Custodian_Monster of Earth Book One Read online

  Custodian

  Custodian

  Monster of Earth

  Book One

  Patrick F. Johnson

  Copyright 2017 by Patrick F. Johnson

  All rights reserved. Published by Patrick F. Johnson.

  No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without

  written permission from the publisher.

  To Cameron, my muse and inspiration.

  To Kate, for keeping me in line.

  To Luke, for lighting up our home.

  To Connor, the man of the house.

  To Devon, for his resiliency.

  1.

  “Just a few more screws and its done.......yes......anytime is good for the finishers......okay, later.” Frank pressed the button to end the phone call and returned to his work. He had planned poorly, forgetting his screw gun, and had to use his old battery drill to finish the last remaining pieces of drywall. It was out of character for him, but his mind had been elsewhere since hearing the news of Estelle's passing. Bill had been understanding, and almost shocked when Frank told him he was taking the afternoon off. He hadn't asked why, but that is how their relationship worked. Bill had work, and Frank was the best, and this is the first time in at least five years that Frank needed time off.

  “...twelve people from Flagstaff, Arizona went missing and were found in Boise, Idaho of all places. None of them could recall.....”

  Frank unplugged the radio that the flooring contractors had left on while they went to lunch. “I hate that station,” he said to himself as he placed a screw onto the drill's magnetic tip. He pulled the trigger, and the power ran down to a dead stop. “Shit!”

  Frank liked to work alone, so there was no one to hear him curse. He would just have to explain it to Bill later. After loading up his tools in his van, he switched out his hoodie for the old black blazer he had brought along, continuing to curse to himself about the battery drill.

  * * *

  Everything dies.

  Those had often been the words of Frank's grandmother years before as she awaited her own end; a mantra to explain to a young man why life is precious. The words rang in his ears as he approached the grave site. The pastor was just beginning the service as he reached the rear of the crowd of mourners. He disdained funerals, usually opting out if given the chance, and only attending those of close family members. There had only been two. First was his grandmother, who had lived the last few years of her life with Frank. The other was his mother. This funeral was different though.

  After noticing Terrelle across the way, front and center, Frank decided the best course of action was to keep his eyes straight ahead, with a downward gaze. Terrelle was flanked by his two children. And Wendy. But he wasn't there for them. He was there to pay his respects to Estelle.

  Mrs. Estelle Williams was the widowed matriarch who had lived next door to Frank's childhood home. She was consistently cantankerous and extremely distrustful of most people. She was most suspicious of white folks and the police. She was often coerced into watching after her grandchildren, and that is where Frank had met Terrelle.

  The sermon droned on like white noise in the background of his thoughts. Frank reflected on the words of his grandma, often punctuating the importance of living a full life. Grandma had regrets of her own and didn't want him making the same mistakes she had made, or the same mistakes of his mother. A quick glance caught his own mistake staring blankly back at him. Wendy's eyes seemed to be asking him what the hell he was doing there. He just looked away and tried to focus on the sermon.

  After the service Frank was approached by Mr. Reginald Williams, who was Estelle's oldest son. Before he spoke, Frank felt a rush of embarrassment flow over him. He felt horribly under-dressed and absolutely awkward.

  “It's good to see you, Frank,” Mr. Williams said with his hand extended. “How long has it been?”

  Frank clasped his hand, admiring the firm, honest handshake from a man he had looked up to for so long. “Seven years, sir.”

  “Now Frank, you know you can call me Reggie.” Mr. Williams clasped his other hand on Frank's shoulder as Mrs Williams joined his side. “You're practically family, despite what some folks did to you.”

  Frank gazed around at the crowd of mourners. Everyone was dressed in their finest clothes. One young man stood out among the others though. He was wearing a full dress uniform of the Marine Corps. Frank realized it was little Deon, all grown up. Deon met his gaze, gave a half-smile, and a slight upward head nod. Frank returned the gesture and was then snapped back into the conversation.

  “You being here would have meant so much to Estelle,” Mrs Williams said in a cold tone, and without sincerity, as if reading a script. She had never cared much for Frank, seeing him as an annoying busybody. And it was no secret that she didn't always see eye to eye with her mother-in-law.

  “I regret not coming to visit her these last few years. But you know how things are.”

  Reggie answered with a nod.

  Frank continued, “Its really great to see you. You both look so good.” He looked down at his own old black blazer, worn open over a t-shirt and ratty bluejeans. “I guess I should have dressed better. No disrespect intended, you know?”

  “None taken, Son.”

  They said their farewells and Frank began the awkward long walk back to his van, feeling the icy glare of Terrelle on the back of his head.

  * * *

  Frank drove a short way before pulling into the parking lot of a random grocery store to sit and gather his thoughts. “Well, that certainly sucked,” he said out loud to himself after a few minutes. He had been talking to himself more and more and was quite aware of the fact that he should probably seek some type of counseling. But he didn't want to talk about it. He looked up and took note of how run down the area looked. He avoided that part of town for the most part and on his few trips through, he had failed to notice how the area had changed. He decided to see if Clyde's had changed too.

