Free Erika by Wayne Greenough

only one way for you to join me. You must die in this world.”
    Fear stabbed its way into his soul. “Erika, you’re talking madness. Death is not the answer.”
    “It is.”
    “No! Think, Erika. You’re alive. I’ll be dead. Death will not bring us together.”
    “It will. Right now I’m not totally alive. I don’t know if I ever will be.”
    “Erika, listen to me.”
    She raised the gun to sight it. “I’ll try to cause you as little pain as possible, my love.”
    As Erika squeezed the trigger she cried aloud. Nothing happened.
    Relief coursed through Hawk. “You don’t know how to fire the gun, Erika.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
    Hawk felt her inside his head. She had learned. “No, Erika. Listen to me. You must completely materialize. We’ll fight those forces you mentioned, together.”
    Erika pulled the Contender’s hammer back. Hawk watched, wild eyed and disbelieving. He held out his right hand to her. “Please, Erika.”
    “I love you, Hawk.”
    He grabbed Erika. She was surprisingly strong. Hawk felt the Contender’s barrel touch his forehead. It was terrifyingly cold before it roared and bucked. He fell quickly, without a sound.
    Erika smiled. She watched the life’s blood flow from Hawk’s forehead.
    “We’ll be together soon, my Hawk.”
    She waited.
    Nothing happened.
    Doubt formed on her face.
    “Come on Hawk,” her voice a pathetic quiver.
    “Hawk!”
    “Hawk, please!”
    Erika’s scream was the scream of a soul being condemned to an eternity of loneliness.

Chapter Fifteen
    At first Connors refused to believe his eyes. In the distance it appeared as if Master Hawk had shot himself. He dashed forward as rapidly as his creaky legs could move. Kneeling to the master he discovered a nasty head wound. A faint pulse harbored hope, but the young lad would need medical assistance fast.
    He found a linen handkerchief in his back pocket. Fortunately it was a long one and in a moment’s time he had a sufficient bandage over the wound in hopes of staunching the flow of blood.
    He heard sobbing. A quick glance about showed him no one. He called out. “Is anyone there?” The sobbing came again. “Is anyone there? I’m in need of assistance. Do show yourself.”
    Nobody came. He picked up Master Hawk. There was no time to waste. The lad would either bleed to death or die from shock and in a very short time if he did not receive medical assistance in a few vital minutes.
    The irony of the whole business suddenly struck Connors and shucked away his many years. Gone was the present world from his mind to be replaced by World War II and the evacuation of Dunkirk, the man made hell of death and destruction. The never silent big guns fired shells making the night bright as day for all to see the hellish torn land and watch as good men and friends met grinning skull death. Connors had walked away from it all packing the good Sergeant Farthingham.
    “Don’t be a blasted idiot Private Connors,” Farthingham had protested. “Put me down. I’m for it, you know, got a nasty one in my chest. Put me down and live to do for Jerry some other day.”
    Fear had gripped his soul that terrible night as it gripped him now. He had answered the good sergeant quite in a way to make him mad enough to stay alive. “Dash it all, Sergeant Farthingham, I do believe you’re attempting to bag out on the lemon squash laced with rum you owe me at the nearest pub.”
    Farthingham had roared in protest. “How dare you accuse me of four flushing?”
    “I know you for what you are Sergeant Farthingham, a person who enjoys his drink without forfeiting his money.”
    “The unmitigated gall of what you are saying, Private Connors. When we have safely returned to England you shall have your lemon squash laced with rum in the first pub we come to. Then afterwards I shall give you a thorough thrashing behind that pub. Now get on with it. Pack me out of this mess.”
    Pack the good sergeant he did.