.  Those travelers found to be carrying an infectious pathogen are not allowed to leave the Lazaretto.  The exile is a life sentence.

As he carves a new life on the quarantine moon first revealed in The Lazaretto, Gregor Lepov is hired to solve the perplexing disappearances of its citizens into a mysterious basement apartment. Detective Ed MacNally of Lazaretto Homicide is busy training his new partner, Menya Russell, with whom he is investigating the murder of a man whose body was recently uncovered after thirty years.

  Thieves, corpses, ladies and liars lure Lepov and MacNally into the Lazaretto’s disturbing past.  Has the killer that was active thirty years ago begun killing again?  And after Lepov is nearly killed by a woman who looks too much like Lilly Stewart, he must decide who he can really trust in a city that shuns faith and embraces fear.

The book is available in print and ebook editions.

Below is an excerpt from an opening scene of the book.

   Darkness had not yet settled over the Lazaretto as Lieutenant Ed MacNally and his young partner, Menya Russell, walked across the uneven surface of a West End landfill.  Shards of glass and broken sewer pipes mixed with decomposing soil to create an alien landscape that made walking both difficult and dangerous.  The sun, as much as could be seen through the overcast sky, was still out.  It would sink out of sight soon and already crews were assembling a large tripod topped with fiber optic lamps.  They were ancient, compared to the newer models MacNally’s partner had seen at the academy, but they would do the job.

   “Over here, detective.”  A haggard man in an ill-fitting suit waved MacNally toward a small ditch between two mounds of debris; the man’s skin as pockmarked and scarred as the ditch.

   MacNally found a semi-solid path that had been formed by a tracked vehicle and followed it into the ditch.  The soil there was dry and crumbly.  With all the recent rain, MacNally hadn’t thought that was possible.  Halfway down, MacNally realized it wasn’t dry soil.  It was plaster dust.  Each step he took crushed it into a trillion little dust particles that floated a few inches from the ground and never seemed to settle back down.

   Despite the freshly disturbed plaster dust, a body was visible in the deepest level of the ditch.  The fiber optic lamps cast a shimmer of light now, enough so the two detectives could see what all the fuss was about.  Midst the disjointed shapes of the broken soil and debris lay part of a body; the lower half of a human adult.  There was little left save for the bones and most of the synthetic clothes with which the body had been covered.  The legs were badly twisted; the feet buried in the soil.

   “It that all?”  MacNally asked the man with the scarred face.

   “We thought it was.  My operator stopped digging when he saw it.  We did some soft digging with hand shovels after he backed the rig out.  We almost gave up until we hit this.”

   MacNally’s eyes followed the man’s pointed finger.  A bundle of rags lay at the far end of the ditch, fifteen meters away.  MacNally made sure not to step on the lower half of the body and motioned for Russell to do the same as he traversed the ditch and stopped near the bundle of rags.

   “Looks like a match,” Russell said, no humor in his tone.

   The little dust cloud clung to the ground as if it were afraid to float away.  MacNally squatted down and fanned the plaster dust with big meaty hands to get a clearer view of the upper half of the body.  It was face down, its shoulders hunched forward, hands and arms strung out in front.  The rib cage, visible through the heavily torn shirt, was full of fresh soil.

   “I don’t guess it’s gonna help to take Visuals, huh?”  Russell held back a few steps and showed little interest in the skeleton.

   “Doesn’t matter,” MacNally shook his head.  “We run every Aspect.  Doesn’t matter that there isn’t much left.  There’s information here.  We just can’t see it yet.”

   “I didn’t mean that,” Russell mumbled.

   “What?”  MacNally turned with exasperation.  It didn’t take much for the young Arcobian to get on his nerves.  “If you’re gonna say something say it loud enough so I can hear ya.  I ain’t twenty years old anymore.”

   “I said I didn’t mean the Visuals wouldn’t pick up any data.  I meant we don’t have a reason to investigate.”  Russell did not raise his voice.

   “I still don’t hear him,” MacNally mumbled, though in fact he had.  He just hadn’t heard his partner make an attempt to speak louder.  “I say we investigate him and that’s good enough reason for you.  Okay?”

   Russell looked down at the rags with the same pinched expression he always wore when arguing with the Lieutenant, wrinkling his brow in a way that always made MacNally think the boy had swallowed a bug.

   “Okay,” he said.  “I’ll make sure the VTechs get a good set of shots.  And a full set of tests on the soil.  Do you want anything else?”

   “Maybe,” MacNally stood still for a few seconds, mesmerized by the remains of the man at his feet.  He felt around in his coat pockets until he found a pack of cigarettes and put one between his lips.  He put a silver lighter to it and his shadowed face was briefly lit.

   “You think he was buried here for a long time?”

   “I doubt it,” MacNally pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and used it to point.  “This soil looks fresh, it’s only been in it for a short time.  See how loose all this is?”

