The White Mountain by Ernie Lindsey Read Free Book Online Page A

twenty-five stoplights.  Nights spent on the front porch
looking at the stars, so quiet that you could almost hear the lightning bugs
illuminating their abdomens.  Breakfast at the Corner Café on Main Street where
she knew everybody, and everybody knew her.
    In Smythville, life moved at
the speed of free will, rather than being dictated by the millions of
hindrances that bombarded the NOVA populace as soon as they stepped out their
front doors.  Being a part of it, having it forced upon her already before she
even reached her destination, heightened her sixth sense of impending trouble. 
    It was an omen.
    Mary couldn’t exactly place
what it was she was feeling.  Danger?  Helplessness?
    She was still clueless as to
where she should even begin.  Randall’s CIA contact was the obvious choice, but
what questions should she ask?  How would she begin to approach the subject of
Randall’s insinuations without sounding like a crazy woman?  She imagined
herself sitting down at a desk, across from some clean-shaven, stern-faced
agent in a suit and tie with his hands folded in his lap, politely asking how
he could help, and then being promptly ushered out the door by a security guard
with a tight grip on her arm.
    The wail of a siren grew and
a moment later, a squad car zipped past on the shoulder, lights flashing,
temporarily burning bright splotches into her vision.
    Mary sighed, closed her eyes,
and tipped her head back against the headrest.  She accepted the fact that the
situation was out of her control for the time being, and tried not to let it
increase her anxiety.
    Which was futile.  Unlike the
methodical slog she found herself in on the highway, her forty-eight hours slipped
away, in a hurry, with no regard to her looming anxiety and impatience.

 
    CHAPTER 6
    With Alice and Jesse on their
way to a new location, not far but far enough, after hours of arguing that it
was the best and safest option before he finally got them out of the house, Randall
opened the refrigerator and grabbed a can of Pepsi.  He pulled the tab,
listened to the hiss of release, and then took a long swig.  An
injection of caffeine, with plenty more to follow, was necessary.  The need for
a boost damaged his pride a little, but he’d barely slept over the past few
days.  If at all.  He couldn’t remember.
    After such a long time
without rest, the mind begins to break down, begins to wither away like a houseplant
without water.  The edges turn brown, fragile, curl up, and commence their slow
march toward expiration.
    The longest he’d gone without
sleep had been sixty-eight hours during a mission through the jungles of South
America.  He couldn’t remember the exact details, some guerrilla warlord needed
a hole opened in his skull—after a while, they all blended together—but the
number of sleepless hours and remorse from that trip into the wild would always
stick with him.  The  ‘ 68 – In Memory of JL’ tattooed on the inside of
his right forearm made it so.  A reminder of what he’d endured to complete the
mission, suffering through hunger, bug bites by the hundreds, and a venomous
snake crawling across his cheek for what seemed like days.  The same snake that
had bitten and eventually killed his spotter.
    How his partner had been able
to withstand the neurotoxins’ affects as the venom traveled throughout his veins
and shut down his respiratory system over that godawful twenty minutes, how
he’d managed to slowly suffocate to death without panicking and giving away
their position, was both heroic and legendary.  Randall still told the story
with pride and reverence.
    Randall, ever intent on
completing the operation and with nothing to be done, had crawled away, leaving
behind the body of Jeff Lakeland, with the intent of coming back for him once
the job was complete.  It was the singular, most regretful moment of his life. 
Abandoning a friend for the sake of the mission.
    He recalled the last, waning
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