The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

Chapter 40

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"Hugo. Hugo, awaken from thy slumber."

Ever so sluggishly Livingston, who was still dangling from the truck's passenger window, opened his bloodshot eyes before falling backwards onto the muddy ground. He raised his right hand to pull out a shard of glass that just happened to be lodged inside his forehead. Instantly, blood started to stream down his face. The man wiped it away before attempting to get to his feet.

"Yes...Yes, get up."

The rain had at last ceased. Livingston looked all around at the gradually brightening morning but could find no one in sight.

"Who's there?" His voice slurred.

The man's body was cursed in pain. His scratched and scarred head and face was bleeding profusely, his stomach felt as if he had been punched all night, and his legs could barely keep a steady balance. It was morning, a hazy and warm morning. Livingston stumbled about looking up at the rolling clouds and the mist that was surrounding him so heavily that seeing just two feet ahead caused the man to stagger in sheer amazement at his own blindness.

"Come to me, Hugo."

"Arthur?" Livingston screamed out loud. "Arthur, is that you," he spun around and around.

"It is I, your new master."

Livingston reached into his pants pocket only to recall that his gun was no longer inside. The man then leaned up against his own truck.

"Please...where are you?" He hollered.

"We are here, Hugo." A series of voices answered in unison.

"Who's we?"

"Come before me, Hugo. All the others failed, but you can be made brand new."

"God...please help me!"

Livingston haphazardly ran around the truck before he managed to climb into the driver's side and slam the door shut behind him. He then covered his ears as tight as he could, only to discover that the voices were becoming louder.

"If only you knew."

"Knew what, dammit?" He yelled at the top of his lungs. "What the hell is happening? Where's Arthur?"

Livingston squirmed and twisted about in his seat right before catching a stunning glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. There was blood drooling down from his forehead, as well as two missing front teeth, but beyond all those disfigurements there was one blemish that grabbed his soul and wouldn't let go. Shaking and slobbering incessantly Livingston sat inside his truck and stared so hard at the two hazel eyes that stared right back at him with such unrelenting horror. The man touched his face and eyes with his two bleeding and quivering hands as though he couldn't believe that they belonged to him at all.

"Sweet... Jesus in heaven," he breathlessly stuttered. "Sweet Jesus in heaven!"

"Be my son, and I shall be your father."

Livingston wept like a child while looking all around at both the truck and outside. "Sweet Jesus in heaven!" He kept yelling while steadily reaching over to the glove compartment. Once he pulled the latch a collection of papers, a flashlight, map and a revolver all fell out onto the floor. Without any reluctance whatsoever, Livingston bypassed all the other mess only to reach the gun.

"No...do not do that!"

"Sweet Jesus in heaven, forgive me!" he bawled once more before sticking the gun inside his mouth and immediately pulling the trigger, which in turn caused the back of his head to burst wide open and blood to splatter all over the window beside him.

Silence was such a sweet melody that Halloween morning as a dead man lay inside his truck all alone in the mist of the Jamaican mountains.