   “Well, that ain’t exactly soil,” the scarred man in the bad suit spoke up.  “This is debris from a building that was just torn down.  I figure the guy was inside the building—basement maybe.  When the rigs dug it up he was pulled out.  Something like that.”

   “Maybe he was just some guy who died before the building was erected,” Russell said, shrugging his shoulders.  “Maybe he died of natural causes and was buried and no one remembered he was there.”

   “Russell,” MacNally was almost patient in his reply, “I realize you had little warning before your transfer, but you could have bothered to learn something about this place.  The IHS is very particular about people here.  They keep a zero sum count of everyone here.  If you arrive, you either depart, you’re still here, or you die.  Besides, no one gets buried in the soil here.  There’s too much risk of contamination.  That’s why the burials are up on the high slope’s bedrock.”

   “Maybe your IHS isn’t as all-knowing as you imagine.”

   “Speaking of IHS, they ought to be here pretty soon.  Go back to the car and wait for them.  Tell them we got to get Visuals.”  MacNally watched Russell climb the unstable embankment.

   “He could be right,” the scarred man offered without invitation.

   MacNally glared at him until the man grew uncomfortable and retreated to the other end of the ditch.

   Once alone, MacNally knelt beside the skeletal remains, examining the outstretched hands.  With a flashlight no bigger than a pencil, he illuminated the bones of the right hand.

   “You stupid sonofabitch,” MacNally stuck his cigarette between his lips.  “I should have known you never made it out of here alive.”

   He brushed away enough of the dust to free the middle finger of the right hand and completely reveal a silver ring with a Cross of Lorraine on its crest.  MacNally gingerly removed the ring and dropped it in his coat pocket.

   A new cloud of dust appeared at his feet as he kicked at the debris surrounding the boney fingers, erasing the signs of what he’d done.

   This was the worst kind of end to a day.  A new investigation was about to begin, and while Ed MacNally knew the body’s identity, he wasn’t about to reveal it to anyone.  He was, in fact, going to have to keep anyone from quickly identifying those bones.
   MacNally watched Russell stumble back through the landfill with two VTechs in tow.  It was about to be one helluva week.

Below you can find the new versions (yellow is the print, grey is the ebook version) as well as a link to the first book.  If you are interested in a signed print copy, watch for it at rocketfirebooks.com.  It will be up on the website by the end of this week.

  

Sneak Preview of "The Lady in the Lazaretto"

"The Lady in the Lazaretto" is the second book in the Lazaretto Trilogy.  Watch for more information on it during the month of August.  The book will be released at the end of the month.

The World that Slid Downhill, a Sneak Pre-View

Cover art by Kathryn Reeser

The World that Slid Downhill is a novelette that I wrote a few years ago.  It is a little difficult to classify.  It has been called an adult fairy tale, post-modernist, metaphorical, even magical realism.  I'm not sure which of those is the most accurate.  What I do know is that it is a delightful, child-like story that takes a turn--a down-turn--into the surreal.

As the story begins, Harry is a child, with a normal, flat back yard.  He knows this to be true.  It is a fact in his life.  The yard is as "flat as a nickel."  As he grows to manhood and has children of his own, the yard begins to slope, ever so slightly.  As he matures into middle-age, the slope of his yard drops ever deeper.

There are eight chapters in this novelette, and in this pre-view, I'd like to offer a chapter from the middle of the story.  The story is already available at Amazon, for Kindle.  However, Saint James Infirmary Books will make it available for free the last weekend of June: the 28th, 29th, and the 30th.  If you'd rather spend the $1.99 for the eBook now, I wouldn't want to argue with you.  Special thanks to Kathryn Reeser for the fantastically re-imagined cover art.   

Enjoy the preview!

The World that Slid Downhill

by Jason Phillip Reeser

an excerpt

Chapter Four

  On the day Marta turned sixteen, Harry and his wife threw her a great birthday party.  Everyone was invited: the Grandparent’s came up from Florida, other relatives came from many other states, Marta’s friends came from school, and all of their neighbors came as well.  Like Harry’s father loved to say, there were more people than you could shake a stick at.

  Cars filled the driveway.  Cars filled the front yard.  Cars filled the street.  The front of Harry’s house looked like a used car lot.

  Inside the house, party guests filled the living room, they filled the dining room, and they filled the kitchen too.  More guests were arriving all the time.  The house couldn’t hold them all.

  But Harry had been prepared for this.  He had cut the grass in the back yard the day before, and had borrowed twenty-three fold-up chairs from the church.  Each chair was now sitting in the back yard, set in little half circles so that party guests could sit together and chit-chat.

  “Grab a plate of food and find a seat outside!”  Harry had to yell to be heard in the crowded, noisy kitchen.  He had to shout it two more times before the guests paid attention.

