11 Sep Derrick’s Destiny

Ford Street Bridge – Minneapolis, Minnesota  Wednesday, September 10, 2021 – 11:55 p.m. EST

Willis, hurry your ass up! Can’t you hear all those popping off like Fourth of July fireworks, and the sky’s a funky-ass green. Ronny told us all to leave over two hours ago. Everyone else split—we’re the only fools left. Ain’t you been paying attention? Downtown Minneapolis is a war zone, and we’re only a few blocks away!”

Glancing over his shoulder, Derrick fought the urge to grimace. Chester McFarland, the newest member of the crew, was not someone he enjoyed being around on a good day. It still rubbed him raw he wasn’t the site foreman, the position given to a man with less experience. He wished Ronny McDaniel, owner of McDaniel Bridge Repair, had never hired the loser. Yes, Chester knew his way around a construction site, yet his experience was not enough to counteract a terrible demeanor. Chester was loud, obnoxious, opinionated, and a closet racist who let his antiquated ideas slip out after one-too-many beers. One of his favorite topics to broach was Derrick’s “hotter-than-hot white wife” and how it angered him to see “another potential mate lost to someone who should stick to his own color.”

Three nights ago, it took all Derrick’s internal fortitude to not rise to the drunken buffoon’s ignorance. Maturity and wisdom enabled him to remain calm. Rude comments and snarky remarks about his marriage to Skylar had been something both he and his bride dealt with ever since their first date over two decades ago. In his youth, Derrick didn’t have a handle on his anger. Numerous physical altercations with the same type of ignorant lowlifes resulted in the loss of three good construction jobs—and two arrests and convictions for battery. Thinking about the injustice of those incidents made his gut roil. He never threw the first punch, only reacted in self-defense when verbal altercations turned physical, yet he’d been the one arrested.

Risking a job loss now would be a major financial blow. The insurance company fought them at every turn regarding construction costs, trying to cut corners on materials, stalling because of the heat. Skylar’s online party-planning business was all but dead ever since the heatwave. Plus, she’d just lost her mother after a long bout with bone cancer and now, they’d been forced to move in with his father-in-law just to keep their heads above water. The thought of returning home, dropping the negative news on his bride, steadied his resolve to check himself.

Rather than beating Chester to within an inch of his life, Derrick replied no woman of any color with a lick of self-worth or common sense would consider him a viable life partner. The other employees at the bar burst out laughing. Chester’s face turned crimson red from embarrassment.

Tonight, Chester’s braggadocio, alpha-dog behavior had morphed over into that of a frightened goat. Derrick faked a smile while clicking off the flashlight. “I had to finish up our jobs, Chester. If you’re so antsy to leave, you should’ve helped me complete the final perimeter check to make sure everything’s secured. The explosives and highly volatile chemicals don’t need to be in the hands of the rioters. Did you lock up the office trailer?”

“No. I told you before I ain’t getting out of this truck. The foreman watches while the laborers do the work. See now? That’s why I’m your boss…whoa!” Chester jumped. “That shot was close. Maybe four blocks? Any second those rioting fools are gonna come across the bridge.”

“No, they won’t.” Derrick pointed up toward Ford Parkway to the east first and then the west.  “Those blue lights over there and there aren’t for show. The cops have been stationed on each side for the last hour, making sure no one crosses. Didn’t you pay attention to what Ronny said before he left?”

Chester shook his head.

“When the mayor called him and said we had to leave, Ronny reminded him about the explosives and chemicals, and that if no one was allowed to remain here to keep an eye out for looters, they might get stolen. The mayor promised him he’d block the entrances to the bridge, and he kept his word, so stop worrying.”

“Easy for you to say. My skin’s the color those losers are out to get. You’ll be just fine since you’re one of them. I’m leaving. Get in right now or hoof it back to the apartment.”

Mentally chiding himself for leaving his work truck at the apartment because he’d neglected to fill it up with gas the day before, Derrick’s temper got the best of him. “Chester, if you do something stupid like that, I can guarantee you will no longer be employed. Ronny counts on us to do this job…”

A huge explosion drowned out Derrick’s voice. Both men turned their gazes west toward Nicollett Avenue. Orange and red flames lit up the night sky. Derrick’s stomach dropped. Turning back to Chester, he held up the key to the trailer, which was tucked away underneath the bridge, only feet from the raging Mississippi River. “Give me five seconds to lock the office door.”

