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This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE LAST IN LINE
First edition. May 31, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Thom Erb.
Written by Thom Erb.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Last in Line (The Eternal Flame Trilogy, #1)
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PRAISE FOR TONES OF HOME
PRAISE FOR HEAVEN, HELL, OR HOUSTON-
About The Author
DEDICATION:
For my brother, Brian, my Mom and Dad, and Ronnie James Dio. While you may be gone but your spirits and influence will forever remain.
David “Elton” Somerville- Without you, my lost brother, none of this book would have been possible. Be safe, “Duke”, wherever you are. You are missed. I hope we meet again one day.
Thee Arcadia Falls Crew: Chris “Dex” D., Todd “Arnie” D., Jim “Jimbo” B., Kyle K., Clay P., Ray F., Darrell S., Phil D. While the years have passed, the precious memories remain.
And as always, to my amazing wife, Shelly. Without whom, I could never have finished this book. You have always indulged my crazy adventures and many flights of fancy and understood, or at least pretended to, the creative monster that always led me off on some new artistic adventure. I am truly blessed to have you as my wife and best friend. I love you.
THE LAST IN LINE
-Book One of the Eternal Flame Trilogy-
Drunken Skald Press
Hell’s ½, New York
PART ONE
“There’s also some element to coming of age during the Reagan administration, which everybody has painted as some glorious time in America, but I remember as being a very, very dark time. There was apocalypse in the air; the punk rock movement made sense.”
-John Cusack
1.
Dream Evil
Brennan’s Residence,
Arcadia Falls, New York.
April 1, 1985
Warren Brennan felt dozens of cold hands grabbing and tearing at him. Darkness ruled all around. But the overwhelming stench of rot and death. He kicked and punched at the undead, but they kept coming. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw he was in an old cemetery. The frenzied barking of a dog filled his ears.
The zombies grabbed his T-shirt, and he felt their blackened teeth snap the air near his arms. Swirling around to get his bearings, he could see Dex, Arnie, and some people hidden by thick shadows. All of them fought off the groaning army of zombies. Dex shouted something, but all Warren could make out was a muffled garble as if they were underwater. Warren fought to get to his friends, but the sea of writhing bodies and snapping teeth prevented any movement. He felt his heart racing as a rush of zombies stormed over his best friend. Dex disappeared in an explosion of blood and flesh as the zombies tore into him.
Warren screamed but nothing came out. He thrashed against the swarming throng but made no progress. He felt something pull him down from behind. He crashed to the wet ground, and his blood froze as he rolled over to see it was Dex’s brother, Barry. Behind Warren, in the swirling gray storm clouds, a set of glaring red eyes watched. Barry looked dead, but he laughed and licked his lips. The scrawny jerk shouted something, and then all the zombies lunged at Warren, tearing at his flesh. He felt himself screaming.
“Good mornin’, brothers and sisters. It’s 6:49 in the Flower City, and it’s time to get out of the rack.”
The raspy-voiced DJ blared out of the boom box next to Warren’s bed. It took the disoriented teen several frazzled moments to shake the cold grip of the reoccurring nightmare. He bolted upright, startling the yellow Labrador at his feet, which responded with an aggravated whuff?
After a few seconds, Warren shot the old lab a look and said, “Oh, yeah..., sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, Sir Maico.” He shook his head and fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand.
Maico cocked an annoyed eyebrow and looked past him at the doorway. Warren sensed his father’s looming presence, and it was right then the time of day the DJ announced finally registered, and panic-filled horror rushed through him.
A sudden pounding on the door jarred Warren from his panic attack.
“Stayed up late again, huh?” An explosion that sounded like a shotgun went off in his head.
Maico yelped and jumped off the bed, taking shelter underneath Warren’s make-shift drawing table.
“Oh, just great,” Warren thought as his arms spastically flung out, knocking his glasses off the nightstand and he fell after them. His rotund body became a snowball of panic and sweat as his big hands frantically pawed for the only device in the world that allowed him to see. Sadly, the seventeen-year-old had been close to legally blind since birth, but his glasses, as thick as coke bottles, offered him sight. For a kid who dreamed of being the next Jack Kirby, John Buscema, or John Byrne, that’s all he needed. The super-sized irony never escaped him.
He found them and put them on. “I’m up, Dad. I’m up.” He caught his breath and tried to make sense of the latest nightmare.
Maico offered him an annoyed huff.
“Yeah, yeah,” Warren said, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair.
“You best get your ass in gear. You don’t want to miss your bus...again.” His father’s words cut coldly, with a serrated edge Warren knew all-too-well.
Warren tried to shut his father out, as he grabbed a pair of worn jeans, threw them on, and tried to ignore the old man’s angry glare. He was certain it could easily cut through Wolverine’s adamantium skull.
“Oh, and since you didn’t finish your list of chores last night, when you get home from school today, I expect you to get on them.” His dad popped his balding head back into his bedroom and the look on the man’s face told Warren he wasn’t screwing around. “All of them.”
“Come on, Dad. I have Science Fiction Club, then Aikido, and then... then I’m supposed to go to Dex’s for the weekend. We’re gaming. Can’t Andy do it?”
