Brian walked beside his cousin. “You did the right thing back there.”
Steven did not answer.
“I shot that one in the water stone dead. You see him? Jesus. He came out of nowhere. That boy had you dead in his sights.”
Still, Steven did not answer.
As they walked on, Steven slowed, trailing behind Brian, and staring off in the woods. Brian wanted to keep him talking, but there was no use. Steven was prone to fits of silence; this was nothing new. The first time his silence had worried Brian was after Steven’s parents died and Brian moved in with him. Steven barely spoke for a month. But the world was different back then, and Brian was able to get Steven out of the house for a few drinks here and there. He recovered in time.
The second time Steven’s silence had worried Brian was all too recent—down in the bunker. The first few weeks underground weren’t that bad, all things considered. The bunker was designed to hold six people, so they had plenty of space to move around and room for privacy. They worked out once or twice a day, played ping-pong and poker, watched movies, and read books.
Things changed that fateful day when the visitor showed up at the bunker door. Brian knew neither of them would ever be the same, but it had affected Steven in a different way. He became somber, quiet, and restless. In the months following the visitor’s departure, they continued playing cards and working out, but it was like Brian did these things alone.
As they neared the two-year mark, Steven was improving remarkably. He was smiling and lifting weights with such vigor that Brian could hardly keep up. They were talking about leaving and starting to make plans. Steven was excited—so much so that he barely slept and twice almost collapsed with exhaustion at the weight bench. They had to go. They had to leave the bunker.
And now Steven was quiet again.
They walked all day without taking a break, putting the town of Odyssey safely behind them. At night, they made a small fire buried deep underground and heated a can of chili for supper. They’d left most of their gear in Odyssey, except for one scout pack. Rations were slim. They would have to start hunting and filtering water.
That night, they slept back to back on the ground, using the one sleeping bag spread open as a blanket. Neither slept for more than two hours, and in the early morning they continued, cold and stiff.
The forest was void of anything human—no garbage, no cold campfires, no tracks. Nothing. It was quiet out there, and with the absence of rain, it was eerily still.
Brian said, “I reckon we have to start hunting.”
“I reckon so.”
“You wanna start looking for tracks, or continue on a ways?”
“Continue on.”
“All right.” Then, after a pause, Brian asked, “You know what’s strange?”
“What’s that?”
“You seen any deer about, or rabbits? I ain’t seen a single deer this whole time.”
Steven looked in the woods about him. “There’s birds in that tree.”
Brian looked up. He could hear the birds. “Yeah, I reckon so. It’s strange we ain’t seen a deer though, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s plenty strange.”
“You think—”
“I reckon I don’t know, and I reckon I don’t want to know.”
That concluded their conversation for the day. They ate a small lunch in the afternoon, and as the evening approached, the rain returned.
***
They were stopping now six to eight times a day, so tired and exhausted that when they hit the ground, their legs and feet throbbed in pain.
Keeping watch at night was now a must, so they took shifts, each man remaining vigilant of their surroundings as the other fell to fitful rest. It was then, when Steven was alone, that his mind turned dark with rambling thoughts and vivid images—blood and gore, torn limbs, sinewy corpses, broken necks, charred baby hands eaten off the bone by rotten teeth, demons of all manner. These demons were in his mind, and in the tree branches above, and crawling across the muddy ground, and whistling through the air carried over by the breeze. They came out at night; all the evil of the world came out at night and danced around in Steven’s head and before his eyes. Sleep was far at bay.
That night, as Brian slept and Steven sat with his back against a tree, people long dead emerged from the darkness, stretching and ripping their taut, leathery skin. They came out of the trees and slithered in the grass, clawing at his feet, foul rotten flesh falling from their bones.
They’re coming, Stevie, they’re coming to dance on your grave, going ’round and ’round, and then you, Stevie, can join in the dance. You too can join them.
***
If Brian was hungry before, he was starving now. Steven’s sister Bethany was close, only a matter of days. She would have supplies in her bunker. Food. Water. Medicine.
They fell often, slipping on rocks and mud. Both men had cuts on their hands and fingers, scraped knees, and feet so torn up that there was little they could do to heal them. They never stopped to hunt, partially because they never saw tracks of any large game, and partially because they were so close to Bethany that it kept them moving forward.
Rations consisted of high-calorie survival bars, which tasted and looked like particleboard sprinkled with lemon zest. They split one bar a day, which was far less than the number of calories they were burning.
Several days passed with them in a hypnotic, near delirious state.
The rain had momentarily ceased as they walked up a steep hill on all fours, their hands grabbing at rocks and branches to pull themselves along. They could hear running water under the rocky terrain from the runoff of a pond at the summit.
Steven slipped, rolling backward a few feet before stopping himself on a boulder. He got to his feet and continued along the path. Brian looked back, but when he saw that Steven was able to pull himself up, he did not bother asking if he was hurt. They were both hurt, bruised, and bleeding. Brian reached the summit and waited, catching his breath as Steven lumbered to meet him. They both sat, slumped over and breathing hard, watching the pond water ripple.