  Uncle Leo, an old friend of Harry’s parents, who wasn’t really an uncle at all, was the first to take a full plate outside.  It was piled high with a big scoop of potato salad, a slippery looking Sloppy Joe, two deviled eggs, candied yams, and a large helping of Shipwreck salad.   He had to carry it with two hands.

  “Need some help?” Harry leaned out the door, watching as Uncle Leo stumbled a little on the last of the back steps.

  “No, no.  I’m fine,” Uncle Leo whispered in a raspy voice.  Even though he was eighty-six years old, Uncle Leo was fiercely independent.

  Harry kept an eye on the old man, just to make sure he really was fine.  Slowly, Uncle Leo tip-toed through the grass, heading toward the first group of chairs.  This took a long time, as he paused after every third step to regain his balance.

  Two more people headed out the back door.  They were friends of Marta’s, and Harry did not know their names.  He was never very good at remembering the names of his children’s friends.

  The young people, a boy and girl, hurried past Uncle Leo and picked out chairs, turning at the same time, and dropping down onto them.  They did this in unison, as if they had practiced together before the party.  Harry watched as both of the young people’s eyes widened with alarm.  Still in unison, they both began to look up.

  It took Harry a few moments to realize they were not lifting their heads, as if they wanted to look at the passing clouds.  They were, in fact, both being lifted up.  At least, the fronts of their chairs were lifting up.  The girl held tightly to her plate, trying not to spill her food.  The boy, aware that he was actually tipping backwards, threw out his arms to attempt to stop his backwards motion.  As he did this, he launched his plate like a discus thrower from the Olympics.  The thick paper plate flew surprisingly well, evenly spreading potato chips, pork-n-beans, and hot dogs in every direction.

  The kids toppled over, landing on their backs.  They were still in the chairs, although the chairs’ legs were now reaching out sideways in the same way an old grandmother reaches out for hugs.

  The girl, Harry still couldn’t think of her name, had held fast to her plate all the way to the ground.  From where he was standing, it looked as if most of the food had landed on her face and most of her hair.  The boy was laughing.  The girl was not.

  “You kids okay?” Harry hollered.  He hurried down the back steps and passed up Uncle Leo to help the two young people out of their upset chairs.

  “Oh, sure,” the boy answered.  “That was great!”

  The girl only glared at the boy, then turned her mashed-potato-smeared face and scowled at Harry.  She did not think there was anything great about falling over in a chair and catching your food with your head.

  “I can’t understand why these chairs tipped over.”  Harry set them back up and scratched his head.

  “Well,” the boy looked at the chairs and then looked at the yard behind them, “they’re sitting on a slope.  I guess we should have noticed that, and been more careful.  Or maybe we should turn them around.”

  Harry mumbled his agreement and he helped the boy turn all of the chairs around so that they were facing down the slope of the back yard.  The girl ran off to clean out her hair and wash her face.

  Uncle Leo had just about reached the chairs.  He was moving a little more quickly now, and Harry offered to hold his plate while he settled into a chair.

  “No, no.  I’m fine,” he whispered again.

  But instead of stopping at the chairs, Uncle Leo took three steps past them, paused, and took three steps more.  After each pause, he kept taking those three unsteady steps.

  “Where’s he going?” asked the boy.

  “I don’t know.”  Harry wanted to follow Uncle Leo but he heard his wife call to him from inside the house.  She said something about moving cars in the driveway.  Trying to ignore her, he watched Uncle Leo and could see that the old man was picking up speed.

  “She said you need to move her car.”  The boy was also watching Uncle Leo.  “It’s in the way of something or someone.”

  “Yeah, I heard her.”  Harry remembered the boy’s name.  “Justin, does it look to you like Uncle Leo is speeding up?”

  “Yep.”  Justin nodded.

  “Would you do me a favor and go stop him before he goes any further?  I don’t know where he’s going, but he shouldn’t go wandering off.”

  “He’s not going anywhere, sir.”  Justin giggled.  “But I think he can’t stop walking.  The gravity’s pulling him down hill.  But you go move that car, sir.  I’ll take care of the old man.”

  Harry had to admit that the boy was right.  The backyard sloped down so much that once Uncle Leo got going, it was too hard for him to stop.  He just kept heading downhill.  Somehow, Harry’s flat back yard had become the top of a real, be-careful-so-you-don’t-roll-down-it hill.

  Harry passed a worried eye over the retreating figure of Uncle Leo, and then went to the front of the house to move the car.  When he came back, Justin was coming back up the hill.  He was a little out of breath.

  “Where’s Uncle Leo?” Harry asked.

  “I couldn’t get him.  He slipped out of my reach, and just kept going.  I lost him in the trees at the bottom of the hill.  He had really picked up speed.”

  It was sad, Harry thought, that Marta’s birthday would be remembered for the day they lost Uncle Leo.  But things like this just happened.  Uncle Leo had led a long, good life, and no one had ever expected him to be around forever.  The older members of the family were always doing something like this.  You could never count on them to stick around.

