Free TOCABAGA (Revised Edition) (Book #1 of The Tocabaga Chronicles) by Thomas H. Ward

carefully. I heard the stairs creaking. I knew the sounds of this house like the back of my hand since I grew up in it. I knew every creak a stair would make as my brother and I used to play hide and seek in this big old Victorian.
    I put my hand over my wife’s mouth and woke her up , holding my index finger to my mouth, signaling her to remain silent. I whispered, “There is someone in the house, call the police and be quiet.” Back in those days we didn’t have 911 so you called the operator by dialing zero and asked to be connected to the police. I didn’t have a gun because my wife did not let me keep one in the house, claiming it was safer for the kids.
    Moving with stealth to my dresser, I pulled out the bowie knife that my dad purchased for me when I was 12 years old to use when we went camping. I kept this knife very sharp and it was the only item that I had of my father’s. I recall us going to the hunting store and he let me pick out any knife I wanted; it was a big deal because Dad never bought us anything. My heart was beating a mile a minute, as I listened again. The creaking was coming closer to the top of the stairs. I slipped on my pants and quietly closed the three bedroom doors. I was now standing at the top of the stairs, out of sight around a corner. I would be able to see his foot when he reached the top of the stairs. That was when I would strike and try to run my knife through his heart or die trying. I was praying he didn’t have a gun. My dad always told me: Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight.
    I could hardly breathe and my heart was racing so fast I could hear it. I heard his steps coming up so very slowly, and then I saw his foot touch the top of the stairs. I leaped at him and screamed, plunging my knife into his chest as hard as I could. We both fell back down the stairs and I landed on top of him. My knife was stuck in his chest, all right, but not in the heart, it was in his shoulder near the collar bone, above the heart. I feared he had a gun but did not see one. Looking around I only saw a small pocket knife. He moaned, my wife came out of the bedroom and screamed. I told her to shut the hell up and go open the door for the cops, whom I assumed were on the way. She stepped over us crying while racing down the stairs. I admit; I was upset at my wife for not allowing me to have a gun in the house and it almost got us all killed. I was scared and shaking.
    I sat on top of this junkie holding him down with my knife still in his shoulder. He started to moan; suddenly he opened his eyes and tried to push me off. He was doped up and strong. I punched him in the face as hard as I could several times hurting my hand, while grinding my knife blade around in his shoulder, as his blood pumped out. Finally, he stopped moving.
    The cops took my knife for evidence but I never got it back.
     
    At the Med Clinic Amy saw Mark and just started to weep. Doc Scott said he never seen anything this bad before. We put him on the table and Doc checked his heart.
    Doc stated with sorrow in his voice, “I’m sorry, Mark has passed. There is no heart beat, no signs of life.”
    The room was silent except for Amy’s sobbing and we hugged each other. Crazy Mark, my shadow, my go-to guy, dead at the hand of those dirt balls. I was the last one to leave the room and I promised Mark I would get the bastards that did this to him. They would indeed be fish food.
    I pulled Mark ’s knife out of his chest, wiped off the blade and put it in my pocket, saying out loud, “I will never forget you buddy.”
    I couldn’t help but wonder how Mark got out of the compound and across the bridge without anyone seeing him leave.
    Robbie arranged the funeral and it was held just like the one for Big Dan. Everyone attended and this time I spoke about Mark’s life and so did Robbie. I said the Lord’s Prayer for him. Robbie and I, along with Tommy, took him out to sea for his burial.
    As we lowered his body into the ocean