Authors: A. American,G. Michael Hopf
Hope
Copyright © 2016 G. Michael Hopf & A. American
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information contact:
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1530257662
ISBN-13: 978- 1530257669
DEDICATION
TO THE MILLIONS OF MISSING CHILDREN
WE SHALL NEVER REST UNTIL YOU ARE FOUND
“In the end, it's not the years in your life that count.
It's the life in your years.”
- Abraham Lincoln
“Hope is the word which God has written on the brow of every man.”
– Victor Hugo
Descanso, CA
Charlotte wasn’t sure if it was the throaty rumble of the truck engine pulling into their driveway or her father’s voice ordering her and her little sister to go hide that she heard first. Not questioning him, she took Hope firmly by the hand and raced upstairs.
“What’s happening, Charlotte?” her sister asked, her voice trembling.
“Somebody’s coming and Daddy wants us to hide, like before,” Charlotte replied, walking hand in hand into the master bedroom’s walk-in closet. “Now just wait here; I’ll be right back.”
“No,” Hope pleaded.
“I’m just going to get my diary, I need it.”
Hope gripped Charlotte’s hand tighter. Her eyes widened as she again begged for Charlotte to stay. “I’m scared. Don’t go.”
“Hope, I’m just running into my room. I’ll be right back.”
“No,” Hope replied as her little fingers squeezed hard.
“Hope, you’re six; you’re a big girl now. I’ll just be a sec,” Charlotte said and pulled away. She closed the closet door and ran to her bedroom just down the hall.
Charlotte could hear voices outside her window. Curious, she peered out to see an old pickup truck, and circling it were five men. Her father, not a small man, towered over them all. He was engaged in a heated conversation with a man she recognized seeing once before.
“I told you I don’t know where it is,” Charlotte’s father hollered.
“Yeah, you do. You’re the only one who would,” the man replied.
“I told you already, I don’t know, plus why would I ever cross you?”
“It’s very easy, just tell me where it is and I’ll let you and your little family live.”
Charlotte watched the man spit out a large wad of tobacco juice. He grinned and said, “I’ll give you one more chance, and if you don’t tell us I’ll go in there, rip out your two pretty little girls and have my boys here do unimaginable things to them.”
“I told you, I didn’t take it.”
Charlotte’s heart pumped heavily and her hand trembled with fear.
A commotion broke out as Charlotte’s father produced a gun and waved it in front of the man. “Go away now, or I’ll shoot you!”
Calmly the man stepped to the side and pulled out his own pistol and immediately shot Charlotte’s father in the chest.
Charlotte gasped and stumbled backwards at the sight of her father falling to the ground. She tripped over the edge of the bed and hit the floor hard.
The creak of the front door hit her ears.
The man hollered, “Tear the place apart, boys. I want what is mine!”
Charlotte scrambled to her feet and sprinted from her bedroom towards the master bedroom with her pink diary in her hand.
Back in the closet she found Hope whimpering behind a row of clothes.
She closed the door and tucked up next to her.
A small box lay next to her; inside was a flashlight. She took it out and turned it on.
The bright light lit the dark space.
With a crackling voice, Hope asked, “What was that sound?”
Charlotte didn’t reply; she opened her diary and began to write.
January 21
Dear Mommy,
The bad men came back. Daddy said they wouldn’t and they did. Me and Hope are hiding in your closet.
“Charlotte, where’s Daddy?”
“Ssh, not so loud,” Charlotte ordered.
“I want Dada.” Hope began to sob. “I’m scared.”
Charlotte looked up to see tears streaming down Hope’s plump rosy cheeks. Knowing she had to comfort her but still determined to jot down what she could, she set the flashlight down in her lap and put her arm around Hope.
Hope melted into Charlotte’s chest and cried.
Mommy, I miss you. Where are you? How come you never came home? Daddy says it’s because you were far away when the power went out. Are you mad at me? Did I do something to make you mad?
Voices boomed from what sounded like the hallway.
Hope quivered.
Charlotte looked up at the door. She feared that at any moment it would open and they’d die like her father.
Looking back down at the eggshell-white paper, she began to write again.
If I made you mad, I’m sorry. Please come home, we need you.
The voices grew louder.
Hope’s tears continued to flow and her body shook with fear.
Charlotte paused her writing. She asked if there was more to write. Had she written enough? Her father had told her to begin the diary soon after everything stopped working so she could have a connection with her mother and as a way for her to express the emotions she was feeling. She had taken to it almost instantly and found solace in the words she wrote daily. Charlotte looked at it as a form of communication, a series of letters and notes to her mother, who had never returned from a trip back to the Midwest she had taken a day before the world came to a grinding halt.
“Where’s Dada? I want Dada,” Hope moaned.
Not wanting to tell Hope what she saw, she lied, “I don’t know where Dada is.” This lie to her sister prompted her to reveal the truth to her mother.
Daddy died today. The bad men killed him. They shot him out in front of the house for no reason. Hope is crying. She’s scared.
Oh no, the bad men are now in your room. I’m scared. I think we’re going to die. I don’t want to die, Mommy, I don’t want to die.
The sound of heavy footfalls stopped just outside the closet door.
Charlotte questioned whether she had locked the door. To be sure, she reached up to verify and found the door unlocked. Her gut clenched and sweat formed on her brow. Delicately she pushed the pin that locked the handle and just in time.