  But Harry had never expected to lose Uncle Leo down the hill in the back yard.  How could he have?  It had never been a hill when Harry was a child.  But there was no denying it was a hill now.  And it was certainly possible that things like this could happen from here on out.

Use the link below to buy the eBook.  Kindle eBooks can be read on your PC, Smart Phone, iPads, Blackberries, laptops, and of course any Kindle device.  And remember, The World that Slid Downhill will be free on June 28th, 29th and the 30th.  So you can wait for your free copy or show your support for writers by paying a few dollars for a great novelette.  And if you haven't tried one of my other books, be sure to check one or two of them out this summer.  

A Quick View of The Lazaretto (An Excerpt from Book One of The Lazaretto Trilogy)

The Lazaretto is a sci-fi noir novel set on a quarantine moon.  The novel consists of multiple story lines:

Gregor Lepov is a private investigator who arrives in the Lazaretto to search for a woman’s missing son and quickly meets the enigmatic Lilly Stewart, an antiquities dealer, a remarkable woman who may be friend or foe.

Lieutenant Ed MacNally, a homicide detective, along with his partner Arturo Fenelli, begin investigating a string of brutal murders that are similar in their violence but otherwise seem unrelated.

Maria Duvalls, a volunteer nurse in a world where the sick are left untreated, cares for a dying crime boss with a mysterious illness, even as a disturbing young man follows her throughout the city.

The Collector—an unseen yet prominent figure in the city obsessed with contagions and power—wields a dangerous influence through his ruthless Agent.

Helen Segal, a secretary at the Interplanetary Health Service, become embroiled in an internal affairs investigation in which she and her best friend try to decide if the cold, calculating German Doctor Haupt is merely conducting a simple audit or something deeper that will ultimately threaten more than just their jobs.

  In the following excerpt, Helen Segal has been reassigned to work for the newly arrived auditor from Earth.

  Helen Segal hesitated in front of a plain office door.  If she hadn’t been so unsettled at the coming encounter she would have laughed at herself.  Of what was she afraid?  If anything, she told herself, she ought to look forward to this.  It was a chance to break away from the boredom of her daily routine.

  A chill ran through her.  If only the German had not been so cold. 

  She knocked.

  “Come.”  The command carried easily through the door.

  Helen obeyed.  She stepped into the office and closed the door with a precision she rarely used.  She even felt she was standing more erect than usual.  The German’s disciplined demeanor was contagious.

  The small room had only a desk and chair. 

  “You are a few minutes late,” Dr. Haupt stated.  “That is acceptable.  I only ask that it not become a habit.  Follow me.”

  Turning on his heel, he disappeared through a second doorway.  Helen followed.

  “Sit down.”

  She did.  This room was only slightly bigger.  He took a seat behind a desk, looked up at Helen, and spoke without preamble.

  “I have been sent here to conduct a review of IHS in the Lazaretto.  I requested that you be assigned to assist me in this review.  I will not allow this review to become entangled in politics.  Nor will I allow personal feelings to become a factor.  This investigation is about the ability of the IHS to fulfill its purpose here at the Lazaretto.  If it is efficiently doing so, then I will report as much and leave as quickly as possible.  If it is not, then I will report as much, give my recommendations to Earth, and await further instructions.  Do you understand?”

  Helen understood too well.  The German was not there to cut anyone slack.  And she was now caught in the middle.  How had this happened?

  “Yes,” she nodded.  She’d fought the urge to add yes sir.

 “Excellent.  We will begin immediately.  I have already listed the documentation that I require.  You will find the list here.”  He pulled a data tag from his breast pocket and handed it to her.  “Forward this to the appropriate departments.  See that I have the required system passes so that I can view all documentation at their original electronic storage sites, as well as any required passes necessary to print out hard copies.”

  Helen took the data tag and left the room.  Outside his office, she sat at what was now her desk.  Spartan as the room was, the desk contained everything she would need.  At least all the components were installed.  It was even more outdated than normal.

  The deskscreen actually had a keypad for data input.  She spoke a few simple commands and confirmed what she had suspected: the system had no vocal input.  Even the data tag was not picked up by a proximity reader.  She had to set it in a data port before the desk could read it.

  This office was no accident.  Dr. Fisher had assigned this office to the German to obstruct the review.  If they had given Dr. Haupt an obsolete office system to hinder him, what did that say about her role as his assistant?  It clarified her situation.  She had been baffled that she had been asked to help in the review.  She was, after all, only a secretary.  Now she understood.  She was also an outdated secretary that was expected to slow things down.

  “I’m not only going to be caught in the middle of a bureaucratic battle,” she murmured, “but I’m going to be used as a shield as well.  Tough luck, old girl.”

  Of course, she might be reading too much into her situation.  It was possible that Dr. Fisher had merely assigned this particular office because there were no others available.  And hadn’t Dr. Haupt requested her?  Didn’t that negate her theory that she had been assigned for nefarious reasons?

