BooksBarbecue
Back The Preserve
Chapters (56)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Half-Title Page
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright Page
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. 13.
  19. 14.
  20. 15.
  21. 16.
  22. 17.
  23. 18.
  24. 19.
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
  34. 29.
  35. 30.
  36. 31.
  37. 32.
  38. 33.
  39. 34.
  40. 35.
  41. 36.
  42. 37.
  43. 38.
  44. 39.
  45. 40.
  46. 41.
  47. 42.
  48. 43.
  49. 44.
  50. 45.
  51. 46.
  52. 47.
  53. 48.
  54. EPILOGUE
  55. AFTERWORD
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“Timing. You need to wait till he makes his big move. Think about it. That way you got the reason why if they ever come asking why you didn’t do it exactly their way. Maybe they wanted him in a stockade instead, or the looney bin. But he attacked you, see.”

“Ah. Okay. How will I know when?”

“Me. I’ll tell you when.” Kanani stood, smoothing her skirt, and stepped around Frankie while showing him her flower and a smile. “You rest up. Try make yourself at home. I’ll be back. I’m the one who goes now. This has to look natural.”

“Then what happens?” He leered now, just like the rest of them did.

She giggled and tapped him on the tip of the nose. “Why, that’s easy. I’ll send a messenger.”

“There’s no one left. The last left by trucks, down mountain.”

“I have someone.”

“He better not be trouble. I got work to do.”

“He’s not. He’ll give you the word, tell you where. You stay ready, yeah bruddah? Because it’s coming tonight.”

“And after?”

“After I come see you,” Kanani cooed. “Come see you for good.”

40.

Wendell Lett lay still in the dark, wedged in the angle where concrete wall and floor met. Cornered. It might as well have been the jaws of a vice. Rolling against the opposing walls again and again had not worn him out, so he had flung himself at the door, again and again and again. That only bruised him, then injured his shoulder—one arm might have come clean out of its socket, such was the searing pain, and he instinctively jammed it back in, gritting his teeth, only to hate himself for acting as if he would survive any of this.

The frantic activity hadn’t worked. He’d simply run out of gas, yet his mind was still going. He lay there, blind, searching the darkness, looking for any way to kill himself. He thought of forming his blanket into a fat noose but had nothing to hang it on; and he couldn’t reach the light bulb up above even if he stood on the shit bucket, and even then, it wouldn’t hold him. What if he drank his own shit, right out of the bucket? He longed for any feeling of weakening, for that damning sickness people felt when facing a flu or some harmful virus—a disease, hopefully one that was a quick killer. But it hadn’t been near long enough for weakening.