Deadly Ground

By Thomas W. Starbuck

We’re all on deadly ground now. This virus doesn’t have rules. We don’t know what the next moments will bring.

For whatever reason, God saw fit to give me the responsibility of being the second Adam, and to restart the human race.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641401685

Book preview

Chapter 1

Opulence in every space of his home was an accurate description of AB’s lifestyle. From his lavish Tuscan kitchen to his media room festooned with all the latest gadgets. He must always have the best, top-of-the-line, and there should always be a way to improve it, whatever it might be.

There was uncompromising quality, design, and craftsmanship in everything he owned. Every detail from the high ceilings to the beautifully inlaid floors and exquisite moldings in every room. He was a master at details. His worldwide travels had culturally enriched him beyond the average guy. He brought into his home the beauty he had seen around the world and incorporated it into his life and home.

His California home was perched high on the hills overlooking the northern Pacific Ocean. Rustic, magnificent, and equipped with all the modern amenities. The crown of his home was the fantastic unobstructed view of the northern Pacific Ocean. In the summer he viewed the vista through enormous glass doors that collapsed and folded into themselves, bringing the outdoors inside. In the winter, he would daydream out the same doors with a warm cup of coffee in his hand. At those moments, it seemed that all his cares drifted away. Having this unhindered view to the ocean year-round made him feel like he was gazing into infinity, and for those brief moments, he was satisfied.

Outside his home was even more exterior evidence of how he thought a person should live peacefully and without want. The stunning, lush landscaped yard was park-like. It included a pool, spa, fountains, spacious private patio areas, and an expansive grassy yard. To go along with that he had created an organic garden, and a hothouse. He could have charged admittance to the public to see all of this if he was not such a sociophobe.

It seemed that he was always in a building frenzy. He was never finished. He was not like the discontented Winchester House owner, Sarah Winchester, who was haunted by the ghosts of those killed with Winchester rifles, and not because he feared death like her. He would spit in the eye of death. He just would never settle for mediocracy, and so the house and the property was never finished, always in a state of unrest like himself. Yes, he was an agitated soul that the devil himself did not want to lay claim to any sooner than he had to.

Cutting through this placid scene was the raucous country music that swayed, two-stepped, or wailed out of the surround sound system and vibrated throughout his home. He always had to have noise somewhere around him. Even though he had chosen to live the life of pretty much isolation, he despised silence. He was a conundrum, an enigma, a deeply complicated man.

With all the romance that he had built around him for the eye to visualize, he had yet to find a woman to share it with. Not one that could put up with him on a long-term basis anyway. His intellect was higher than most on the planet, but his emotions ran deep.

Call it what you will: DNA, genetic, learned, or just a reality check from having a heart attack in his thirties; he had developed a compulsion to write down his thoughts in a journal at the end of each day. Every shelf in his den showed his varied degrees in education, assorted medical books, studies on viruses, some awards, record albums, and dozens of journals.

A Frederick Remington’s bronze sculpture was placed on a nearby table. Next to it, in direct contrast, was an empty Coca-Cola can-struction. Leaned up against the wall were several paintings by various famous artists waiting to be hung. The amazing house always was in flux. Proving that we were always one step away from the sublime to the ridiculous in AB’s world.

On his desk were family pictures of a young AB with his younger brother in their mother’s garden. AB’s garden was an embellished version of his mother’s. In another picture was a young AB standing with his father in front of his DC-3.

Stacked next to them were old newspaper clippings. The headlines read that his entire family had been killed in an airplane crash, leaving him as the young heir to the family’s fortune. Sitting on top of the articles was a book of poems that belonged to his mother.

One of his journals lay open on his desk next to a notice from the IRS blazoned in their favorite shade of red.

Most people knew what AB did for a living, where he went, and how he lived. But no one knew his thoughts or what made him tick other than what they had heard him talk about. His journal revealed the inward workings of AB.

I don’t really care who reads this once I’m gone. But for now, this seems to help me clarify my thoughts, define my direction, and keep me from having to discuss the mundane with—well, with anyone.