“No. I don’t care. Your brother has football practice and has to actually go work on the farm in the morning. You have responsibilities here, and they come before your friends and that stupid game. You’ve been spending too much time over there, anyway. And besides, I don’t trust that Lee kid.”
“You barely even know him,” Warren began.
His father leaned down and pushed a large finger into Warren’s soft chest.
“Oh? I know enough. It’s a small town, smart ass. I know everything that goes on. So, let me say this once and God damn it, don’t make me say it twice. You will get your ass to school. You will come home straight after. No chop-socky bullshit. No pansy, nerdy, dice-tossing garbage with your druggie, loser friends. You understand me? Am I speaking clearly enough for you?” His father’s face turned ten shades of livid-red and burned Warren’s face as hot spittle flew from his twitching maw.
Warren felt a deep rage building inside him, mixed with a sharp pang of fear and sadness that kept him from protesting more. He nodded, knowing the outcome.
“Good. I have to work late, and then have a meeting at the legion, but your mother will let me know if you get off that damned bus this afternoon, no bullshit. Got it?”
Behind his father’s monstrous form, Warren wa
tched the diminutive form of his mother, standing in the shadow of the hallway. Her face was awash in anger, disgust, and desperation, trying to corral her volatile husband.
“Francis Andrew Brennan. That’s enough! Let him finish getting ready for school. Jack is waiting in the driveway.” His mother’s voice broke the tension but wasn’t strong enough to cut through his father’s burning gaze.
“Come on, now. You’ll be late for work, honey. You know how bad 104 gets at this hour.” His mom tugged on the big man’s arm and, finally, his father relented. His eyes slowly turned away from Warren, and his face slackened as Warren’s mom kissed him goodbye.
“Goddamnit, Maggie, you coddle that boy too damn much. He needs to learn...” His father’s frustrated words faded along with his footsteps down the hallway. And Warren didn’t breathe until he heard the front door slam.
His mom returned and gently touched his sweaty cheek.
“Now, rise and shine. Get dressed. Your friends are waiting. Your lunch is on the counter. Love you, Chief.” She kissed the top of his unruly hair and left without another word.
A long moment passed until the shrill blaring of Jack’s car horn and shrieking guitar intro of Krokus’ “Ballroom Blitz” shook him from his stupor.
Fighting back the tears, like many times before, Warren forced on a plastic smile, haphazardly got dressed, and headed out the door, sack lunch in hand. As he hurried out the door, he repeated to himself, the day could only get better. That’s when the rain began.
“Oh, just great.”
2.
It’s a Beautiful Day
Quinones' Residence
77 Colvin St.
Rochester, New York.
April 1, 1985
“Breakfast is served!” Samantha Quinones affected with her best British accent as she placed the plate stacked high with steaming French toast onto the old kitchen table. Along with the buttery scent of French toast, the rich smell of bacon and hash browns filled the small kitchen of the 1945 home.
The big band refrains of Cab Calloway's “Jumpin' Jive” came wafting from the living room, making the kitchen a warm, comforting place for the Quinones family to enjoy breakfast. Sam’s bliss was shattered by the competitive shouts of Bobby and Katie.
Her younger siblings came running from the living room like savages who hadn't eaten in a month.
Bobby hit his chair with a thud and, with unnatural dexterity for a normal seven-year-old, snatched the first two slice of French toast off the steaming stack.
“That's not fair.” The smaller form of Katie pouted as she came in a few steps behind her brother. They started to grab and push each other, and Sam stepped forward only to be startled by a loud voice entering the room.
“That will be enough, you little diablos.” A rather short and stout elderly man with a bushy, white mustache walked into the kitchen, shaking his head in disapproval.
“Abuelo!” Bobby and Katie called out.
Sam smiled and pulled a separate pan from the stove and placed an egg-white and spinach omelet on her grandfather's plate.
Abuelo Quinones pulled out his chair, gave her cheek a quick kiss then sat down.
“Oh, Sammie, my little candle, everything smells delicious. But you didn't have to go to all the bother,” he said, tucking a paper towel over his pastor collar.
Sam brought the container of orange juice over and filled up his glass. “I know, but it's your first day back at the church since the......you know, and I just wanted to make it a little special,” she said and went about filling her siblings’ glasses.
“Eweeee, I hate the orange stuff,” Bobby moaned.
Katie giggled, holding her glass up. “I love it.”
“It's good for you. Stop complaining, young ones. Your sister has worked hard to bring us such a wonderful breakfast. We should be grateful and thank her.” He shot Sam a wink, taking a sip of the juice.
Bobby, who lived to be just like his hero, his Abuelo, took a long, painful sip of the orange stuff.
“I'm fine. I'm fine. You worry too much, young one. The doctor gave me a clean bill of health. You little monsters will have me hanging around for many a year to come.” Grandpa Quinones tussled Bobby and Katie's curly dark hair. “The Lord has seen fit to keep me here, and I promise I'll never leave you.” He shot Sam another wink, accented by a broad, warm smile, the kind that always seemed to wash all the bad away and make her feel safe.
