The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

Chapter 32

It was the blackest night. The rain was coming down, but not in such torrential spurts. Beyond midnight it had dissipated into a simple, quiet sprinkle that actually felt relaxing to one's skin. Livingston, with his black parka wrapped around his upper body, came out of the mouth of the cave while in the midst of lighting a cigarette. The pungent aroma of burning Ganga hung in the air while the sounds of bats' wings flapping in the night could be heard nearby. Exclusive content from NôvelDrama.Org.

The worn man, with his pistol secured in his right pocket, came to the very edge of the mountain and stood. He looked down into the black, cavernous bottom and listened at the various nighttime creatures that dwelt from within.

"Fucking disgusting country," he spat down the mountain with such spiteful vigor.

"Say dere." A voice sounded out all of the sudden.

Livingston wasn't even startled. He just turned around to see a tiny glow with a silhouette behind it drawing closer and closer to him. The nearer the silhouette approached the more the smell of Ganga reeked into Livingston's nostrils causing him to blow the stench away.

"You and the rest of them are gonna smoke your brains out with the shit." Livingston took a puff of his cigarette.

Philippe, with his head underneath his own parka, approached Livingston and attempted to hand the man his pipe only to have Livingston refuse.

"You know I don't care for that." Livingston snickered.

"It good for de lungs, mon," Philippe snorted.

"We'll see if you say that when you're sixty, mate." Livingston smirked.

The two men stood at the edge of the mountain and smoked on and on before Philippe spoke up and asked, "Where did he say he was going again?"

"He never did say. But then again, do you really care?"

Philippe just turned his head as a response. Livingston looked all around at the darkness before spitting again down the mountain.

"Dat's why me and de boys smoke dis, mon, so we won't have to remember his face."

Livingston looked over at the young man with the cockiest expression. "You and those other fellas have been smoking that stuff since you were boys. Who do you think you're fooling?"

"Ya see him, he look like a demon!"

"Yeah, I saw him. I've been seeing him for years now. I just can't believe you all haven't gotten used to it yet."

Philippe shined his lantern all around before looking back at Livingston. "How ya get used to dat?" He pitched his pipe down the mountain's edge. "All our lives we hear about dat family, but when ya see dem...it's like someting from a—

"From a nightmare," Livingston cut in. "Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know."

"Ya should have seen Tala. It took at least two hours to get her to calm down. She even talkin' 'bout killing herself."

"Well, it's up to you and the others to make sure she holds off on that till after I dynamite that cave. Arthur said we're digging in the right place, so it shouldn't be too much longer now."

"What was dat?" Philippe spun around and stared into the blank darkness.

Laughing out loud, Livingston asked, "What, are you shaking in your knickers?"

Philippe kept shining his lantern in all directions while Livingston just stood and marveled at the man.

"Believe me when I say, he won't be back for a while."

"Me and de others can't wait to get outta here."

"Yeah, you and me both," Livingston moaned.

Philippe then tuned his lantern to Livingston's face and queried, "I guess ya go back to England when all of dis is done?"

"Not likely. Not with Interpol still on my tail. Nope, Cuba is my next and final destination."

"What's in Cuba?"

Livingston thought for a moment or two before answering. "That's where a lot of those old Nazi bastards are hiding out. No extradition there. A person can thrive in peace."

"It sounds like a nice place."

Livingston glanced over at the young man. "To be honest, Mr. Castro and his regime aren't too fond of people of your color. Come to think of it, they're not too fond of mine either. But I think I have a better chance of blending in. Why not move to America? With the wealth your about to receive you'll be a star up there. God knows there's nothing here in this country for a person."

"Yeah, mon, dere nuting here but de rain and de Bushards."

Livingston turned to face Philippe at that second with a subtle grin on his face, as to say he was somewhat surprised at the man.

"You should be used to them by now."

Appearing taken off guard, Philippe replied, "How ya mean? Ya see what dey turn into."

Taking a long drag of his cigarette, Livingston regretfully sighed, "Yeah...I've seen it."

"We grew up hearing about dem." Philippe explained. "At first, we thought dem to be legends. Fairy tales."

"That is until you saw them face to face."

Philippe just shook his head up and down before saying, "But you know dem well, Livingston. You know dem very well."

Livingston took his burned out cigarette and tossed it down the mountain before snorting and replying, "The first time I met them, they appeared just like your average islander. But then again, there was always something off about the five of them. Then of course, I got the misfortune of seeing them change. Blimey, that's something a person never, ever forgets. You don't just erase something like that out of your brain."

"I always imagined how it would feel to be like dem."

Sniggering, Livingston asked, "What, you actually want to be like that?"

"No, mon!" Philippe jumped back. "I just can't still believe dat it happens."

"A person has to go completely mad to be that way. Don't get me wrong, I'm a killer myself. I won't deny that. But turning into one of those takes a special kind of sickness in the mind."

"I just can't believe dat American girl came all de way here to hunt him down."

"That little guttersnipe had balls of steel, if you ask me. I can't even stand to be around Arthur for more than a minute, and there she was, coming all the way here to kill him. God rest her soul."

Philippe then looked straight at Livingston and lowered his lantern to where only his black silhouette was visible.

"I know all about de young ones, but no one ever knew about der parents."

Livingston continued to stare out at the great expanse that was the dark mountain before him and said, "I can't say that I knew the mother of the clan. But I was familiar with the father. He was the first one I met." Livingston then began to snicker. "That man made my father look like a fucking saint the way he treated his brood. He was the only man that I've ever seen Arthur kowtow to. I haven't seen or heard from the father since I got back here, so I'm assuming that somehow he's either moved on, or he's dead. But that was a very wicked man."

"I hear over dese past few months dat he kill de remainder of dat village by de beach all by himself. But...dat was only a rumor."

Livingston stood and pondered for a few brief seconds before exhaling, "Yes...a very wicked man indeed. That's probably why that documentary crew was here, to film his handiwork."

"It only makes you wonder just what else exists in dis world of ours."

Livingston then turned to Philippe and put his hand on his right shoulder. "You're a good hand, my friend. I'm going to miss you when we all leave."

Smiling in the darkness, Philippe responded, "We've aged before our time."

"Yes, yes we have." Livingston dropped his head.

Philippe then began back for the cave with his trusty lantern leading the way ahead of him. Meanwhile, Livingston remained absolutely still in the clammy darkness of the night.

"And those eyes," he muttered to himself in a far off tone. "Those eyes that make one's soul melt. Soon...I'll never see your eyes again, beast."