Amy hesitated. She started to admonish her son for cursing but bit her tongue.
Peter sat on the floor, matching his son’s level, and crossed his legs. “Jacob, look at me.”
Jake’s stare wandered. It took a moment, but he found his father’s eyes.
“What do you want to do, son?” Peter asked, his tone guttural. “I know you’re angry, and I can tell you want to do something about it, so tell me. Get it all out of your system right here, right now. Tell me what you want to do.”
Jacob shook his head. “No, Dad. I-I can’t tell you. You’ll think I’m weird or dangerous or something’s wrong with me.”
Peter chuckled solemnly. “Jake, buddy, all of us have a little something wrong with us, even me and your mom. And that’s okay, it’s what makes us human.”
Amy looked at her husband strangely but didn’t say anything. A little?
“It’s crucial for us not to keep these types of feelings bottled up,” Peter expounded. “I joke around a lot because that’s how I deal with my own anger; it’s what works for me. When your mom gets angry, she bakes…and does a lot of laundry.”
Amy conveyed contempt at the statement. “Bakes and does laundry? Really, Pete?”
“Work with me, here,” he replied to her, then locked eyes with Jake again. “You’re angry over what happened, and that isn’t something to take lightly. The best way to deal with anger is to get it out in the open. We have our ways, and you need to find yours, and your mom and I want to help you do that. So talk to us; don’t be afraid.” A pause. “What do you want to do?”
Without pause, Jake blurted out, “I want to kill them, that’s what I want to do. I want to kill them all, a lot, really hard…until they’re all dead.”
Peter gulped, finding himself speechless for the first time in years.
“Who, Jake?” Amy asked, filling in for him. “Who do you want to kill?”
Jacob bit his lower lip. “The people who did this…the people who poisoned our water and made Dad and Liam sick.” His tone dropped. “They wanted my family and my friends to die. So I want them to die.”
“Jesus Christ,” Amy let slip, her eyes wide as saucers now.
“Our son isn’t one to mince words, is he?” Peter mused. “That’s called vengeance, Jake. An eye for an eye. And you’re not the first person to feel this way. I can’t say I’m proud hearing you want to kill somebody, but I’m glad that you’re able to express yourself like this to us. It’s healthy and—”
“I wish I was bigger,” Jake said, his glare darkening. “I wish I was stronger, too. I wish I was taller and faster and…meaner. I want to fight people and shoot guns and be really good at it.” He paused. “I wish…I just wish I could be like Lauren.”
Pete craned his neck. “Lauren?”
“When bad things happen to us, she gets mad and does things about it. She knows how to fight and shoot guns, and she’s never afraid.” He paused, his young voice becoming a whisper. “I just wish I could grow up faster…so I could be more like her.”
Amy and Peter spent the remainder of the hour calming Jacob down before taking their leave. They returned to the kitchen, both resuming the tasks on which they’d been toiling prior to the interruption.
After a few minutes, an unnerved Amy Saunders opened up. “I don’t know about you, Pete, but I could really use a drink. Especially after that.”
Pete nodded. “Motion seconded. Today’s incident might serve as just cause to break open the private stash.”
“What private stash?”
“Come on,” Peter reacted, looking coyly at her, “you act as if you don’t know me. I realize I haven’t been the quintessential prepper during my tenure as your mate, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t arranged for end-of-times essentials.”
Amy smacked her hands on the counter. “Don’t toy with me, Pete. And stop being cryptic. I am not in the mood. Our prepubescent son is devolving into a deranged hit man before our very eyes, and you’re tugging on the only nerve I have left.”
Peter shrugged indifferently. “Calm your tits, there’s a treasure chest at the end of this rainbow.”
“Pete, I don’t want to kill you, but I will.”
“All those years while everyone else focused on stockpiling beans, bullets, and bandages, I went in another direction, one I’m certain you’ll appreciate.”
Amy’s annoyed expression gave way to expectance.
“I’ve never followed ‘the norm’,” Peter said, looking proud of himself. “I focused instead on beans, bullets, and…beverages.”
“What…kind of beverages?”
Peter rose and disappeared into the hallway, returning a moment later with a brown paper bag in hand, in the form of what could only be one thing.
Amy’s jaw went slack. “Is that…Buffalo Trace?”
Peter grinned smugly. “Damn skippy, the only bottle left in the valley—and probably the country.”
“It’s…still sealed,” Amy said, gawking at it.
“Of course it is, duh. You know your husband prioritizes conservation over consumption.”
Amy snatched the prize from Peter’s hands. “Great. I love you—but today, your wife’s priority is drinking this whole damn bottle.” She went to the cupboard, removed two glasses, and went about pouring merrily.
The couple took a moment to sniff the goods before tapping glasses.
Amy gulped hers down with zero regard, savoring the burning sweetness. “Damn, that’s good.” She regarded her husband warily. “What should we do about this thing with Jake?”
Peter licked his lips after several slow, methodical swallows. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s right, nothing.”
“I don’t know if I can do nothing, Pete.”
“Look at it this way, passive-aggressive behavior is dangerous, and he isn’t holding any negative emotions inside. All his angst is aimed in the right direction and based on legitimate reasons. The kid is angry, and he has every right to be. Hell, I’m angry about the whole thing too…I almost became one of the casualties.” Peter tilted his glass to
