The Mists

Chapter Two; Bite Off More Than You Can Chew

"James, go and pack," Fae told her son with a soft smile, rubbing the back of her fingers against his cheek. 

Jameson cast one last glance at Tucker that warned 'Do anything to her and this time, you're dead.' Then he stomped upstairs. 

Fae strode into the kitchen and searched for any bars or canned foods left. August wandered over to Tucker bravely. 

"You knew my Dad," August said. 

Tucker knelt down to be closer to the boy's line of vision. "Yeah, I did." 

"How old are you?" 

Tucker chuckled. "Thirty. You?" 

"I'm a lot little-er than thirty," August declared. 

"You make me sound old." The man pretended to be hurt, though he wore a lopsided smile. 

Tucker suppressed a laugh as one of August's eyebrows shot up as if the young boy was thinking, 'Well, you are.' August spun around and walked into the kitchen to his mother. Tucker stood up, staring at the young boy.

The man could remember being a few years older than August, with Greg being some years younger than Jameson. They were playing by the edge of the pond. The young Tuck jumped onto Greg's back and pulled him to the ground. Half of Greg fell into the murky water and splashed Tucker. Greg grabbed Tucker and threw him into the water. 

It had been the end of winter, and the pond had only just finished thawing. Despite the warmer weather, the water was freezing. Tucker remembered crying then being pulled out of the water. When he was set down on the grass, an oversized coat fell on top of his head. 

"You know, Tuck, if you cry every time you experience something new, how do you expect to grow?" Greg had asked. 

"Yeah, well, if you didn't throw me into ice-water I wouldn't have to experience anything new," the young Tuck shot back. "Then I wouldn't cry!" 

Tucker sighed, bringing himself back to the present. He placed his Glock back into the sling clinging to his waist. Walking into the destroyed living room, the man stretched and yawned. He'd been traveling over a year with no break, and promised himself after this job, he'd take a nice vacation. 

Tuck knew Jameson would be taking on a large task for his age, even with help. If Tuck could just go, it would be fine. He figured Jameson would be tough until it came to the real deal. All teenagers were that way these days. But, maybe-just maybe-Jameson would turn out to have even a tiny spark of his father in him. Just a tiny spark would be enough. 

A couple minutes later, Jameson came downstairs, having changed into boots, jeans, a t-shirt, and a jacket and packed most of his bag. He stomped into the kitchen, where Fae gave her son what canned goods and bars were left. Tucker sauntered into the room. 

"What have you packed?" he questioned the youth, motioning to Jameson's backpack. It had probably been his school pack before this whole fiasco. 

"Extra clothes, first aid, food, water, ammunition, and a big ass bottle of Whiskey," James retorted, his ending being sarcastic. 

"Jameson!" Fae grabbed her oldest son's chin. 

Tucker walked out of the living room, leaving the family to say their good-byes. He crossed his arms and walked out onto the porch, where he lit another cigarette. 

"Jameson," his mother said more gently, "Don't get yourself into any more trouble. Behave-Tucker is helping you, and a friend of your father's-" 

"Mom, he's like ten years younger than Dad," James pointed out. "How exactly were they such good pals? That would be like Augustine and I hanging out."