Have you read Dead Town yet? If not, why not? Maybe you just need to get a taste of what your missing. Here is chapter one of the novel that began the Dead Town series. I hope you enjoy your introduction to Mitch Loman and his complicated life, and you can’t wait to get your copy of Dead Town and read more.

DEAD TOWN – Chapter One

Mitch Loman sprawled on his tattered brown couch. With his head resting on a pillow propped up on an arm of the sofa, he watched It’s a Wonderful Life for the third time that day; reciting lines along with Jimmy Stewart as characters in black and white ran and cavorted on the television set in front of him.

He grabbed his whiskey tumbler from the coffee table. There was no coaster under the glass and condensation had left a wet ring on the polished, wooden tabletop. He didn’t care. It wasn’t as if Linda was still around to nag him about damaging the furniture, or anything else for that matter. He raised his head and brought the drink to his lips, finishing the last half swallow of alcohol remaining.

As soon as the glass was empty, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up. A green bottle of Glenfiddich was the only other item on the coffee table and Mitch scooped it up to pour another two fingers of amber liquid into the tumbler.

“Hmm,” he mused, swirling the scotch around in the glass. “No ice.”

He had started with two ice cubes, but they disappeared somewhere along with his second drink. Frowning, he pushed himself to his feet with an audible groan, then wandered into the kitchen to replenish. As he opened the freezer and plopped two more ice cubes into his scotch, Mitch glanced at the cheap, plastic clock on the wall over the kitchen window. The hands indicated it was 9:38 PM.

He took a long, deep breath and released it slowly. It was time.

Returning to the living room, Mitch settled back onto the couch, propped his sock-covered feet on the coffee table, and resumed watching his movie.

“Daddy?” a voice called from the stairs behind him. He turned to find a four-year old boy in blue, footed pajamas peering at him through the wooden railing. The child’s fine, blond hair was mussed and damp, and one small fist was pressed to his eyes trying to wipe away the sleep. “Did Santa come?”

“Hey, there’s my big guy,” said Mitch, setting his glass on the table. “No, buddy, he hasn’t come, yet. It’s only nine-forty. He won’t come for a little while.”

“Oh, okay.” The boy turned to climb back up the stairs.

“Hey, Denny,” Mitch called out. “Why don’t you come sit with me and watch a movie for a little bit? We can hang out for five minutes. It’s your favorite. It’s the one with the silly guy that ties strings all over his fingers.”

The child stared at his father for a moment in surprised disbelief, then with a grin, he toddled quickly down the steps. With one hand held high, he balanced himself against the banister as he navigated the last few stairs. The moment his pajama clad feet hit the floor, he ran for the couch as if the carpet were hot and he might burn his toes if he touched it too long. Denny flopped into his father’s lap and curled up, sticking a thumb into his mouth while settling in to watch the movie on tv. Mitch wrapped his arms around the boy and hugged him tightly, resting his cheek against the top of his son’s head and inhaling the musty scent of his sweaty hair.

“Where’s Mommy?” asked Denny, pulling his thumb from his mouth only long enough to ask the question.

“Sorry, buddy. Mommy isn’t here right now. But don’t worry, she’ll be back before you get up tomorrow morning.”

“I love Christmas,” Denny said, squirming with nervous energy in his father’s lap and bobbing his head to the rhythm of some far-off music that only he could hear.

“I do, too,” said Mitch. He sniffed and wiped at a sudden wetness in his left eye.

The two sat in contented silence, watching an angel named Clarence try to earn his wings. Denny suddenly turned to look at his father, a concerned, serious expression clouding his face. “Did you remember to tell Santa what I wanted?”

“I did, buddy. But just to be sure, why don’t you tell me again? You know, in case Santa’s listening right now. That way, you can be sure he gets it right.”

Denny looked up toward the ceiling and peered around the living room as though trying to figure out where Santa Claus might be hiding. He announced in a loud, deliberate voice, “I want a new teddy bear. The brown one with a yellow tummy that Daddy and me saw at the store.”

Mitch squeezed Denny again and leaned close to whisper in his ear. “I think he heard you. I think you’re going to get that teddy bear.”

Denny squealed with pleasure at the news. “It’ll be under the tree in the morning?” he asked.

“You bet,” Mitch assured the boy before pausing to swallow a sharp lump that had formed in this throat. He wiped at his eyes again. “I would love to sit here and hang out with you, bud, but you know Santa won’t come until you go to sleep. Maybe it’s time for you to head back up to bed.”

“You said I could watch the movie with you,” the child complained.

“I did, but our five minutes are up.”

Denny did not argue further. He twisted enough to hug his father around the neck before sliding off his lap and scampering up the stairs on all fours. Mitch watched the boy until he disappeared from view at the second-floor landing.

Not bothering with the glass this time, Mitch picked up the Glenfiddich and drank directly from the bottle. The alcohol burned his throat going down, just as he hoped that it would. It was going to be a long night, and sober was no way for him to get through it.