  “Stop fussing,” she ordered herself.

The list from the data tag displayed on her deskscreen and Helen scanned its contents for anything out of the ordinary.

  Archived Annual Reports and Audits were near the top of the list.  She had expected those.  The same went for his request of daily reports, fiscal reviews and many other documents that would present him with an overall view of the IHS facility.  All of those were administrative records that would require little authorization.

  As she had also expected, he requested lab data relating to the numbers of healthy travelers and contaminated travelers.  Such numbers were not as straightforward as they might seem.  Few records were kept on healthy travelers.  Assumptions were made on the number of travelers leaving the planet as opposed to those same travelers arriving.  This was an educated guess that suggested travelers who entered the Lazaretto and left it were predominantly healthy and in no way contaminated.  According to one study from many years ago, it was determined that ten to fifteen per cent of these travelers had in fact arrived with some sort of contaminant that had run its course during the forty-day quarantine.  She would have to explain that if he were not already aware of the fact.

  The list also contained requests for more specific lab data: types of contaminants, treatments, outbreaks and containments.  She also saw documentation requests from areas with which she was unfamiliar.  She would have to get someone to help on determining what authorizations she would need for those.

  Helen was surprised to realize she had personally seen many of these reports over the last year.  Working for Dr. Fisher, she received and annotated all types of reports and reviews she then passed on to Dr. Fisher as the IHS Administrator.  Was that why Dr. Haupt had requested her?  How could that be to his advantage?  Surely he wanted someone who had no personal involvement in the life cycle of these documents.  An opportunity to interfere—to protect herself and those she knew—would be too tempting, at least from Dr. Haupt’s point of view.  It was hard to imagine he would not realize this.  Why take the risk?

  She was fussing again.  She decided she didn’t want to know what the German was thinking.  She knew she had better tread carefully.

For more information on The Lazaretto, got to Rocket Fire Books, where you can order a signed print copy.  You may also purchase a print or eBook copy below:

And watch for book two of the Lazaretto Trilogy: Lady in the Lazaretto.

My view of "The Guilty"

I haven't read a good courtroom drama in many, many years.  I'd read Scott Turow's Presumed Innocent back in the early Nineties, and gave up before I made it half-way through his next novel.  When John Grisham came along, I made it through three or four of his hollywood-esque legal thrillers, losing interest with each consecutive book.  It is not that they were bad.  They were exciting books that had little to do with the practice of  law.  I never really tried another legal thriller until I saw Gabriel Boutros' first novel The Guilty.  Its promise of a defense attorney who can't look at himself in the mirror as he struggles to defend the guilty caught my attention.  When I saw that Gabriel Boutros had spent twenty-four years as a lawyer in criminal law, I decided I would take a step back into the courtroom and see if it would be worth finding a seat in the juror's box.

  Right away, I liked the opening scene.  The novel is set in Montreal, Quebec, a city that is constantly dealing with its French/English duality.  This added a nice flavor to the novel, though Boutros does a great job of not exploiting it for his plot.  Instead, it is a background layer that provides just the right amount of character.  We hear characters use French phrases now and then, but that's all.  It adds just enough to give the novel a peculiar feel.  As does the winter backdrop.  Snow covers everything, characters must bundle up to brave the outside temperatures.  Add it all together and Boutros has created a cold, slightly alien world.  A perfect setting for the law.

  As the story unfolded, I was quite pleased to see that the plot was going to stick with the courtroom.  Too often a good crime drama ends up with car chases and intricate fist fights.  This is often a sleight-of-hand trick to keep us from seeing the holes in the plot, or even to keep us from realizing there is very little plot at all.  But Boutros pulls no punches as he crafts his story of a defense lawyer who is slowly coming to realize his job is nothing to be proud of.  I wondered if he could keep it up, or if he would succumb to the temptation to splash his pages with blood and gunpowder.

  But there is no need to use cheap theatrics with the reader when you can create characters that carry their weight from one scene to the next without the slightest misstep.  And that is one of the strongest points of The Guilty.  This is no quickly written Law and Order episode that wants to take advantage of some recent headline.  Such fare is full of flat, boring stereotypes whose only role is to fill a spot in a scene or two to keep the story rolling.  Not here.  From the conflicted lawyer Robert Bratt, to smaller roles such as witnesses and court officials, The Guilty is full of interesting characters who infuse this novel with life.

  And let me take a moment to point out two of them.  Bratt's law firm partner, J.P. Leblanc, along with the judge presiding over the main trial, a Judge Green, are the sort of characters that not only stand out in this book, but would stand out in a movie version of this book.  I couldn't help but think that they were the kind of roles that a veteran actor would love to ride to an Academy Award win for Best Supporting Actor.  In fact, the whole book reminded me of a Sydney Pollack movie-- the sort that is full of fascinating discussions on law, ethics, and our confusions over our own little roles in this mixed-up world.

