Authors: Joe Hart
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Suspense, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Post-Apocalyptic, #Horror
3 Years Later
The lure splashed, hitting the water in a spray that caught the late fall sunlight.
Ty began to reel, jigging the rod with an expert hand as he felt the bump of a fish testing the bait. He froze, slowly bringing up the slack line until it tightened, the jerking tug transferring through the rod into his hands. He snapped his arms up, setting the hook and began to reel again, the tension of the fish making him whoop with delight.
“Another one?” Quinn asked, casting his own line out again into the lake.
“Of course.”
“Oh listen to you, great white fisherman.”
“You’re just upset that a blind kid can out-catch you.”
“And you’re pretty cocky for someone who’s only been fishing for three years.”
Ty laughed and drew the whipping perch out of the water, catching it as it swung toward him on the end of the line. In a matter of seconds, he had the fish off the hook and strung on the shining stringer that trailed into the water at their feet. The other four fish swimming in place that were threaded there flipped indignantly until he released the chain holding them.
“So that’s four to one,” Ty said, baiting his hook before casting it out again in a graceful curve of line.
“You’re gonna beat me again,” Quinn said. He scratched at the thick beard covering his face, still not fully used to the feeling of it there even after growing it for over a year.
“Are you going to take me to shore when you go this time?” Ty asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“But I’m almost ten,” he protested, jigging his rod harder.
“You’re barely nine.”
“But you said yourself that you hadn’t seen one of them in almost two years.”
“That doesn’t mean that they aren’t there.”
Ty fell silent for a long time. The air was already cooling, winter’s breath coursing in from the west. Soon the snow would begin to fall, their journeys outside of the main lodge limited to gathering firewood from the extensive pile ricked against the back wall and to the portable fish house that they would erect once the ice was thick enough to stand on.
“Do you think we’ll ever live back on the mainland again?” Ty asked, pulling Quinn away from the preparations he was going through in his head. The question caught him off guard, and he looked at the boy, growing tall now, his steps steady and sure on any of the hiking trails that snaked across the island like a child’s treasure map.
“Do you want to go back?” Quinn asked.
Ty jigged the rod, tipping his head to one side, looking so much like his mother in the sun.
“Not really, I guess,” he said finally. “Do you think about them a lot, your dad, Teresa, everyone you lost?” Ty asked after another pause.
“Yes, I do.”
“And you miss them?”
“Very much.”
“But you’d never want to go back to your home where you grew up?”
Quinn wound in his line and secured it to the pole before coming close to Ty and embracing him.
“This is my home.”
They brought the fish up to the four-wheeler that waited for them on the trail beside the lake and climbed on, Ty holding onto Quinn’s waist as they rode back to the lodge. When the low buildings came into view through the trees, Quinn guided the four-wheeler close to the first one, stopping beneath the heavy boughs of a pine.
“Can I clean them?” Ty asked, picking up the stringer.
“Absolutely; less work for me. Don’t cut yourself.”
“I won’t. Here Denver!” The great German Shepherd rose from the bed on the rear deck of the lodge and trotted to the boy, the hobble in his hind leg barely noticeable. Ty grabbed the bar of the upraised collar Quinn had designed, and the dog lead him in the direction of the fish-cleaning shack farther down the shoreline. Quinn watched them go, something tightening in his chest at the sight of them walking away.
The sun was beginning to slide behind the tall trees that lined the bank, casting fire across the water in undulating waves. He moved down to the lake’s edge, walking out onto the dock that jutted into the cold water. He stood there for a long time, looking across the lake, the land he knew was there unseen. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he was back, listening to the water rush against rock, the breeze caressing his face, the ocean before him.
He heard her approach and only opened his eyes after she’d slipped an arm around his waist.
“What are you doing out here?” Alice asked.
“Dreaming dreams.”
“Are they good ones?”
“Not as good as the one I’m living.”
The whole world was quiet save for their breathing, the lake’s eternal movement, the sun’s descent. She glanced up at him.
“You’re reliving it all again, aren’t you.” When he didn’t reply she continued. “Honey, stop. You have to quit this,” she said, guiding his head down to hers. She kissed him, held his face in her hands. “Your father loved you beyond anything.”
“And it destroyed the world,” Quinn said, swallowing. “Because of how I am.”
“It’s not your fault. After all the times we’ve discussed it, after what you’ve put yourself through, you know you couldn’t have done anything different, you know that.”
“It doesn’t change anything.”
“Listen to me. You brought us here. You made a life for us. We wouldn’t have survived without you.”
“You would have been fine. You’re the toughest person I’ve ever met.”
“No, I’m not. The boy in that little shack over there is, but he wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you.” She brought her lips to his again and then gazed into his eyes, looking from one to the other. “Remember what you told me a long time ago? About hope being stronger than anything?”
He nodded.
She brought his hands down to the slight swell of her belly.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
As always, thanks so much for reading. I appreciate you coming along on yet another journey. I hope the ride was as fulfilling for you as it was for me to create.
The idea for Cruel World was born of an image that came to me out of the blue some time ago of a boy sitting with his father in a room full of books. The boy was afflicted with a deformity that kept him from doing all the typical things that someone his age would have partaken in. He did not go to school, he didn’t play with other kids, he had no one besides his doting father who wanted only to protect him from the cruelty outside their walls. The original title I had for this story was The Bookseller’s Son.
What evolved from there became Cruel World. Of course my singular idea transformed into something frightening and thrilling as is the nature of my contemplation. I wanted to know how someone who was cut off from the outside world, someone dubbed as a physical ‘monster’, would deal with being released from his sanctuary/prison into a world filled with real monsters, both human and not.
I have unending respect for the resiliency of those who suffer from some type of physical or mental disability, and hope that I conveyed my admiration throughout the book. Those of us who are blessed with healthy bodies and mental abilities should reflect more upon the notion of lacking such traits that are often taken for granted. The suffering that many endure goes unnoticed at times, and just by realizing how fortunate many of us are would go a long way in the extension of kindness and empathy.
Once again, I hope you’ve enjoyed the book, and if you have feedback, I would love to hear from you in the form of a review, an email, or by reaching out via social media. Thank you for your company and I hope to have a new place for us to go soon if you’re up for the ride.
Joe Hart
November 2014