Chương 29: Vol 1. Memory Fragment: Ogura

The Texas sun shone brilliantly over the arid landscape, turning the hood of the battered red Chevy hot enough to sear skin. Heat shimmered above the road, making the lopsided buildings bend and quiver like reflections in disturbed water. Mr. Christian hummed a little tune as he drove down the empty main street—some country song he had heard while they were still within range of a radio tower.

One tanned and calloused hand rested loosely on the steering wheel, while the other hung out the window; he tapped his fingers against the truck's sun-faded door to the rhythm of his humming. The Chevy rattled as they hit a multitude of potholes. Dust billowed behind them in brownish clouds. Chutterville was a small settlement twenty miles away from the nearest proper town—and really, even that place held only around 3, 000 people. Over the past century, Chutterville had done little but bleed people and wealth.

The old feed store had been boarded up and vandalized with graffiti to hell and back. There was a faded sign advertising Coca-Cola that hung crookedly over the abandoned diner, its windows coated in so much dust that they might as well have been painted an ugly brown. They passed a couple of houses clad in weeds, which had fragmented and collapsed and were left in disarray. Mr. Christian smiled as they passed by the gas station—owned by an old friend of his—with pumps older than his grandfather.

There was a shabby and mangy dog sleeping in the sunlight. He lifted one eye to peer at the Chevy, decided it was not worth the effort, and turned onto his other side. Mr. Christian reckoned there were only about fifty people left in Chutterville, most of them too old or too stubborn or too poor to leave what was so obviously a lost cause. But this was where he needed to go. He looked in his rear-view mirror. His son, Morton, rested against the open window with his chin propped on one fist.

He stared listlessly at the decrepit town, looking bored out of his mind. Mr. Christian smiled.

"Kid," he said, "you look as if you are just havin' a swell ol' time back there." Morton slowly turned his head towards his father.

"We've been drivin' a long time," he said."'Deed we have."

"We left in the middle of breakfast."

"Yep."

"And you wouldn't let me bring my DS."

"Yep, no video games for you today."

"And you wouldn't let me bring a book."

"You weren't gonna read it. Let's be honest with ourselves."

"Yes, I was!"

"Even if ya were, you get carsick when you read."

"I only threw up one time."

"You threw up into my hat, mind you."

"That was an accident."

"An accident that cost me a very expensive hat." Mr. Christian chuckled to himself. Morton looked out the window again, watching as a tumbleweed bounced across the road and got stuck in the doorway of an abandoned liquor store. Then he turned back to his father and said, "We don't got no fishin' equipment."

"Nope," Mr. Christian agreed.

"And we ain't got any campin' stuff."

"Nope," Mr. Christian agreed.

"And we ain't got no rifles either."

"Actually, there is one behind the seat." Morton turned his head slightly to the left—"Don't even think about touchin' it."

"I wasn't gonna!" Morton protested.

"Kid, I know you." Morton folded his arms and leaned back, letting out a loud sigh. Then his eyes lit up, and he exclaimed, "Are you gettin' me my own truck?" Mr. Christian let out a boisterous laugh, smacking his hand hard against the door of the truck.

"Nice try, kid," he said, "but you are only twelve. You're waitin' till yer fourteen before I let ya get behind the wheel." Morton pouted.

"But the McGraw brothers just got a brand-new Ford!" Mr. Christian retorted, "Well, the McGraw brothers got irresponsible parents with a whole lotta money up their ass, and we don't got that. Morton, when the time comes for you to get behind the wheel, you're gonna be drivin' some shitter dragged outta the Dark Ages." Morton looked around the inside of the Chevy.

The seats had been patched with silver-sheened duct tape; the radio knob was consistently jammed; a zigzagged crack stretched along the entirety of the windshield; and the glove compartment was being held shut by a piece of twine.

"You mean this truck?" Morton asked dryly. Mr. Christian glared at him.

"Now, watch your mouth, kid. This here is one hell of an automobile; I bet Bill Gates himself would wanna ride it."

"The roof has a hole in it."

"For ventilation."

"One of the doors doesn't open from the inside."

"A security feature is all!"

"The engine sometimes catches on fire."

"Once."