  Clyde's was a small bar that was started up after Mr Clyde Gordon needed something to spend his lottery winnings on. He quickly went broke but the bar had somehow stayed open. Frank walked in and marched slowly to sit at the bar, letting his eyes adjust to the dimly lit room that contrasted heavily from the late afternoon sun. It was a perfect place to shift his focus from working himself to death into drinking himself to death.

  “Frank? Frank Ford?” It was Sam Gordon, Clyde's only son, and Frank's old high school buddy. He hadn't changed much over the years except for about forty pounds and a full beard.

  “Hey, Sammie, how ya doin'?” Frank asked, trying to mimic the tones of their youth.

  “Man, its been years!” The place was pretty dead so Sam focused all his attention on Frank. “What brings you back around here?”

  “Funeral,” Frank answered.

  “Ah damn, man, anyone I know?”

  “Estelle Williams.”

  “Holy shit, Frank. I bet you were the only white dude there.” Sam quickly realized the mistake he just made by saying that. Both mistakes. “Sorry man, I didn't mean anything by it.”

  “It's cool. I know you didn't, Sam.”

  “Open foot, insert mouth. I really need to learn how to shut up.”

  With that, both men laughed heartily, as Sam set a draft beer in front of Frank. Sam had changed very little in regard to his uncanny ability to almost always say the wrong thing.

  “How's your dad doing these days, Sam?”

  “Oh, Pops died last year
.” He didn't seem too broken up over it. “I inherited this heap.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Well, he was my dad and all, and I loved him, but things are so much more peaceful now.” Clyde was known for being a mean drunk. Mrs. Gordon was seen with black eyes on several occasions. “Mom took her insurance money and moved out west. I'm left with this shithole, trying to figure out how not to go totally broke.” The place wasn't that bad. “I been thinking about remodeling the place. Ya know, revamping it. Maybe you should help me out with that. You always been great at that kinda shit.” Sam motioned to the side wall. “I actually got another thirty or so feet that way past that wall. Maybe we could knock it down and put in a stage or something. Maybe have some bands play, or comedians or something.”

  Frank rolled over the possibilities in his mind. Sam was right about him being good at that sort of thing, and it was nice to get his mind off of the funeral. Frank was turning in his chair and mentally taking measurements as more patrons came in.

  “Hey guys!” Sam offered his greetings with sincerity. He really did like owning the place and being his own boss.

  “Sammie, turn up the TV, man. You gotta see this shit,” the dark haired man in his late twenties said.

  “I think its some fucking aliens and shit!” his companion added.

  The lady on TV was reporting from a live scene outside what appeared to be a hospital. The words on the screen said 'Des Moines'.

  “So these twelve people show up in Iowa, and they're all from Denver, and they don't know how they got there.” Dark Hair was talking over the TV volume.

  “Yeah, so what?” Sammie responded.

  “Well, a few hours before that, twelve people from Boise Idaho wound up in Denver. And they don't remember shit either!”

  “Ah, it's probably some prank,” Sam smiled. “Orchestrated by some douchebags over the internet. Like them crop circles.” Frank held back a chuckle at Sam's remarks.

  The conversation continued on for some time without any contribution from Frank. His thoughts bouncing back and forth between the ideas racing through his head for the bar and the earlier events of the day.

  “Look what the cat dragged in.” Sam's words snapped Frank back to reality in time to notice Terrelle walking to sit on the bar stool next to him.

  * * *

  Frank felt himself sinking back into that same dark place from where he had spent the past seven years trying to claw his way out of. The notion of somehow disappointing his mom and grandma all the way in the afterlife, whatever that may be, was the only thing that kept him from ending it all. He had nothing to say to this man who had taken everything from him. The mirror behind the bar told Frank an even darker tale as the contrast between the two men in the reflection couldn't be more dramatic. Terrelle was a vision of youth and wealth, still dressed in the expensive tailored suit from earlier. His dark skin was as flawless as his crisp hairstyle. Frank looked down at the manicured fingernails on Terrelle's hands, which shined only less than his very expensive looking shoes. Upon returning his gaze back to the reflection of himself, he could barely recognize the man he used to be. Now there was just this disheveled, broken down shell. He forced himself to sit up straighter, as to not let his failing posture expose the obvious aches and pains that plagued him from various parts of his body. He sat up straighter to hide his weakness.

  “Jesus, Frank, you look like shit.”

  Frank couldn't decide who he wanted to kill most between himself or Terrelle. Instead of action, he simply replied, “You look...soft.”

  After a few tense moments Terrelle let out a laugh. “Sam, couple shots of Crown for me and my boy here.”

  No words were spoken as the bartender filled the order. Even Sam knew better than to talk out loud.

  “Can you break a hundred?”

  “Yeah. Sure thing, Terrelle.”

