Turner Watson

Man, has it really been so long? This poor ol’ blog needs a fresh coat of paint. Maybe some of those fancy laminate floors, some window treatments. In the meantime, here’s another chapter from The Sword and The Captain, coming soon (hopefully!) to your favorite retailer or e-book portal!

Next to Netflix, the game show Jeopardy! was, in the opinion of Horace Campbell, humanity’s single greatest achievement. He appreciated it more than most people, primarily due to his physical limitations. Horace had suffered a serious heart-attack two years previous, followed by a bout of ulcerative colitis so severe that he’d ended up hospitalized for a month. During that hospital stay, he developed a blood clot, which nearly cost him his right leg. All of which had contributed to his preference for the recliner, and bingeing his favorite old shows and newer true-crime documentaries. He preferred that state of affairs to hobbling around in his compression socks like a damned old fool. The only place he wanted to go, anyway, was to Rural King, so yelling at the stupid contestants on Jeopardy was the pinnacle of his afternoon, and Horace was at least content in the knowledge that nothing could possibly ruin that.

            Former professor Horace Campbell had taught many years of classes such as Survey of Western Traditions, Religions of Ancient Europe, The Fall of Rome, and countless other disciplines which appealed to the discerning liberal arts major in search of humanities or history credits. Therefore, it was easy for him to be critical of the clueless buffoons on his screen (Oh, come on! Mayim is so disappointed in you! What is ‘Gallipoli?!’ Are you fucking serious?!) The kid in the aloha shirt…Marcus, a fellow Hoosier…this kid, he liked. Marcus was the returning champion, and Horace appreciated his style.

            “That’s it, yes. Very well done.” He handed out praise to correct answers the same way he’d congratulate one of his star pupils. “Pick renaissance painters next. You’ll run the table on these clowns.”

            Yes, it was, all in all, a pleasant evening for Horace “H.C.” Campbell.

            Until he heard someone on the walk outside, approaching his front door.

            “Who the shit? NO! Go away!” He whispered, hoping against hope that the presumed kid selling Boy Scout Popcorn or band candy or whatever wares, would take the hint and just leave.

            He heard the outer storm door creak open, followed by the rustle of someone fumbling with keys, then dropping them, swearing under their breath, and finally pounding, incessantly, for entry.

            “Dad! Open up! Come on, I don’t have time for this!” Damon Campbell’s impatient entreaty.

            “Jesus Christ,” the older Campbell muttered, lowering the recliner’s leg rest. “Hang on, hang on. I’m coming.”

            He didn’t bother with his cane, and instead shuffle-hopped to the front door, as the sound of Damon’s staccato rap-rap-rap continued unabated. Horace twisted the deadbolt and pulled the door inward, only to be almost bowled over by his impatient youngest son.

            “Sorry, I dropped my keys, then I couldn’t find the right one, and now, sorry, hey, I need a few things.”

            Horace watched as Damon strode past, through the living room, then kitchen, of the single-story ranch home, on his way to the basement door.

            “What the hell’s going on? What on earth do you need?” Horace trudged and shuffled behind.

            “I need, um…well, I need some weapons. And a pack. Maybe two. They still down here?” The younger Campbell was already halfway down the stairs to the partially-finished basement.

            “Packs? Yes. Guns? No.”

            The Campbell boys had always, at least since their mom left, referred to that house, their boyhood home, as “The Safe House.” They called it that for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that they literally felt safe there, secure, like nothing in the world could ever harm them within its walls. It also felt like a cool label, like they were IRA operatives or cold war era spies…stopping by to grab provisions, a quick rest, then back out into the dangerous world to do what needed doing.

            But the place had evolved into exactly what they’d always pretended it was; Horace had been, in his younger days, quite the adventurer. He understood the benefits of having non-perishable food items for nourishment on the road, the comfort in knowing your flashlight had fresh batteries, the invaluable merits of a good, sturdy rope, and so on. So, after Melinda had moved to Evansville some twenty years or so ago (he never really paid attention to the actual date) H.C. had taken to keeping ‘ready packs’ stocked with everything he or the boys might need in the event of an evacuation, a natural disaster, or a spouse leaving you high and dry. And while he had been a bit lax in the upkeep of these packs, he was pretty sure they’d do their part if and when needed.

            Before the old professor could make it a third of the way down the steps, Damon came bounding back up, one of the medium-sized backpacks over his right shoulder and carrying another in his left hand.

            “Why no guns?”

            “Not in the basement, dummy. You know how damp it can get down there?” The older Campbell stood aside to let his son pass.

            Once they both reached the kitchen, Horace motioned for Damon to head back to the master bedroom, the one he’d shared with Damon’s mom back in the day. The two entered, and Horace perched himself on the edge of the old iron-framed bed.

            “First, tell me what you need them for.”

            Damon paused. One trait both the Campbell boys had picked up from their father was the benefit of collecting one’s thoughts before speaking.

            “Jason may be in some trouble.”

            “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, how much trouble?” Horace swore quite a bit in his old age, but tried to keep the really good profanity for the right moments.

            “I don’t know. He has the kids, and they’re coming here. But…I mean, I don’t know. He called me earlier and left a voicemail, but then after I got done with class today, he called again, and the stuff he said, dad…it doesn’t make any sense.”

            H.C. said nothing and inclined his head for Damon to continue. The Campbell men also happened to be very good listeners.

            “So. Apparently, they were attacked. He and the kids, it sounded like. They’re all fine. But they’re trying to get here while something chases them, and I think he’s really more scared than he’s letting on, so I’m going to meet them and bring them in.”

            “Thing.”

            “Huh?” The younger Campbell brother hadn’t followed his dad’s remark.

            “You said something chases them. Not someone. Some thing.”

            Damon pulled on his lower lip, and paused to choose his next words carefully and for the greatest clarity.

            “Um, from what he described to me, I’d say extra-dimensional beings. Monsters, actually. Jason and his crew bagged at least one of them, but there’s no telling how many more are on their tail.”

            Horace nodded slowly before staring down and off to the side, the classic Horace Campbell sign for thinking things through.

            “Okay. So. There’s an Egyptian AK with a red-dot sight and tactical grip, along with that old 8-gauge single-barrel, the Lee-Enfield, and I think a 12-gauge double-barrel in the closet. Got the AR-15 and a couple of handguns under the bed. Which ones you want?”

            “All of them, dad. All of them.”