Face the Winter Naked by Bonnie Turner

Author:Bonnie Turner [Turner, Bonnie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Aurorawolf Books (Bonnie Turner)
Published: 2010-02-20T23:00:00+00:00

A rumbling train roused him. He awoke to find himself sprawled on the ground near the spilled refuse bin, the back of his head throbbing. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings. His eyes blurred and shadowy creatures moved through the haze. He sat still for a few minutes. He blinked, and blinked again, not understanding where he was or what he was doing. He tried to focus on his surroundings: there were no poppies in this place, no trenches to take cover in—if he'd aimed at such a hole, he'd missed and hit the ground.

The war's over, Daniel.

Maybe that one is, but mine ain't.

He waited for his mind to clear, and when it finally did, he realized someone had tried to club his brains out. He remembered seeing something pass close to him before it happened.

Daylight was brighter now, the first rays of sunshine slanting between the buildings, highlighting the squalid conditions around him. The tramps were gone. They wouldn't have stuck around to take the blame for trying to kill someone. No sir. They'd cut out like greased lightning and leave him there to die. Nearby lay a length of board, probably the weapon his assailant had whacked him with.

Panic gripped him as he remembered his money and reached for his pouch.

Gone!

Frantic, he rose unsteadily, his head throbbing, and searched around him. It was not in the garbage littering the alley. Not in his bib pocket, nor his shirt pocket. He dug his hands in his overalls' deep pockets. Nothing there but a few screws and nails. His gunnysack lay nearby. He yanked it open and searched among the shaving soap, the Lava, the Cloverine, his spare socks, underwear, and other personal items.

He even searched the banjo: around the back, under the strings—why the heck anybody would hide a coin purse on a banjo was beyond his comprehension, but he looked anyway. He straightened the refuse barrel upright and picked through the garbage on the ground.

Robbed! He'd been knocked out and robbed of his money. He sat down again with his face in his hands. How can I go home? I've failed my wife and kids, my dad, and my own worthless self.

Tears seeped through his fingers.

"What's the matter, mister?"

Startled, he pulled his wet hands from his face and looked into the eyes of a young boy badly in need of a haircut and a bar of soap. The child of poverty, perhaps nine or ten years old, squatted before him staring into his face.

"Why are you crying?" the boy asked.

He was a ragged, skinny urchin, his eyes darkly shadowed. With a grim expression, he resembled a ninety-year-old man in an eight-year-old body.

Daniel dried his eyes, blew his nose on a scrap of paper from the refuse, and discarded it in the bin. His head hurt like a sonofagun.

"I've been robbed."

"Robbed?"

"I only had me a little money. I was taking it home to my wife."

This boy might not have a family, and if he did, they'd probably stopped caring if his dirty bare feet had shoes or his hollow stomach had food.

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