Chester muttered something unintelligible before putting the work truck into gear. He gunned the engine. The tires kicked up a spray of gravel as the vehicle sped down Mississippi River Boulevard. Derrick cussed a blue streak while running after him for several yards.

It was no use. McFarland had floored it.

Stopping to catch his breath, he glanced east. Highland Lane Apartments, the company’s temporary home away from home, was several blocks away.

All Hell just broke loose on the other side of Ford Street bridge, and from his limited perspective, it appeared crowds gathered on the east side too.

And he was on foot.

The distinct wail of a tornado siren blared all around, followed by a robotic voice: “Martial law is now in place. Return to your homes immediately and shelter in place until instructed otherwise. This is not a drill. Repeating, martial law is now in place. Return to your homes immediately and shelter in place until instructed otherwise. This is not a drill.”

Derrick’s mouth dropped open. He couldn’t believe what he just heard. Yanking his cell from his back pocket while running back toward the construction trailer, he called Ronny, praying he was awake—and sober.

“We’re sorry. All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later.”

He tried again with the same results.

When he tried the third time, his phone died.

“Damn you, Chester! When I see you again, I’ll pummel your ass like I should have at the bar!”

Once at the trailer door, he cursed again. The flashlight was dead. It took several seconds of fumbling in the dark to secure the deadbolt. For a split second, he wished for the days before cell phones because that would mean the trailer had a landline. More gunfire erupted above his head and this time it was close—and on his side of the bridge.

Sweat poured down his face and back as he broke into a quick trot, heading east toward Mt. Curve Boulevard as throngs of people swarmed the few police cruisers blocking the east entrance. Glass shattered. People screamed obscenities at the cops, demanding justice for the downtrodden. As a black man, he understood all too well their concerns and full-heartedly agreed with raising concerned voices in protest. He did not, however, agree with the tactics used by some. How did burning, looting, brick-throwing, and firing weapons at each other, destroying their own cities, help the cause?

In his opinion, it only hindered. If his father were still alive, he’d be appalled at the current state of racism in America. The heatwave brought out the worst in humanity, resurrecting old prejudices and reigniting the smoky embers of hate. Rev. Ezekiel Willis believed violence begat violence, and the only way society would change was when individuals examined their own hearts and extracted hate, replacing it with God’s love.

A weird pop followed by a loud whoosh made him glance upward. A cloud of thick, viscous vapor surrounded the protesters. The few he could see staggered backward while coughing. Some spit and a few vomited. In seconds, the nasty aroma reached Derrick’s nose—tear gas. He zigged the opposite direction.

Calm down. Everything’s locked up. Time to head out. It’ll be a hard run in the heat so just pretend it’s another two-a-day football practice with Coach Kline. Get to the apartment, get some gas, and head back home. In less than a day, I’ll hug Skylar and Brandon so hard they might break.

Just as he neared the pavement his eyes started watering. He stumbled when his right toe connected with something hard. He tried to stay upright, arms flailing, but it was no use. His left knee slammed into the ground, sending sharp pangs up into his gut. The cell phone flew from his pocket, landing glass-side-down on the concrete. He heard the screen shatter. Rolling over onto his back, he bit his lip to keep from yelling out in pain.

He grimaced while staring up into the hazy sky. The stars were hidden by gray smoke. The yellowish beams from the streetlights on the bridge and the azure blues and crimson reds from the police cruisers barely made a dent. Yep, just like two-a-days—Coach Kline always said my feet were too big for my body. Okay, suck it up! Now is not the time to be sidelined with an injury.

A dark-colored SUV zoomed past him with its headlights off, sliding to a stop by the temporary metal building housing the explosives and chemicals. Two people jumped out, yet the interior light of the vehicle did not come on. The motion sensor by the fence kicked on, bathing the area in light. Both bodies were covered in head-to-toe black, and if they were female, they were the biggest women he’d ever seen. Each carried what appeared to be M16s or maybe AR15s. One punched in the code to the gate surrounding the building, and it slid open.

Another SUV sped by, stopping inches from the gated entrance to the Ford Hydroelectric Plant. Two more black-clad individuals stepped out. One approached the security checkpoint.

Good! Looks like the mayor took Ronny’s warning seriously and sent in two CIRT teams. What a relief, though I’m surprised only four arrived. Guess four’s better than zero.