  There are no legal stunts that leave the reader shaking his head, disappointed that it all came down to a silly technicality or something equivalent to a legal prank.  At no time did I want to jump up from my chair and shout "Objection, Your Honor!  The author is misleading the reader!"  From page one to the last page, the story unfolds with just the right amount of ever increasing tension.  If I had been in the juror's box during the trial, not only would I have had no problem staying awake, I would have been in trouble for laughing out loud a few times, especially at the verbal repartee between Bratt and Judge Green.  And throughout it all, I would have been on the edge of my seat, leaning ever closer to the witness stand, waiting for the next witness to thread his way through the mine field laid down by Robert Bratt.

   I read the Kindle edition of the book, which I was able to borrow for free with Amazon Prime.  I encourage anyone who is interested in reading a courtroom drama to pick up The Guilty.  Gabriel Boutros is one of those rare lawyers you can trust.

The Saint Christopher Lights

For those of you who were unaware of it, this story is available online at Rocket Fire Journal.  The Saint Christopher Lights tells the story of a society in the future who has found a way to rid their world of the dead.  Eli, a young man with a curiosity about the dead that friends and family collectively condemn, discovers that regardless of society's attempts to banish the dead from their world, the dead are harder to cast out than expected.

The Saint Christopher Lights,
a short story by Jason Phillip Reeser

A Veteran's Day View of Cities of the Dead

Free Ebook Downloads Nov 12th through the 14th

Due to my work schedule, I was unable to get this posted on Veteran's Day, but I am going to go ahead with it a day late.  In conjunction with our second promotional giveaway for Cities of the Dead, I will post a story from the book that has not yet been published in print or on the web outside of the book itself.
This story involves the spirits from a Confederate Artillery Regiment, whose bodies were buried together in a Society Tomb.  The memorial in question is real.  The story is fictional.  War is hell, as General Sherman said, but it doesn't always end when we think it does.

The Soldiers’ Home

by Jason Phillip Reeser 

            Early mornings in the Firemen’s Cemetery are notoriously shrouded in mist.  Educated men might explain this by pointing out the land’s elevation in relation to the nearest waterways as well as the role played by local weather.  Those of a particular engineering bent would add the importance of Interstate 10 running along its western border.  Spiritually minded men might suggest that regardless of such natural influences, these sacred grounds are a nexus wherein heaven and earth join, allowing the passing of so many souls that a certain residue is inevitably to be seen with the aid of the day’s first sunlight.

            The Fireman’s Charitable and Benevolent Association had consecrated these grounds in the year 1852 and tourists might believe the more mischievous tour guides who spin tales of ghostly smoke and water-sprays from spectral hoses.  The awkwardly dressed men with cameras enjoy the idea that firemen of old still battle it out with ancient fires for all eternity.  Their wives tend to shudder at this image; some of them familiar with the dread of waiting for a husband to return from a hazardous job, and some simply burdened with an ingrained human alarm towards house fires.

            Educated men scoff at notions of this kind and even spiritual men hesitate to give it credence.  And in the end the tourists will tuck their photos away in a box along with the tour guide’s fanciful tale and forget all about it.  Neither the scholars, nor the religious, nor the tourists will ever understand just how close to the truth such tales do come.

            Before the first ray of each new dawn, just as it seems as if the grip of night’s darkness will never be broken, those who sleep lightly in the Fireman’s Cemetery are disturbed by a muffled racket coming from a great, square society tomb.  Standing along one open lane, deep within the field of the dead, it is rather plain in appearance, and by starlight is dreary looking—a heavy, squat figure resembling a rundown tenement or forgotten bureaucratic cellblock.  Across the top edge of this monument, if the darkness were pulled away, one would see these words: Soldiers’ Home.

            A man’s tired voice murmurs a few words, the only reply a sharp clank of metal on stone.  Shuffling steps echo against the neighboring tombs, and then someone coughs.  There is the sound of running followed by jeering laughter.  A lower voice, wide and powerful, demands an answer.  For the first time, distinct words are heard.  “Yessir!”

            Now, a great many footsteps can be heard.  Rattling and clattering mix with coughing and veiled curses.  It is evident that as many as ten or twenty men are moving about in the dark.  If they are all of one purpose, it does not sound so.  A short quarrel, muffled by the shroud of pre-dawn but no less violent than if it were conducted in sunlight, is cut short by a harsh command.  The runner returns at the same time.  Most of the clamor is now out on the open lane, in front of the Soldiers’ Home.  There is less noise, though a few more words are clearer now.

            “Watch that,” a husky voice warns.

            “All right, all right.”  The lower voice concedes.

            “Battery,” a quick whisper.  The last of the muted clanks and shuffles comes to an end.

            All is silent now save for one figure who cannot stop coughing.

            “Battery.”  This time, the voice carries more authority.  The coughing stops for a breath, but begins anew.