Maybe he did want to live forever, or maybe live eternally through his writing. Whatever the case, he could not resist his compulsion to write.

Today is the thirtieth anniversary of my family’s plane crash. I’m feeling a bit reflective. This journal has always been my connection to the unattainable. I miss having afternoons with my mother and listening to her read me poems from her favorite book. I miss flying with my father and the long talks we would have. Very few kids can boast that they wrestled and ran up and down the aisles of a DC-3 playing like my baby brother and I did.

I feel ripped off when I think of my shocking loss. One or two, but my entire family? It wasn’t right. I have a sense of justice, and if I had the chance to make the world a better place like the first Adam, I wouldn’t fail like he did.

However, it’s all talk. I’m not in charge of anyone but me. So when I write for a moment, I have my family again. I feel like they are listening to me. Whatever it is . . . it keeps me connected to my past, to my family, and to my sanity.

AB had closed up his journal for the day and was outside talking to his elderly neighbor Nate. AB’s pedigree revealed the mind of a genius but his exterior appearance denied his IQ. He always looked like an unmade bed, and he liked it that way.

Nate had learned years ago to slow down, and he wished that for AB also, but all Nate’s talk fell on deaf ears.

How long are you here for this time, AB?

Well, I hope for at least three weeks, but I never know.

As he talked to Nate he was putting the final touches on two lion sculptures that greeted would be visitors at the front steps. He was not one for company, but he listened patiently to his eighty-year-old neighbor Nate. Not because he wanted to be polite, Nate was not one to go away even if asked to.

It’s a shame you’re gone so much. You don’t get to enjoy your house, and you’re doing such a beautiful job.

AB politely smiled; then he lit up a cigarette. Thank you.

Nate looked judgmentally at the cigarette. I used to smoke.

AB doubted what he said.

I did. The surgeon general said it was bad for me. That’s how I lost my first wife.

Really?

Yep, she ran off with the surgeon general!

That was a knee-slapper joke to Nate. He cackled and laughed for some time as AB rolled his eyes. Then he spat off some tobacco that was on his lip.

AB knew what Nate’s speech was leading up to, so he started walking to the back of the house. But Nate followed.

There in the back of the house was his Robinson helo, but the amazing deck that AB had built trumped the helo as the focal point. The deck was an architect’s dream.

Nate continued, Vi and I had five kids. And from that batch, we got twelve grandchildren and three great-grandkids from their litter.

AB, not wanting to appear rude, listened as he mounted the steps to his deck. He looked off at the majestic Mountain View as Nate yammered away. Nate was like having a pet magpie. He just never stopped talking, but AB liked the old bird. Grandkids are so much fun, and when you’re done with them, you get to give’m back.

AB ran his hand over the smooth rails, enjoying his fine carpentry; he tried to change the subject.

You know, Nate, it’s all about the smoothness of the railing and the strength of the wood.

You think I don’t know. You’re looking at an old stud, young man. They both laugh.

Seriously, son, you should have a family here to enjoy all this.

AB continued to look at the view as he tried to avoid eye contact with Nate.

Someday . . . Someday?

Nate, I don’t need any jelly-fingered, drooling kids to mess this place up. I like it like this. Let’s just say I’m enough.

What the hell does that mean?

I’m a chimera.

Nate shrugged. He had no idea what AB was talking about.

So marry another one. It’s good to keep the religions the same.

AB laughed.

Nate, it’s not a religion, it’s more like a birth condition. Twins.

Nate still did not understand.

My body is an incarnation of twins that failed to separate. Parts of my DNA are different. It’s like I am two people. In technical terms, I’m a chimera.

Is that what got you interested in all your science mumbo-jumbo?

Yes, all that DNA mumbo-jumbo.

What’s that got to do with having a family?

DNA or me having a family? I guess you could say DNA is about all of us. As for me adding to the population, I don’t see that on the immediate horizon.

"I don’t mean to be personal, but aren’t