Mitch slumped into the couch cushions with his chest and stomach pleasantly on fire and tried to make himself concentrate on the ending of the movie. They had reached his favorite part. Jimmy Stewart was alive and running maniacally around the town annoying anyone who paused long enough to listen. Mitch couldn’t focus, though. His thoughts wandered back to his fight with Linda.

She had wanted him to sell this house and move two-thousand miles to live closer to her parents. She said she couldn’t stand being here any longer and didn’t understand why he wanted to stay. He told her there was no way in hell he was moving, but if she really wanted to leave, she was free to go. Mitch regretted saying that last part. He took another long drink from the bottle in his effort to get drunk enough to pass out.

He was unsuccessful.

Forty-five minutes crawled by as he wrapped his head in the haze of hard alcohol. The damned movie started over again for the fourth time. Mitch thought he might have dozed for a moment but was unsure if it was actually sleep or the alcohol that had turned his brain off. He was startled fully awake by a high-pitched scream coming from upstairs. The sound lasted barely a second before it suddenly cut off.

Mitch did not go upstairs. There was no point. He knew he probably shouldn’t go outside either, but he did not have the strength to sit on the couch and do nothing. Still clutching the whiskey bottle in one hand, he exited the sliding door at the rear of the house and staggered out onto the back patio.

A small, crumpled, blue form heaped on the concrete patio drew his eyes immediately. Denny lay face down and unmoving no more than ten feet from where Mitch stood. He froze, swaying drunkenly, unsure how to react as he stared at the broken shape of his child. A million half-formed responses swam through his booze-soaked mind, none of them able to completely resolve into a coherent thought. Anger, loss, regret, and self-recrimination all fought for dominance in the soup of emotion filling his head.

A slight twitch of the boy’s left hand finally broke his paralysis.

Mitch glanced upward and noted the open, second-story window of his son’s room. He had closed and locked it earlier this evening but, of course, that had been futile. He lurched a few unsteady steps forward and collapsed gracelessly to sit next to the boy. Setting the whiskey bottle down carefully so it would not tip over, he gathered Denny into his arms and cradled him in his lap, just as he had done an hour ago on the couch.

The boy remained motionless, but Mitchell could feel his labored heartbeat against his own chest and the intermittent rise and fall of Denny’s ribcage as his son struggled to breathe. He pressed his cheek against the back of Denny’s head, feeling the dampness there and knowing this time it was not the child’s sweat wetting his hair.

Denny would not wake up again. His injuries were too severe for him to regain consciousness. Still, it would be thirty-eight minutes before his body completely failed, his heart would cease beating, and this ordeal could finally end.

Mitchell fumbled out a hand and found the bottle resting beside him. He upended it into his mouth, taking another long drink.

***

Nine hours later, the moment the front gates were unlocked in the morning, Mitchell wandered into Dasan’s Terrace Memorial Park and Cemetery a few miles from his home. Nauseated, cotton-mouthed, and still slightly drunk from his binging the night before, he staggered among the headstones carrying a brown grocery bag tightly clutched in his arms. His feet led him unerringly to where he wanted to be, though he paid little attention to where he was going. Rows of neat, orderly headstones and polished marble markers filed past him, almost unnoticed. He stopped when he arrived at the correct location and dropped onto his knees next to one of the grave sites, still hugging the bag to his chest.

Waiting patiently in the grass and dirt, leaning against the headstone, a faded and moldy teddy bear sat vigil over the grave. Despite the weather and sun damage from twelve months of silent guard duty, the stuffed toy still had a few thick patches of fur that had maintained their original soft, brown color. Shiny, black plastic eyes gazed unblinkingly at Mitch, as if to ask, “Is it time?”

Mitch picked up the bear and set it aside in the grass next to him. Reaching into the paper bag, he removed a brand-new version of the same bear. It was identical to its tired, faded brother, but it glistened in the sunlight with the sheen of undampened, store-bought perfection. A fresh soldier to relieve the old, exhausted sentry.

Mitch lovingly settled the new bear at its post at the base of the arched headstone, brushing at the grass to level a spot for the toy to sit. When the bear was secure in its new home, he laid his hand against the cool, damp stone marker behind it. His breathing caught and hitched as he ran his fingertips along the letters and numbers etched into the gray marble slab.

DENNIS CHRISTOPHER LOMAN

FEBRUARY 12, 2016  –  DECEMBER 24, 2019

“Merry Christmas, buddy,” Mitch whispered. “Santa brought you a new bear, just like you asked. Just like you always ask.”

Tears flowed freely down Mitchell’s cheeks as he picked up the faded old bear next to his thigh and rose to his feet. Its time here was finished at last, and it would soon join its predecessors in the toybox at the rear of Denny’s closet. Mitch could not bring himself to throw it away, to throw any of them away. The very idea of discarding the Christmas gift felt wrong. No, he would keep it with the others.

He sniffed and swiped the sleeve of his shirt across his face.

“I really miss you, Denny. But I’ll see you again next Christmas Eve.”

Want to read more? Of course you do! Get your copy of Dead Town and find out what happens next.