            The low voice issues an order.  The coughing figure moves away from the others, back towards the dark block.

            “Battery.”  There is no more noise.  The black morning air holds for a collective pause.

            The forms of men can now be seen as the first bit of grey is mixed into the atmosphere.  There are four rows of men, five abreast, facing the Soldiers’ Home.  Before them stand two men, off to one side stands a thinner man.  By their silhouettes, it is obvious that the men are standing at attention, arms held at their sides.  Each man’s head is covered by a misshapen cap.  A few exceptions are bareheaded.  All are uniformed, though most of the blouses ill fitting.

            The thin man steps forward, facing the Battery.  He bows his head and speaks.

            “Our Father, which art in heaven…” his voice is as thin as his shadow.

            The Battery joins in.  The words of the prayer echo down the grassy lane, swallowed by the lingering night.  When they finish, they are silent for a full minute.

            From out of the Soldiers’ Home comes the sound of a stifled cough.

            “Detail.”  The word cuts the silence like an alarm, and the black forms break formation.  Each line of men makes its way to one of the corners of the Soldiers’ Home.  Most of the black night has been replaced by a heavy gray that allows the men to be able to see shapes but nothing more.  It is all that they need.  Each corner of the blocked structure is composed of a cannon barrel standing on end.  In the middle of the east and west walls stand two other cannon, though there are not enough men to work these.  The men toil swiftly, their carefully plotted routine insuring that each cannon is lowered without injury to the men or damage to the stone artillery pieces.

        As this is being done, two men from each detail pull open the nearest bottom vault and withdraw a stone cradle which will hold each great barrel.  As their comrades set the cannons into the cradles, they already begin to withdraw bags of gunpowder, as well as the rammers, cleaning worms, sponges, lanyards, and friction primers.  As one man seals each vent hole with his thumb, they first worm and swab out the barrels, removing any bits of masonry chips and dust that fell in during the process of removing the cannons from the monument.  The vent holes are then cleaned out in the same manner. By the time the cannons are secured to the cradle, each team is ready to load their gun.

            A bag of powder is rammed into place, and the brass friction primer is loaded into the vent hole.  A stone cannon ball, from a stack on the monument’s corners, is rammed into place.  The five men now come to attention as one of them chuffs “Ready to fire!”  One of the details is slow, and finishes ten seconds behind the others.  An officer fidgets with his pocket watch.

            “They’ll make it, Colonel.”  The husky voice tries to reassure him.

            “All right, all right.”  The Colonel’s low voice betrays his aggravation.

            “It’s Vincent’s men.  There’s only four of them.  Theirs was the man with the cough.”

            “Yes, I know that, Major.”

            Enough light has crept into the field to allow the two officers to see facial expressions.  The Colonel tries to smile.  The strain is unmistakable even in the dim light.

            “I don’t like the men to be slack, Major.  I was easy on them.  Too easy.  It’s why we’re all here.”

            “Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s foolish.  You’re not to blame.”

            “Battery!”  The Colonel’s command cracks out sharply, ricocheting off the nearest crypts.  The men stiffen, each gunner’s hand grasping tightly to his lanyard.

            “You know I’m right, sir.  This melancholy of yours comes and goes.  You’ll think better of it.  Just give it time.”  The Major gently touches his commanding officer’s arm.  “We’ve been over this hundreds of times.”

            The Colonel ignores the touch and the comforting words, staring instead at his pocket watch.  He draws in a deep breath and then, without pause, barks:

            “Fire!”

            The four cannons belch smoke and thunder as well as stone chips and plaster dust.  Quickly, as if their former lives depend on it, the men reload.  Vincent’s detail keeps up with the others and a second volley is fired.  They fire a third and fourth volley as the smoke obliterates what little light the morning has to offer.  Their world is no longer black.  It is grey and white, the air thicker than the silk lining of the finest coffins.

            “Shall they reload?” the Major asks.  His men wait for his order.  He steps closer to the Colonel in an attempt to see him clearly through the haze.

            “Why do you always insist it is not my fault?”  The Colonel snaps his pocket watch shut and rams it into his jacket.  “I told Division they were ready.  I volunteered them.  Insisted they be sent forward.  You call me a fool?  Only a fool would deny me this judgment.”

            “The men, sir?”  The Major waits for his Colonel’s decision.

            “Again, Major.  They’re off this morning.  And the sick man is not to blame.”

            “Battery, reload!”  The Major’s shout lacks conviction and carries emotion he had hoped to keep hidden.

            “Do not worry, Major.  I know you disagree.  You think I’m too hard on them.”

            “On yourself, sir.”

            The men are grimy with carbon, grout and sweat.  The chalky residue from the stone guns is smeared across their faces, making them appear all the more ghostly.  They work with determination, dragging out more bags of gunpowder, swabbing out the barrels, and ramming the loads in place.  It is hot work.  The cloying humidity, even in the early morning, attacks them.  They press on, knowing there is no respite unless they improve.  The Colonel has been known to push them until the late morning sun has finally forced them back into their graves.  They fear this as much as they fear real combat.  The sun is painful, and cuts deeply into their souls.