"Three times."

"Keep that attitude up, and you'll be lucky to get a tricycle."

"Fine," Morton muttered.

"Now, any last guesses on where we are headin' to?"

"Well, no fishin'," Morton murmured.

"No campin'. No huntin'. You ain't buying me a truck."

"Correct on all counts." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Are we meetin' somebody?"

"Now that's a good guess," Mr. Christian said. Mr. Christian pulled the Chevy to a slow stop beside an aged, single-story house just on the outskirts of town. Unlike the rest of Chutterville, the place was still well maintained, having not succumbed to rot, dust, and neglect. It was painted white and had a wooden porch that sagged slightly in the middle, without a single loose floorboard. Even the front steps had been swept clean. There was a narrow garden out front, all of the plants blooming and beautiful. Mr.

Christian shut the engine off. The old girl gave one final shuddering cough before she fell silent.

"This the place?" Morton asked."'Deed it is." Morton looked at the house, analyzing it, then turned back to his father and said, "Who lives here?" Mr. Christian gave a small smirk.

"You'll see, kid," he said. Mr. Christian climbed out of the truck. Morton followed, stretching his legs after the long drive. They crossed the yard and climbed up the steps. Mr. Christian didn't knock. He entered the house. Upon entering, they were greeted by an interior that screamed stereotypical Americana. Framed military photographs covered one wall.

An old American flag had been folded into a triangular case above the mantel over the fireplace, beside an old wooden grandfather clock and a collection of porcelain animals: cats, dogs, foxes, wolves, etc. An older man of Japanese heritage knelt beside a little bonsai tree, which sat upon a little stool and was surrounded by a couple of ferns and cacti. Despite the quivering of his fragile old hands, he carefully trimmed dead leaves with practised precision.

He wore brilliantly blue jeans and an old button-up shirt—far too white for what he was doing—with the sleeves folded up to his elbows, and a wide straw hat placed atop his head, its shadow obscuring the man's weather-worn visage. Mr. Christian chuckled and carefully approached the old man from behind before bellowing, "BOO!" The older man leaped backward, falling to his rump and dropping his scissors.

"Well, I'll be damned. You still get the fuckin' jitters, eh, Ogura?"

"I knew you were there!" Ogura protested, growling as he got to his feet and rubbed his sore butt.

"Sure ya did, just like back in training when we all egged you." Ogura scowled, then his face brightened.

"Sure, but at least I got a good pension from the brass, unlike you." He turned towards the Chevy.

"That thing sounds worse every time you visit." Mr. Christian put one hand over his heart and twisted his face into an expression of faux emotional woundedness.

"Now, there ain't no need to insult a lady in her presence."

"That thing is no lady," Ogura said.

"At most, that's a hunk of metal." Morton snorted. Mr. Christian glanced back at him, his glare sharp.

"Don't encourage him." Ogura laughed. The two men clasped hands and pulled one another into a brief yet firm embrace, patting each other hard on the back.

"It has been too long," Ogura said."'Deed it has," Mr. Christian said.

"What have you been doing all this time?"

"Work, mostly. It's been keepin' me real busy."

"Or is it your wife who's been keeping you busy?"

"That too," Mr. Christian said before adding softly, "don't tell her I said that, though, or it will be you who I will be chasin' down the road." Ogura stepped back and examined Mr. Christian from his hat down to his rugged boots. He snorted.

"You look like you've gained some weight."

"And you got a lot uglier. I remember the little devil ya were; you used to brag about how many girls slept with ya in a single night. Now I don't think any would wanna be near ya."

"Age does that," Ogura said lamentingly.

"And marriage does this," Mr. Christian said, patting his slightly rotund stomach. Ogura let out a soft laugh. Then his gaze shifted down to Morton, who was standing straight with his head slightly cocked in confusion.

"Ah, and this must be your youngest—ah, Morton, right?"

"Correct," Mr. Christian said. He rested one hand on Ogura's shoulder.

"Morton, this here is a very old friend of mine—we met when I was stationed out in Okinawa. He outranked me, but we got along hella good, and so what I am sayin' is that you better mind your manners around him."

"I know to mind my manners," Morton muttered.