Watching both groups for a few more seconds to give his knee time to quit throbbing, he contemplated signaling the duo near the construction shed and requesting help. They probably weren’t allowed to leave their posts, but they might be willing to contact someone to come rescue him.

The one on the far left ran over to the breaker box, cutting the power. The lot went dark. The only lights remaining from the bridge, police vehicles, and water plant cast wimpy beams down to his location. Just as he turned his head, the hydroelectric plant’s lights blinked once before disappearing. The area was bathed in semi-darkness.

Ignoring the weird sensation from deep within, some internal instinct warning him to remain quiet and keep himself hidden behind the clump of scrub bushes, Derrick stood. He needed help to get out of the area. Snatching the destroyed cell from the ground, he stared at the cracked screen. He stuffed it back into his pocket before hobbling toward the storage area, his footsteps muffled by thick grass.

“Legion Chaos 3 to base.”

“Go ahead, Legion Chaos 3.”

The distinct crackle of radio chatter made him freeze midstride upon hearing the words Legion Chaos. The voices had no discernable accents. They were cold, enunciating every syllable, and almost robotic. Despite the heat, every hair on Derrick’s body stood erect, a strong signal something wasn’t right.

“In position and ready for approval to deploy.”

“It is a go. Black lamb is 11 meters south of your position. You have been spotted. Acquire target. Now.”

Derrick’s mouth went dry as two heads turned his direction. Panic skittered up his spine, making his legs tremble. Though he wasn’t a soldier, nor had he ever been in law enforcement, he’d played enough simulated war games with Brandon to realize the men weren’t sent in to guard the construction site or the hydroelectric plant.

Black, unmarked SUVs with lights off.

No interior lights upon exiting vehicles.

Military-grade weapons held by completely camouflaged individuals who spoke like AI drones.

Power cut off to both sets of building lights.

Knowledge of the gate codes.

A sick, twisted thought wormed around inside Derrick’s head—they were sent to destroy both the bridge and the hydroelectric plant, and blame the destruction on the black, sacrificial lamb.

You have been spotted…Black lamb…Acquire…Oh, shit—they mean me. I don’t wanna know what comes next. Run!

Pushing past the pain in his knee, he visualized Skylar and Brandon’s faces, using his love for them as fuel. He broke out into a full-on sprint. He made it about thirty yards when something sharp and hot slammed into his back, catapulting him forward. Intense, excruciating pain burned through his entire body, shaking him like Tiger with his favorite chew toy. He collapsed into a convulsing heap onto the hard ground, body contorting into the fetal position.

Unable to control his limbs, mind engulfed by overwhelming terror, he could do nothing to protect himself as the sound of boots drew closer. Oh, God. Help me. I know I haven’t spoken to you in years since dad died, and I’m sorry, but I’m begging you, let me see my wife and son again. Please? My life can’t end this way.

“Legion Chaos 3 to base. Black lamb acquired.”

“Proceed with assignment.”

“Acknowledged. Legion Chaos 3 out.”

A set of strong hands grabbed his wrists while another set latched onto his ankles, lifting him several feet off the ground. Derrick wanted to fight back, to kick, punch, scream obscenities, but it was no use. His body swayed and bobbed as they carried him closer to the metal building. Within seconds, they let go. He landed on his side hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

The sharp barbs embedded deeper, sending fresh waves of pain straight into his brain.

“It is pointless to struggle, Mr. Willis. The medical term for the experience is neuromuscular incapacitation. Now, it is time to watch. You are about to make history.”

Uh oh. He knows my name. Great—these are government tools. Damnit!

A head loomed in Derrick’s line of vision. Faint strobes of blue and red from the police cruisers on the bridge made him appear like a character from a spy movie. The man’s entire face was covered with a thick, black material. Only a set of eyes were visible. The jade-green orbs blinked twice. The sense of worry from before morphed into terror as he met the man’s gaze. There was no humanity or trace of compassion, nothing but a cold, dark stare. An unseen hand jerked his head to the left.

Derrick couldn’t believe the images his eyes relayed back to his brain.

One of the men closest to him shed all the black clothing and combat boots. Underneath, he wore a yellow shirt with the distinct logo of McDaniel Bridge Repair, a pair of denim jeans and steel-toed boots. He turned and smiled. Derrick’s blood whooshed in his ears.

