The Eradication

By T. Bison

Hayden Burns is a brilliant eccentric who solves problems in absolutes. However, he was lacking motivation. That is, until he meets Rae Patton, the only person that understands him, and the woman who receives all of his compassion. His meaningful life comes to a halt when he finds Rae, his wife of ten years, bludgeoned to death. Hayden reinvents himself, leaving his past life behind and dedicating himself to solving the most complicated problem he has ever faced... revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. Bison
• Release date: Jul 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301288809

Book preview

Part

One

The Law:

The incompetent run to it

The incoherent hide behind it

The incomparable dismiss it

One

And here he stands…a man void of personality. A man, that if he walked by you every day you would never notice him. His posture had been declining over the past couple of months, but for this occasion, he stands proud. Every muscle in his body is relaxed to the point where it would feel like the skin is sliding off the frame to a normal person. But Hayden Burns isn’t normal…not anymore, at least.

His Plutchik Wheel had spun so rapidly that it careened off the tracks, leaving him detached at first glance, not emotionless like a high stakes poker player trying to conceal a bluff, quite the opposite. Hayden put his cards on the table much to the chagrin of his lawyer and hundreds of supporters.

But the eyes…his eyes…those eyes, which have seen the entire story, suggest a different opinion. Emotions blaze, contempt and loathing. A simple glimpse will make you stop and shudder. Those eyes don’t blink. Those eyes don’t move. They don’t have to, they see it all. They see through you. Those eyes know something you don’t.

• • •

Judge William Brim III was barely forty years old, but his Ivy League heredity put him on the fast track to his current bench, and eventually, probably to a much higher court. The only world he had ever witnessed was pampered yachts and villas. He had studied cases of disorder, dismay, evil and sadness, but he had never actually witnessed it in real life. Judge Brim’s idea of justice was to brush the tragedies under the rug so that the ones in power weren’t bothered. There could not be a worse judge to hear this case, according to those in favor of the defendant.

Judge Brim was relieved, even a bit chipper; it was the final day of the sentencing phase of the most bothersome trial of his short tenure. Hecklers he could handle. Reporters he could tolerate. He could laugh off the opinion pieces painting him as a man without compassion because he knew, or he thought he knew, compassion has no place in the system. Besides, he loved reading his name in the paper. But he was sick and tired of this man. Hayden Burns.

Judge Brim wanted to refer to him as a stark, raving lunatic, but that description wasn’t at all true. Burns hadn’t said a word during the entire trial. In fact, Judge Brim couldn’t recall Burns even moving. No, certainly not stark, raving. But Burns’ constant stare was enough to make the judge uneasy. How dare someone come into his court and try to apply pressure. Now that the sentence is about to be handed down, all of that would be over and Burns would be gone.

• • •

Hayden Burns, you have been found guilty of voluntary manslaughter by a jury of your peers.

Burns contained himself from laughing at the notion that he had peers.

"It is my opinion that you are guilty of far more than manslaughter. I am aware of the circumstances behind your barbaric resolution and I sympathize. However, we have a system to uphold. You purposely overlooked and disobeyed that system. And that, Mr. Burns, I cannot sympathize with under any circumstances. Because of the sheer gruesomeness and brutality of the crime and your obvious lack of remorse for the crime, not to mention your overall lack of respect for the system, I sentence you to the maximum of fifteen years without the possibility of parole in a federal prison."

A loud collective gasp barreled through the courtroom. Attendees began to stand and express disapproval. Judge Brim pounded his gavel with every bit of hatred that raged when someone did not agree with him.

ORDER!

The crowd reluctantly quieted.

This is not a concert or a football game. This is a court of law…MY court of law. If there is another such outburst, I will hold the entire courtroom in contempt. AM I CLEAR?!

The attendees slowly sunk back in their chairs with that lonely feeling, reprimanded and no way to retort.

Now, Mr. Burns, your sentence will start immediately. Do you have anything to say to the court?

Judge Brim, as well as everyone in attendance, knew the question would not receive an answer. The only person in the courtroom that had heard Burns speak was his lawyer. They knew he was articulate and probably even highly educated judging by the handwritten confession that was read at the trial. Many had read his words before, but his voice was a mere myth. The delivery of the punishment dashed all hopes of hearing him speak. Judge Brim wasn’t even looking to Burns for a reply. The entire episode had closure. Judge Brim would not have to look into those eyes again.

Yes sir, I do.