"That remains to be seen," Mr. Christian said. Ogura extended his hand. Morton took it. He flinched slightly at how tight Ogura's grip was despite his age.

"Good to meet you, son," Ogura said.

"Now, come on. Let us have some tea."

"Tea?" Mr. Christian scoffed.

"You got anything stronger?"

"Randall," Ogura said, "it is not yet noon."

"So?" Ogura laughed, shook his head, and led them to the living room. Morton sat down on the floral-patterned chesterfield, his eyes slightly hollow and bored. He did not ask too many questions during that visit, mostly looking around the room. He looked at the military photographs; a younger Ogura was present in all of them, and a couple even contained a younger version of his father.

He saw, over in the corner, a katana kept inside a gold-encrusted scabbard, hanging from the side of a replica suit of samurai armour. Morton thought that was neat. He did wonder why his father had never told him about Ogura; they did seem to be real good friends, that was for sure. The two adults engaged with one another, sharing stories of things that had happened to them, of women, and of politics. Eventually, Mr. Christian put down his little teacup and said, "Ogura, I have come to make a request from you."

Ogura leaned in, one eyebrow curiously raised.

"And what would that be, old friend?" Mr. Christian swallowed.

"Things are getting real bad out there."

"Yeah," Ogura agreed.

"It really has." Mr. Christian sat back on the sofa.

"This isn't the same country that I was raised in, Ogura. Not the one you immigrated to. It's…" Mr. Christian wasn't sure how to phrase it with Morton in earshot.

"I know you ain't a Christian; you're one of them hippie-dippy Buddhists, but… are ya familiar with Revelation?" Morton's ears perked; he leaned forward to listen.

"Vaguely," Ogura said, peering at his wrinkled face in the reflective surface of his jasmine tea.

"End of the world, right?"

"I ain't gonna act like I'm in that pew every week. Hell, God knows I ain't, but I am seein' some scary overlap."

"Randall," Ogura said, "I… do not like discussing current affairs. They are… they depress me."

"Of course," Mr. Christian said with a solemn glint in his eye, "but what I'm gettin' at here is I want you to teach my son your martial arts, the ones we used to practise back in the army."

"Kendo and jujutsu?" Ogura asked.

"Yes, all of it," Mr. Christian said, nodding his head. He put one hand on his old friend's knee.

"For my son and for me. He will need it. I'm real sure of that." Ogura looked at Mr. Christian silently for a moment.

"I know you. I do not believe you came all this way because of Revelation," Ogura said.

"Did something happen?" Mr. Christian had a little tear in his eye. That worried Morton; it worried him more than anything else had ever worried him. His father was not a crier—hell, he was sure he didn't even cry at his or any of his siblings' births! Mr. Christian looked Ogura dead in the eyes and said, "The Winstons… they're gone." Ogura's eyes widened in sheer shock.

"You…"

"Deader than dead himself," Mr. Christian confirmed.

"Since they repealed the First Amendment, things have not been lookin' good for those on the political outskirts. I didn't agree with them; hell, they were damn commies, but…" Mr. Christian abruptly stopped. Ogura looked at him—looked at him for a damn good long while—then sighed and nodded, knowing what Mr. Christian was saying was true. He stood up.

"Wait," Morton said. He realized that his dad thought something terrible was happening, and panic washed over his mind.

"What's happening—""Very well," Ogura said, his voice suddenly taking on a deep and stern cadence. Ogura studied Morton for several seconds.

"Stand up, boy." Morton looked at his father.

"Do not look at him," Ogura said.

"I spoke to YOU." Morton never understood it at the time: why his father had driven him all the way out to meet this strange man, then had the man practise kendo, sword fighting, and martial arts with him, humiliating him; hurting him; frustrating him. He dreaded going to Ogura's house every day, but eventually, he liked it as he got better and better. And in the fourth month of training, when his father had to sit him down and tell him that Ogura had taken his own life, Morton felt an incredible pang in his heart.

He felt as if the two had been friends their entire lives.

"Daddy," Morton remembered asking, "why… did you make me do all that with him?" Mr. Christian said, "You will thank me later." And indeed, Morton did thank him much, much later. From another world, in fact.