Joe

Joe

A Novel

H. D. Gordon

Copyright
2013 © Heather Gordon

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

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

For everyone who has ever been haunted
or misunderstood.

Books
by H.D. Gordon

The Alexa
Montgomery Saga

Blood
Warrior

Book 1

Half Black
Soul

Book 2

The Rise

Book 3

Redemption

Book 4

A Surah
Stormsong Novel

Shooting
Stars

Book 1

Prologue

The
Decider

It
was a Monday.

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

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

Come Monday

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

It’ll be all right

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

Come Monday

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

I’ll be holding you tight.

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

The last was his favorite.

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

In fact, he knew just what they would
do.

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

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

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

The thought made his heart soar.

Chapter
One

Joe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for the story.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wuh-wouldn’t know, sir,” I replied.

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

“Ditto,” I said.

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

***

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

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

She said, “You’re late.”

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