Two

Hayden Burns opened his eyes, but he wished he hadn’t. The high noon sun darted through the skylight and stabbed through his pupils. Not a good start to his day. He quickly closed them shut, wincing and tightening his face. He lay there briefly, trying to overcome the red flash beneath his eyelids. The sun is the rudest of alarm clocks.

After a moment, he began to relax and the warm sun on his face became soothing. Time to take physical inventory.

His feet weren’t throbbing, which meant he had enough whereabouts to remove his shoes last night. His stomach wasn’t grumbling, which meant he must have eaten. He wasn’t wheezing, which meant he didn’t smoke more than a pack of cigarettes. And, most important, his head didn’t feel like it was in a tightening vice, which meant he didn’t overindulge, by his standards, and he probably stuck with one type of booze throughout the night. However, if the sun is on his face that means he passed out on the living room floor, and it’s at least early afternoon, but overall, he felt good. Gotta get up.

Hayden concluded it was in his best interest to roll out of the rectangular sunspot before he opened his eyes again. Exit stage left.

Onto his belly, and what felt like an empty bottle of wine. That’s one.

The sun continued to bear down, more rolling. Onto his back, and what felt like another empty bottle. That’s two.

He reached the protective shade, opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling until everything came into focus. Lifting his head, he rolled up onto his left elbow to have a look around. On the cluttered coffee table sat a half-filled ashtray, which last night was pessimistically labeled ‘half empty’. Against the bookshelf lay his guitar, dressed with only two strings, which meant he probably put on one helluva concert. This was all typical, and it was acceptable. But the inspection stopped, abruptly, like it had every morning for what seemed a lifetime. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see one of the countless instigators of his spiral. Today it was a photo album. Landmines

This is where Hayden’s days truly started.

• • •

The countdown to ignition of the alcoholic rocket came in the days after the incident. Hayden’s mother and Rae’s parents were with him, which wasn’t exactly Hayden’s ideal situation. But, come to find out, humans listened to Hayden’s tirades; the bottles encouraged them. He went on for hours in front of his mother about the government wanting taxes from Rae’s death, and lawyers wanting money as a middleman to give the taxes to the government, and the funeral home…Hayden despised the entire racket. That’s it, goddamn it, I’m getting a fucking flamethrower.

After the funeral, which he did not attend, he ushered all family back to their homes with the guarantee that he was fine, which was true, at first. There was a calming period after the business of death was over.

Then came the media.

Hayden had been so consumed focusing his anger on the death merchants that he wasn’t even following his own plight in the news. The first article he just brushed off as terrible reporting and complete disregard of the facts in order to juice up the story for the readers. Not only that, innuendos pointing blame at Hayden littered the piece. He had to assume this specific writer was carrying a grudge against him for telling an entire group of reporters to ‘Piss off’. But the next story and the next story and the next…they were all the same. Every article ended with the same line: ‘Hayden Burns is unavailable for comment.’

3…2…1…liftoff.

Hayden, still living in the guest house at this time, stormed up the hill to the main house, went room by room ripping out telephones yelling ‘FUCK YOU!’ in sequence with the snapping of the line from the socket. He carried them out to the deck, one at a time, hurling them overboard. After all the phones were out of the house and scattered across the yard, Hayden seemed to run out of ideas to feed his anger, so he tried to soothe it instead.

He marched inside, poured a stiff vodka mix and marched back out to glare right through the phones, directly to the other end of the line at any reporter that wanted to talk to him. After that drink was gone, which wasn’t long, he made another and another and another.

For an hour he paced back and forth on the deck, drinking and chain smoking without breaking eye contact with the taunting idols. Finally, a decision was made. He sat his empty glass on the ledge, walked inside and returned with his shotgun and a box of shells. Standing on the deck like a sniper, he blasted away at his marks until the box was empty and his anger had passed. He walked back inside to return the smoking gun to its home and reemerged to the deck, drinking straight from the bottle, eliminating the jobs of both the glass and the mix.

The next afternoon, Hayden woke up, still in a bit of a stupor from last night’s consumption, and walked out on the deck to escape the smoke stench that floated unchallenged inside. That’s when he saw the carnage from yesterday’s rampage. Am I in a war zone, because those look like landmines?

Then he remembered why the landmines were there.

Hayden stormed inside and turned on the television to catch a news story about his refusal to take a lie detector test. Off the deck go the televisions and down the hatch goes the vodka.

The next day, one by one, Hayden played skeet shoot with VHS tapes until another box of shells was empty and he was drunk. That was Hayden’s cycle. Wake up, see the landmines and go into another tirade that would create more landmines to discover the next morning. If he didn’t stop, there wasn’t going to be anything left.