  Frank still sat silently, contemplating a nice hot bath with a toaster. It was painfully obvious that Terrelle wasn't leaving until he said whatever it was he came to say. So after a short time of careful consideration, Frank started the conversation.

  “What do you want?”

  “It's about the car, Frank.”

  It's about the car. The car. For several years Frank had spent his scarce free time in his garage, painstakingly restoring a 1966 Thunderbird. While he needed help with the bodywork and the rag top, Frank handled the engine work himself. He wasn't a natural at auto mechanics, but he muddled his way through it in the same way he learned most things as a youth. He read lots of books. She ran like a top at the end of it all, and upon having the car picked up from the paint shop, he presented it to his wife as a gift. She took it with her when she left, along with most everything else.

  “What about it?”

  “Wendy wants to sell it. It just sits there in the garage collecting dust. I thought I'd give you first crack at it.”

  Frank reached for his wallet as he stood up. He pulled out a twenty and threw it on the bar.

  “You can drive it straight into the White River, for all I care.” He turned and headed toward the door. Terrelle paused briefly and met the gaze of Sam and the other patrons.

  “Oh no, he did not just do that......Frank! I ain't through with you yet!”

  Frank made it about two feet up the sidewalk and stopped dead in his tracks. Terrelle busted out of the door behind him, followed by the small group in the bar who didn't wish to be absent, in case something interesting was to transpire.

  Wendy stood leaning against Terrelle's Corvette, looking more beautiful than the day he first met her. Frank was in shock that Terrelle would drag her down there and make her wait outside like that. But then again, the whole thing was more than likely her idea.

  Frank saw Wendy's eyes widen in a look of frightened confusion as Terrelle started yelling and abruptly stopped. The earth seemed to be dropping from underneath him, and as he threw his head from side to side, he realized it was true. He looked down to see his feet were about four feet off the ground and quickly rising. He then saw both Wendy then Terrelle floating upward too.

  “Sam!” he called out to his old friend for help before realizing that Sam, and both the young men from the bar, were also being pulled skyward. A handful of people on the sidewalk directly across the street were also rising. There were twelve of them altogether.

  After a short time the new vacancies on the sidewalk just outside Clyde's were filled with twelve very confused people, who all happened to be from Chicago. They just stared at each other, not yet knowing that they were now on the East side of Indianapolis. Almost all of them had soiled themselves, although none remembered doing so.

  * * *

  Frank Ford was named after his father not long before his mother learned what a complete scoundrel the man was. Franklin Ford Sr. embodied everything that was wrong with people. Greed and addiction, mixed with bigotry, made the perfect recipe for disappointment. After ruining Ruthie financially, and destroying most of her personal belongings, Franklin disappeared into the night with one of his many mistresses, never to be heard from again.

  Frank was nine years old when he and his mother moved into the neighborhood. Ruthie had worked two jobs to scrape up the money to enter into a rent-to-own type land contract for what was generously described as a handyman's special. Frank watched daily as Ruthie would leave for her second job, avoiding the ever present glare of the elder Estelle Williams next door, who had taken up a mostly permanent position on her front porch. And several hours later, after her shift was over, Frank would often hear her sobbing from behind her bedroom door.

  That first summer, Frank spent most of his time exploring, getting to know his way around. The trash pickup was always done in the back alleys of the homes, and once a month the city would do a heavy trash day. It was one of those days when Frank found the lawnmower. Someone was just throwing it away. Since their grass was just over a foot high, Frank concocted a plan to take the mower home and somehow revamp it. So he pu
shed it the three blocks back to his house to begin the project. He located a pair of pliers and a couple of screwdrivers that a former tenant had left behind, out back in the small garage. He opted to do the work on the front porch since it was later in the day, and the front porch light was the only outside light that still functioned.

  And so he set out to fix this machine, not even knowing where to begin. It became quickly obvious that he didn't have the proper tools for the job. But he didn't give up easily and kept at it until the sun was starting to get low.

  “Boy, what is it that you're doing over there?”

  Frank looked up to see that it was Estelle addressing him. She had never spoken to either of them before.

  “Ma'am, I found this lawnmower in the trash. I'm trying to get it working so I can clean up this place.”

  “And where are your folks at?”

  “My mom's at work.”

  “And how old are you?”

  “Nine, Ma'am.”

  Estelle looked at him for a short time. Then she looked at the tall grass and then back at him again. “Wait right there. I'll be right back.” A short time later she returned from inside her house holding a book. “Come over here, Son.”

  Frank jogged down his sidewalk to the street sidewalk, then up Estelle's sidewalk. She watched with amazement at how well mannered this young man was.

  “This belonged to my late husband.” It was a Briggs and Stratton repair manual. “I'm going to let you borrow it, as long as you promise to bring it back when you're done with it.”

  “Oh yes, Ma'am, thank you!” Frank regarded the book with its worn cover with so much appreciation. “It might take a few days, but I will definitely bring it back.”

  “Best of luck to you.” And Estelle turned away, dismissing the boy.