He looks enough like me he could be my twin.

The man with the green eyes addressed one of the other men not in Derrick’s line of vision. “Cell ready to record?”

“Affirmative.”

“Excellent. Proceed. I will keep an eye on our little lamb.”

Derrick’s creepy clone took off toward the building housing the explosives. The other two men followed, one holding a cell phone, muttering words Derrick couldn’t quite make out. In that instant, he knew what was about to happen and the blame placed on his shoulders.

Get up. Run. Derrick made a weird, mewling sound as he tried to move. A fresh flow of electricity hit him so hard his teeth clanged together.

His captor leaned closer. A different, strange, electrical current arced up Derrick’s spine.

“That little burst was your only warning. Try to move again and the next shock will be enough to render you unconscious. Are my instructions clear?”

Derrick didn’t—couldn’t—reply. Instead, he let his eyes speak for him.

“Good. Ah, the body count just increased dramatically. The rioters broke through the barricades. It is amazing how fast they scurry, just like ants. Oh, stop looking so distraught over the upcoming loss of their pathetic lives. Collateral damage accentuates emotional responses by the masses. Those morally bankrupt cretins deserve the comeuppance.”

No, they don’t! You all are cruel bastards!

“Such language for the son of a preacher man.” The man laughed. “I do not understand why you consider it cruel to give people what their hearts desire. Their insatiable cravings drove them to loot, pillage, scream, and shout for months, insisting upon a society liberated from the bonds of morality, justice, and especially, law enforcement. A surging tide of disbelief and destruction generations in the making is coming full circle. Too bad you cannot see them from your perspective. They are like sheep with blind eyes wide open, giddy at the prospect of chains being lifted. It is what the world wants now—freedom from the constraints of believing their choices and actions carry consequences. Each generation gained knowledge and power, yet in exchange for their enlightenment, eschewed the traditions of their elders. They are narcissistic fools. None of them stopped to consider the true price for such ridiculous requests. No matter. Their cravings will be satiated now. The old Chinese proverb, ‘Be careful what you wish for, lest it come true,’ never rang truer. Do you agree?”

This isn’t happening. No, I don’t agree. Who are you people? Why are you doing this? How can you hear my thoughts? God, please stop them! No one deserves to die like this.

A weird flapping noise above caught his attention. A host of black crows filled the sky. Some landed next to them, others in the trees. One perched directly on the man’s left shoulder. No, not crows. Ravens.

“God is dead, have you not heard? I believe the year was 1966 when Friedrich Nietzsche declared so on the cover of Time. I realize the declaration was prior to your birth, but you studied history in school, and I know you conversed about the subject numerous times with your father, Ezekiel. Oh, my mistake. The correct word is argued, not conversed. If I recall correctly, the last time you two discussed the existence of God was the night before you left for college during a wicked argument about your relationship with Skylar.”

Derrick’s mind spun. How does he know I was praying? About Skylar? The argument with Dad? Maybe I am unconscious, and this is some weird dream? Please let that be the case.

“We all know everything about you, Mr. Willis, including how deep your anger runs. Oh, you have managed to hold it at bay the last nine months when Ronny bypassed you for the position of foreman and gave it to the Neanderthal, Chester McFarland, but it still resides inside you, bubbling and churning, itching to be set free. You almost let it run wild at the bar three nights ago. After their betrayal, I know you regret the decision now.”

We? Their betrayal? What does he mean?

“Hmm, I see the jolts of electricity provided quite a bit of mental fogginess. Allow me to guide you to the truth. Your perceptions about Chester are on target, yet for some reason, you missed the same red flags in Ronny. Both men share the same ideologies about race. They stewed privately for months, watching all the civil unrest, the riots, the utter chaos. Chester functioned as a ringleader of sorts, pushing, and urging Ronny to make a statement. A big, bold statement about you—well, more specifically—about your race. How do you think we obtained the gate codes? Why Ronny and all the other employees left, leaving you and Chester to close? Why Chester fled?”

Ronny would never do such a vile thing!

“Your current predicament proves he did.”

Derrick’s mind spun from the betrayal.

“Enough of wallowing in self-pity for your naivete and blindness, Mr. Willis. Time is short, so I will answer your other question. Yes, we. Well, the men with me are not part of my superior station.” The man pointed toward the metal building before pulling a syringe from his boot. “They are brainwashed pawns. Humans are so full of anger, so easy to manipulate, so eager to unleash their rage on each other. However, we do have something in common—we all crave the taste of fear, just for different reasons.”