“I know, Abuelo. Besides who else would take me shooting this weekend?” Sam laid a small stack of French toast on his plate, next to his heart-healthy eggs, and kissed him on the cheek. The comforting, familiar smell of Old Spice made her smile as she went back to the griddle for the next round of toast.
Grandpa let out a belly laugh as he took a bite. Coughing, he said, “Ah, I see now. The old man is good for something, eh?”
Bobby looked up from devouring his plate. “Hey, I wanna go shooting, too!”
“Me too, me too, Abuelo!” Katie mimicked, her long pig-tails bouncing at her enthusiasm.
Sam's eyes rolled at the annoying begging. She loved her brother and sister more than anything, but she'd been forced to be the mom since they were barely out of diapers. She worked very hard not to resent them. After all, they didn't ask to be born or have their no-good drug addict of a mother overdose and die in an abandoned house on Lyell Avenue. But there were some things that were just hers. The alone time with her grandfather, mainly, was what she cherished the most.
The man was a living inspiration, having fled Puerto Rico, leaving behind poverty after losing his mother and father when he was but a boy. He enlisted in the Marine Corps during World War II and, while he never talked much about his time in the Philippines, he did teach her many of the skills he learned as an infantryman in the Corps. In fact, it was the deep prideful smile he'd wear anytime he'd talk about the Marines that had her considering joining after graduation. It was either that or the clergy. Two life changing callings that her still-wily Abuelo inspired her to explore.
Despite how much loss he'd faced in his difficult sixty-one years, the man showered Sam and her siblings with love, compassion, and faith. It made Sam's brown eyes water every time she'd think about it.
Once a month, they’d do something, just them. After going to church, her most favorite was her grandfather teaching her how to shoot guns at Naschke's Shooting Range on Jay Street. He'd then treat her to a Garbage Plate at Nick Tahoe's, but she knew that would change after his second heart attack in a year. But still, her time with him was all she had, and she fought not to be nasty about it. Sometimes, it became a real struggle just for that. She'd prayed on it and it helped.
Sam felt a hitch in her chest and brushed away a tear with her forearm and brought the second helping of French toast to the table. Bobby and Katie still lobbied feverishly for their right to go with her and Grandpa to the shooting range. She laughed and felt foolish for being selfish as her Grandpa used his massive hand to pull out her chair and gave her a stern look.
“Sit. You need to enjoy the fruits of your hard labor, Sammie,” Abuelo insisted.
Putting on her best smile, Sam sat down and enjoyed the breakfast. She looked around the table and smiled at the laughing and overall feeling of love and family. The Lord had shepherded her out of the dark valley of selfishness, and now she understood just how truly blessed she was.
“Whoa, we need to get a move on. It's almost eight o'clock. Sammie, you need to get to school. I'll take care of the dishes and make sure these little devil monkeys get to class. Vamanos!” Grandpa shouted, waving his large arms like a bull-fighter.
“Okay, okay. C'mon, guys, get your backpacks. I have your lunches on the counter. Let's go,” Sam said, pushing in her chair.
In a flash, the two youngest Quinones siblings pushed and teased each other down the steps. Sam had her backpack over her shoulder and walked over to her grandpa, who started work on the breakfast dishes.
“Gracias, Abuelo. See you after
school. Te Amo.” Sam kissed his cheek again, and she jumped when he grabbed her with his soapy hand.
His smile calmed her as he kissed her cheek in response. “Te amo, Angel. And never forget, our time together is special and always will be. Now get your butt to school. God be with you.” He finished by flinging a bunch of soap suds at her, chasing her out of the house.
They both laughed all the way, and as Sam walked her still bickering brother and sister to their school, she couldn't be any happier.
Dark storm clouds churned and crept in from the east, but she dismissed them, kissed Bobby and Katie goodbye and made her way to the high school.
A little rain wouldn't darken her mood, and she found herself humming “Jumpin' Jive” all the way.
3.
The Torture Never Stops
Barry and Dexter Lee's Apartment,
145 Main Street, Apt. #14
Arcadia Falls, New York
April 1, 1985.
Dexter Lee was dead tired. He finally laid his head down on his pillow on the couch. He just wanted to put this crap-filled day behind him. The unplanned drive to Rochester to pick up his brother, Barry, from a Louie’s Cordial Lounge, a shitty strip club, because he was too wasted to drive, turned out to be another frustrating wild goose chase. The jackass was nowhere to be found. On top of that, Dex had to work two, twelve-hour shifts at Seneca Foods the past two days. All to make up for the money Barry pissed away. He loved his brother, but at times like these, wasn't sure why. He guessed that after their parents were killed, they only had each other, and he felt a strong sense of loyalty. Right now, however, the only thing Dex felt was every bone in his nineteen-year-old body screaming for sleep. Barry had called into work in hopes Dex would go out drinking up with him. Dex wasn't too pleased but didn't have the energy to fight his brother. Truth be told, Barry scared the hell out of him. Ever since he came back from the Air Force, the once laid-back guy had a dark side to him. It was a side Dex didn't want to mess with. So, he let him take his car. It wasn't worth the fight.