            Yet, in the face of this toil and pain, they persevere.  If they are ever to find peace, they know they must satisfy their Colonel.  They must show him that his will has driven them beyond their limitations.  That he has forced improvement upon them to such an extent that time can be reversed, they can be saved, and he can be redeemed.  By his own sheer resolution he must drag them out of the pit that he himself dug for them.

            He is demanding the impossible but they do not balk in the face of it.  Yes, it is hard work.  It is madness.  But they soldier on.

            “Fire!”

            Smoke rolls in every direction.  It filters down each adjacent lane, spreading its nauseating stench over and into tomb after tomb.  Many of the dead, long used to this barrage, keep quietly in their crypts, content to wait out the Colonel’s self-inflicted fury.  On this day, there are no new arrivals to annoy him, demanding that he stop.  The newest residents in the nearby crypts have already tried this and learned that the old soldier is as unmovable as Stonewall Jackson ever was.  They will hate him for a long time.  Eventually, as with the older dead, they will come to pity him.

            “Cease fire!”  The call is as loud and punishing as his earlier order to fire.  And it does not mean the soldiers will now get their rest.  Now they must move sharply, and attack the cannons in reverse, lifting the great barrels back into place, and stowing the cradles and tools without delay.  If this is not done right, they may be forced to do it all over again.  They work feverishly, both desiring to please their Colonel and fearful of his retribution.

            “You see, Major, responsibility must rest somewhere.  It cannot be passed along indefinitely.  Even if it could, it should not be.  Someone has to step in and take the weight of it.  You must surely see that this is so.”

            The Major watches his men struggle to lift the stone cannons.  In a way, his task is just as difficult.  Just as repetitive.  He has argued this point countless times.  But he has never given in.

            “Someone does take responsibility, Colonel.  Someone of a much higher rank.  You would not presume to make yourself His equal, would you?”

            “Look closely at these vaults,” the Colonel steps closer to the Soldiers’ Home.  The large memorial consists of five stacked rows of burial vaults.  There are four vaults to each row.  “As you are well aware, there are no names here.  Only numbers.  These men were destroyed beyond recognition.  Twenty men on this side, twenty on the south side.  Yet, we are only able to cobble together enough pieces to make twenty-four men.  My God!  I’ll be damned if I’ll stand for it.”

            The Colonel puts out a hand and leans heavily against a marble vault.  His breaths are short and awkward.

            “You insult your Superior by this proud obduracy.”  The Major is not moved by the Colonel’s emotion.  He once was long ago, but he has not been for a long time.  He makes an effort to win the argument nonetheless.  “Step aside, and admit your limitations.  You are not God, and He never expected you to be one.  There are times when other men’s actions—even sins—affect us.  We have no control over them.  We simply do what we must and the end comes out all of its own accord.”

            The men of the Battery, constructed from the detritus of war, reassemble on the grassy lane, now at attention.  Their eyes wide with the terror of expectancy.  Their ears still ring with the cacophony of their exercise, they tremble with an excess of adrenaline.  They only wait now to hear their commander’s judgment.

            The Colonel eyes them with weary assessment.  He has seen them perform better.  He knows it.  They know it.  But he is also aware they have done the best they could for that day.  The larger question he must answer is whether or not it is enough.

            “Step aside, you said?” the Colonel asks softly.  “How that I wish I might.”

            He tugs at his buttoned collar and looks over the heads of his men.  The smoke has spread out over the burial ground now, a white mist in the rays of the morning sun.  The smoke will clear eventually, and the sun will burn them if they do not get under cover soon.

            “Battery, fall out.”  His order is nearly a whisper, but the men hear it plainly enough.  They break ranks and step out of the wide, grassy lane.

            In the miasma of smoke and sunlight, the weary soldiers climb into their stone barracks, making little jokes as they go.  They need rest.  And at least for a day, they will get it.

            “Thank you, Major.  That will be all.  For this day.”

            The Major disappears around one corner of the large tomb.  His quarters are on the south side.  Left alone, the Colonel stands erect as the smoke begins to clear.  He endures the sunlight for a short time.  It burns, and he imagines it is necessary.

            “Not God.”  The Colonel chafes at the Major’s impudence.  “The man’s got gall, I’ll say that for him.”

            And then he is gone.  The Colonel lies in his vault, just another corpse in a tomb that he has built with the power of his pride.

            A cough is heard inside the Soldiers’ Home.  Then nothing more.

            The sun rises.  Early morning tourists remark upon the mist that lingers over the burial field.  Another day begins.

To all of those men and women who have given of themselves for our country, I say thank you, and may God grant you the peace that passes all understanding.