Three

As Hayden lumbered to his knees, then to his feet, he noticed the cracking of his joints. That’s new.

Hayden was never in peak physical shape, but at thirty-eight, his body shouldn’t act like this. The last couple of months have aged him dramatically.

Circling around the furniture to avoid the first obvious landmine of the day, he heads directly to the kitchen, eyes focused and staring straight ahead. If his mind wanders into the past at this hour, tomorrow’s wakeup call will be much less enjoyable.

Don’t look at it.

Don’t look at it.

Don’t look at it.

Make coffee.

Make coffee.

Make coffee.

The kitchen was in reasonable shape. That’s three.

His assessment of last night’s alcohol intake was accurate. Well, almost. There’s also one empty airplane vodka bottle, or as he refers to them, planers. Tapping the outside of his pants pockets, he felt a planer in each. Pulling them out a rare smirk appeared. They’re unopened.

He opened the cabinet and placed the recovered gems with the rest of his arsenal.

His assessment on food intake had also been accurate. There’s a casserole on the counter that’s been worked on by what looks to be a raccoon, but Hayden was no longer a proponent of utensils, so there was no reason to call pest control. Making a fresh pot of coffee, he eyed the casserole pan. Linda Maybery.

Linda was one of the Sympathizers.

Sympathizers were the most annoying to Hayden in the few days immediately after the incident. They came over at all hours offering condolences, prayer, and insight. Hayden never was one for company, so this was all confusing. These were Rae’s friends, after all, not his. Truth be told, they weren’t even Rae’s friends, but her personality attracted everyone, whether she liked them or not. Hayden couldn’t understand why they were still here, when Rae was not.

After a couple of weeks of awkwardness, both Hayden and the Sympathizers came to understand each other. Hayden did not want to see them or hear them, but he realized they wanted to hold on to some memory of Rae. If they agreed to leave food on the porch during the hours they knew full-well Hayden was sleeping one off, then they could live together in harmony.

With the coffee brewing, Hayden took on his first daily chore of checking the porch for the Sympathizer offerings. Hayden didn’t eat all of it, but since his house is tucked away in the mountains, fresh food would attract critters, and things bigger than critters. Hayden knew the possibility of stumbling outside in the middle of the night high on fire. Inviting bears over to watch isn’t the best idea, so he collected all of the gifts. No offerings today. It must be Sunday.

Sympathizers didn’t get out of church until after the chances of Hayden being awake dramatically increased, so they passed.

Deciding everything was on the up and up today, Hayden headed to the shower.

Don’t look in the mirror.

Don’t look in the mirror.

Don’t look in the mirror.

Adjusting the temperature to scalding hot, Hayden positioned himself in front of the nozzle. At six-foot-four, he always wondered what it was like to stand under a showerhead, tilt his head back and let the water stream down his body. Rae always did that.

Sometimes the landmines were in Hayden’s head.

Get the soap.

Get the soap.

Get the soap.

‘With authority’ best describes Hayden’s cleansing technique. Getting three-day old booze sweat from his pores took work, but mostly it was to keep his mind occupied. Obsessive Compulsive Disorders were nonsense to Hayden…as were sore backs, lactose intolerance and welfare. But if any doctor or case worker took one look at Hayden, they would have a field day with their assessments.

After getting the soap off and a quick shave of the neck, Hayden slumped down in the shower, joints cracking again. He took a seat in the tub, clasped his hands and pulled his knees to the inside of his elbows. Letting his head drop to stretch his neck muscles, the searing water massages his entire body.

The lava flowed over his buzz cut, around his ears, over his brows and cheeks, through his whiskers, and around the lips of his relaxed, gaping mouth, forming a vortex that lets him breathe in the vapors, cleansing his over smoked lungs. Relaxed and focused.

After getting out of the volcano, Hayden strolled to the counter to clean the purple fuzz from his teeth. He can afford to stand in front of the mirror at this point; the steam has rendered it useless. This was one of Hayden’s favorite tricks. While he brushed his teeth, applied deodorant and got dressed, the fog would gradually lift. His reflection would slowly transpose, like a Polaroid print, preventing the shock of a fresh wound or worse, the decaying shell he often felt like. I’ll be damned.

After getting a clear look at himself, he decided it’s better than he imagined. Even the bags under his eyes seemed empty. Hell, I could even pass as presentable. Relaxed and focused.

Before the incident, Hayden never really stood out in a crowd, other than maybe his height. He kept his hair tight and neat,