The knob jiggled.
Charlotte slid back further into the closet until her back was against the wall.
Hope clung to her waist and whimpered.
Softly, Charlotte said, “Ssh.”
The knob jiggled harder and the pressure of someone outside the door weighed against it.
Remembering the small revolver her father had left in the box just for this type of emergency, Charlotte reached in and grabbed it. The steel felt cold against the hot skin of her palm and the weight was heavy. She wrapped both her small hands around the grip and pointed it at the door.
“Hey, the door is locked!” a man barked from the other side of the door.
Hope and Charlotte drew closer, if that was even possible.
Charlotte’s hand shook, making the loose cylinder of the revolver rattle.
“Kick it open!” another man’s voice boomed. This was the voice of the man who'd shot Charlotte’s father.
Charlotte tensed her body, waiting for the door to come crashing in at any moment, but nothing happened.
Voices called from further in the house.
The shadow underneath the door disappeared, gone as fast as it had appeared.
Charlotte gulped hard. A steady sweat poured down her face.
Hollers now echoed from the opposite side of the house.
“Are the bad men gone?” Hope whispered.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said, lowering the revolver, her arms aching.
“I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
“Where’s Dada?” Hope asked, lifting her head from Charlotte’s lap.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said, again not able to tell Hope the truth.
“Is Dada dead?”
Charlotte opened her mouth to reply but froze.
“Charlotte, is Dada dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“I heard something, was it a gun?”
Heavy footfalls came again and stopped just outside the door. “Open it up the old-fashioned way!”
“Will do!” a man replied.
Charlotte shook, her arms outstretched with the revolver.
The door exploded open.
Both girls screamed in terror.
The man froze when he saw the muzzle of the revolver pointed at him. “Now, take it easy there, little one,” he said, his hand held out and motioning for her to put it down.
Charlotte’s eyes were as wide as saucers. She placed her index finger on the trigger and began to apply pressure.
“Put the gun down, okay, sweetheart. Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”
A second man appeared and chuckled when he saw the two girls. He turned to the first man and said with a pat on his back, “The boss will be happy.”
The first man held him back and warned, “Dude, she has a gun.”
“I know, I ain’t blind, but I don’t think that pretty little thing will do anything to me,” he said, with a toothy grin.
Charlotte’s arms began to shake vigorously from a combination of fear and fatigue.
“I don’t know, man, she has a look in her eye,” the first man, said taking a step back and out of the aim of Charlotte.
“She’s just a little girl,” the second man said and took another step inside the closet.
“Leave us alone!” Charlotte screamed.
“What’s your name?” the second man asked as he knelt down a few feet from her.
“Leave!”
“We won’t hurt you, I promise.”
Tears flowed down Charlotte’s face. “Leave.”
Hope was crying uncontrollably.
With his hand out in front of him, the man repeated, “We won’t hurt you, I promise.”
“You killed…”
“Your father didn’t cooperate; he was a stupid man. Don’t be like your daddy, girl.”
“Dada!” Hope wailed.
“Leave or I’ll shoot!” Charlotte barked.
“It would be irresponsible for us to leave you here alone. There’s a lot of bad people out there.”
“Leave!”
The man shifted quickly to the right, but with his left hand he snatched the revolver and twisted it out of Charlotte’s hand.
Charlotte and Hope both curled up tight and recoiled as far as they could, their backs planted firmly against the cold wall.
The man stood, looked at the other man, and said, “If we don’t find the other shit, at least the day wasn’t a total loss.”
“Hope is the pillar that holds up the world. Hope is the dream of a waking man.”
– Pliny the Elder
El Centro, CA
Neal opened his eyes and stared towards the popcorn-white ceiling. His insomnia was becoming unbearable, but what were his choices? He thought about taking the sleeping pills he had found, but the thought of drugging himself just felt wrong.
The full moon cast its light through his bedroom window and provided him a reprieve from the intense darkness that he was accustomed to living with during these late hours. Taking advantage of a bad situation, he pressed his eyes closed and ran through the plan for the day in his mind. He was someone who believed in creative visualization and had done it often during his college football days. Now instead of visualizing successful catches, he’d process each step he would make, each turn and every doorway he’d shadow with the outcome being positive with his safe return.
Finished with his exercise, he glanced towards the darkened digital alarm clock. It was a habit he hadn’t been able to kick even though the red glowing lights hadn’t shown for eight months. His guess was it was sometime after three in the morning, his normal wake-up time these days.
Putting his attention back on the ceiling, he began to recite the things he was grateful for. Like his visual exercise, this had become another ritual and one that kept him a bit sane and thinking positive. His wife, Karen, was always the first on the list he’d think of, not because she was lying next to him sleeping but because he wouldn’t have been able to keep it together much less survive the past months without her. Second was his eight-year-old daughter, Beth. She was the twinkle in his eye, the light of his life, and many people often referred to her as his twin. There was no mistaking her as his daughter. Karen would often joke that the only reason she knew Beth was hers was because she gave birth to her. Third on his list was Carlos, his neighbor and friend for many years. Together, they had managed to secure food, water and additional supplies. Carlos was a mechanic by trade and fortunately for them also collected old classic hot rods, which came in handy since many modern vehicles had ceased to work.