Superior station? Humans? This fool thinks he isn’t human. Okay, I’m out cold. I must be. This isn’t real. Maybe I hit my head when I fell and not my knee?

“Mr. Willis, you are a smart man so stop trying to convince yourself none of this is happening. It is. We are not human. We are Legion, and we are many. Our time to rise to power has arrived. Nothing can stop us.”

Derrick’s mind went back to the sermons his father preached about spirits and principalities, and how they interacted with humans. No. No freaking way.

“Still in disbelief even when the proof is right in front of your face? Typical human. Now, enough idle chit-chat. The Clearing has begun. His time is nigh. It is showtime! You—well, a reasonable facsimile of you—have one of the many leading roles. How exciting. Your name will be known around the world in a few hours as the man who destroyed Minneapolis. Unfortunately, you will not be alive to pay for your crime. A stick and a sting and it will be over. The drug mimics a heart attack. After all, the authorities must be able to identify the terrorist responsible for so much destruction.”

“Release him. Right now.”

The ravens screeched, fluttering off with a collective whoosh into the night sky.

The loud, commanding voice came from somewhere behind him. Though he couldn’t see the person, Derrick felt the strength and power behind the words, and he recognized the voice, though that was impossible.

The man with the syringe stiffened. A strange mewling sound, low and menacing, escaped his lips.

If he really was awake, Derrick worried the taser caused major damage to his brain because the man’s eyes instantly transformed from green to black, including the formerly white sections. The stench of sulfur filled the air when he spoke. “Ez a mi időnk. Menj el.”

“Nem válaszolok neked démon.”

Before Derrick could blink, the man lunged with inhumane speed, disappearing from his limited sight. The sounds of a scuffle from behind him broke out. Less than five seconds later, the man’s body catapulted into the air, crumpling to the ground directly in front of Derrick. His head smacked the pavement with a sickening crunch.

A set of unblinking, solid black eyes stared at him. The dark orbs were sunken into the orbital sockets. Derrick knew he was dead yet had no clue what killed him.

He heard more noise to his left several yards away and three distinct thumps…and then, a lone set of feet walking back to his position.

A cool hand touched his cheek. “Derrick? Can you hear me?”

Blinking twice to clear his head, concerned he did have permanent brain damage and was hallucinating, he gaped at the familiar face of his rescuer. Wide-set sable eyes beset with heavy creases; the broad, strong nose; the gray hair cut close; full lips parted into a warm smile. The scent of Old Spice lingered on the air.

Dad? No. Way. He’s been dead for seven years. That’s it—my brain is toast.

He tried to sit up yet lacked the strength.

“Your brain is functioning properly, Derrick. I chose a recognizable form that would provide you comfort. Here, allow me to detach this torture device and then I will get you out of here.”

A set of hands reached behind him, removing the metal probes of the taser embedded in his back. Despite the godawful heat, the fingers were cool. A wave of dizziness threatened to overtake his mind. So, this is what a mental breakdown feels like. Skylar, Brandon, I hope you know how much I love you both.

“There now, all set. We need to leave immediately. It is not safe here.”

With every ounce of strength left, Derrick managed to turn his head toward the shed. If he was hallucinating, he may as well play it out. If the strange interactions were not from a demented figment of his damaged imagination, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people were in grave danger. “Explosives.”

“I know.” The elderly man who looked exactly like his father bent down, scooping Derrick up. With unnatural strength, he hoisted him over his shoulder. He took off, heading south, legs strong and steady, pace beyond anything capable by a human. The ground whizzed by in a blur; the sounds of the sirens, shouting, and gunshots diminished to the point they were no longer audible.

Mind reeling from an overload of unbelievable, impossible stimulation, Derrick fought to regain control. Mentally clawing and scratching his way through the murkiness inside his head and body, he sucked in several huge gulps of air.

“Stop. Put me down. Gonna puke.”

The second the words left Derrick’s mouth, the man came to a halt and set him down with care on a nearby bench. After heaving into the bushes, Derrick glanced over to the sign to his right. It read Resurrection Cemetery.

His mouth gaped open. “How in the world…did we travel…over five miles? Damn, my sense of time is all screwed up. Seems like it was only ten seconds, maybe fifteen?”

“Time is a human measurement. It means nothing in the ethereal plane. However, if you wish an answer, it was exactly fourteen point two.”

A massive headache throbbed in his temples. Trying to wrap his mind around the fact he was conversing with a man who looked like his deceased father was too much to process. “Will you please tell me what’s going on? None of this makes any sense. Am I hallucinating?”

“No.”

“In the hospital hooked up to an IV full of morphine?”

“No.”

“Still out cold on the construction site?”

“Again, no.”

Blowing out a huff of air as reality set in, Derrick studied the man. He was taller by a good six inches than his father and a weird, electrical current emanated from him like the other man, almost making him glow. He shook his head in disbelief. “Earlier, you said a form was chosen I would recognize. The other dude with the funky eyes kept referring to humans like he wasn’t one.”

“Correct on both accounts. We are the same entities just working for different sides.”

The skin on Derrick’s arms stood erect. “Are you trying to tell me he was a…demon…and you’re an angel?”

“I am not telling you anything, Derrick. I am sorry, but we must part ways. You have one minute before the bomb explodes. Here are the keys to your vehicle. It is parked over there.” The man pointed to Derrick’s left before setting the keys on the bench. “Turn right onto Lexington Avenue and follow the signs for the entrance to Interstate 35 East. From there, I believe you know your way home.”

A jolt of adrenaline blew through the final stragglers of doubt and confusion. Derrick jumped from the bench, stunned to see his work truck sitting at the end of the lot underneath a streetlight. “Wait…this is all real? You’re an angel and ol’ green eyes back there was a demon. Okay, I’ll dip my toes into this pool of insanity. If what you said is true, why did you save me? We have to go back and warn everyone before they die!”

“I am not allowed to veer from the instruction to save you and the others I am assigned to protect. Even if I had the ability or interest in breaking protocol, it would not matter. The demon no longer indwells the body of his host because I sent him back in chains to his eternal realm. The remaining three men made their choices of whom to serve years ago. Their hearts are hardened. No words or actions will break through the barrier they erected around their souls. It is too late for them. The man meant to be you has an incendiary device strapped to his body with a timer—one remotely controlled by the hands of someone I am not a high enough rank to stop. I must depart as I have others to rescue. Go. Now. Brandon will need you. Soon. Remember Proverbs 22:6—and one more thing you must not forget above all else.”

At a loss for words, Derrick cocked his head, waiting for more craziness to spew from the man’s mouth.

“Operation Jade Helmet. Do not, under any circumstances, allow Brandon to play. When the game begins, everything changes.”

“But…”

Derrick didn’t have a chance to say anything else. The man vanished in front of his eyes. Before he could grapple with the fact a person—an entity?—disappeared as though never there, a huge explosion shook the ground. Turning his gaze northwest, he felt sick to his stomach while watching another ball of fire light up the dark skies. “Oh, my God. All those people.”

Instincts took over. After snatching the keys, his ran to the truck. In seconds, he was inside and cranked it to life. Gaping in disbelief at the full gas gauge, his packed bags, and a road atlas nestled in the passenger seat, he swallowed hard.

A Bible that did not belong to him rested on top of the bags, opened to Proverbs 22.

He didn’t stop to read it as he recalled the earlier warning blaring across the tornado sirens’ speakers. “Martial law. How am I going to make it over 850 miles without getting pulled over?”

His father’s voice whispered in his ear, “Oh ye of little faith, son. Follow the highlighted sections on the map and pay for your gas in cash at the designated stops. Drive. You will make it. There is still work for you to do.”

Cold shivers ran up his spine. “Cash? Who carries cash nowadays? Do I need to go to the nearest ATM and…?”

The glovebox popped open. Derrick jumped as handfuls of tens and twenties fell to the floorboard. “Okay, okay, I get it. Have faith. Drive. Those things I can do.”

Derrick DeShawn Willis wadded up the cash, stuffed the bills into his bag, slammed the truck into drive and gunned the engine, more than ready to get out of Minnesota and back home to his wife and son.

The previously broken radio came on by itself, blaring Sam and Dave’s “Hold On, I’m Coming,” which was his father’s favorite song. Cranking up the volume, he sang at the top of his voice, thinking if this was all just a crazy dream, at least he had good music to listen to while diving headfirst into Insanityville.