They filtered water into their canteens and found a small clearing beside the pond to sit and take a break. Brian took off the backpack, and they sat in silence with their eyes closed for many minutes. Then they took off their shoes and grimaced as they peeled back their socks. Their feet were wrapped in strips of cloth cut from their undershirts. The cloths were stained red, and Brian gagged at the septic stench.
Then Brian heard something in the brush, not far. Both men sat rigid.
For a few moments, they stayed where they were, hidden from sight behind the tall weeds and trees, and listened to the sound of someone walking, legs scraping plants and brush. Creeping to the edge of the clearing, they peered out. A tall man stood beside the water’s edge, maybe six foot three and lean, yet muscular.
The man knelt before the pond, splashed water over his face, then he opened the clasp on a shaving kit, and began lathering his face with a bar of soap. He was quick about it, studying his reflection in the water and swiping the razor over his skin with precise strokes. When he was done, he began washing himself with more and more water, much more than necessary. He kept splashing water over his face and head until a raspy voice rang out, “That’s enough, Charlie. Get yer ass back here!”
The tall man slumped back on his heels. He grabbed a small stick from the ground and began poking at his reflection in the water.
“Damn it, Charlie!”
The man dropped the stick and stood, walking back the way he came. He took his time, stopping to pick flowering weeds, and stood marveling at a small tree for a moment. He scratched at his dark gray hair, cut short like a military flattop, then shuffled off.
Brian and Steven looked at each other. There was a smell in the air. At first it was just smoke, wood burning, but then there was something else. Food cooking. Brian’s stomach groaned, and his mouth watered.
He grabbe
d his rifle and crawled through the weeds, Steven right behind him, until he could see smoke rising. It wasn’t far.
They stopped when they could see two people—a much older man and the tall skinny one called Charlie. The old man sat on a log by the fire, a cane over his legs. He stirred something in a pot, which was bubbling with steam. Charlie sat with his legs crossed on the ground as he tossed small twigs into the flame.
Steven reached for his belt, unsnapped the button on his knife sheath, and began unsheathing the blade. Brian grabbed his wrist and shook his head, but Steven pulled his arm free. Brian hissed, “No, Steven—no.”
Steven looked at Brian. “He’s a retard.”
“Don’t, Steven. They ain’t done nothin’.”
“They have food.”
“No, Steve. Wait.”
They turned back to the two men. The travelers were squinting in their direction. Nobody said a word.
“Come on.” Brian stood with his rifle up. Steven stepped beside him, raising his gun.
“Hey there,” Brian shouted across the clearing.
The old man nodded, but did not smile. Charlie stood.
“Hey, hey, take it easy.” Brian pointed the gun at him, but he just smiled from ear to ear.
“Hi,” Charlie said.
“Charlie, sit yer ass down,” the old man said.
Brian looked at the two, inspecting their possessions. They had one large bag and one smaller one. Charlie’s jeans and flannel shirt looked clean, almost new, but the old man was filthy, his hair twisted about and his long-white beard streaked with dirt. There were no firearms to be seen, just a knife the old man was using to stir the pot and a cleaver resting on top of the smaller bag.
“We’re unarmed.” The old man scratched his beard. “We ain’t gonna do you no harm.”
“Where you headed?” Brian asked.
“Where you headed?” the old man replied.
Neither answered. They stared at each other, and after a moment, Brian lowered his gun. Steven yanked on his shoulder and leaned in close to Brian’s ear. “Let’s get out of here. They ain’t right, these two.”
Brian shrugged him off. “We’re hungry,” he said. “We would be thankful for anything you could spare.”
“Can’t spare nothing.” The old man looked at Steven, who was staring at him. “Everyone’s hungry. Always hungry.” He did not flinch from Steven’s gaze. “Tell you what.” The old man sighed. “You put them guns down and we’ll spare you a bowl full, but that’s plenty. You be on your ways after.”
Brian nodded. “Much obliged.”
“Brian,” Steven said in a hiss.
Brian walked to the fire, and Steven followed. Charlie was playing with pebbles. He reached across the fire to hand one to Brian. “That’s for you,” he said. His facial features resembled those of a child, with a large forehead and chin that jutted out past his tiny nose.
Brian smiled. “Ain’t that kind of you.”
The old man passed tin plates and gave everyone a ladle of stew from the pot. It was a thick and rancid-looking stew, the top coated with a yellow layer of grease.
The old man asked, “Where yer shoes at?”
“Just yonder,” Brian said.
Steven poked at a bit of meat with his spoon and picked up a chunk. He brought the spoon to his mouth, blowing back the steam, and nibbled at the corner. Brian did the same, weary of the smell. The meat was tough and fatty. He gagged.
“It’s coon meat.” The old man watched Steven eat. “I never said I could cook worth a damn.”
They were so hungry that they ate with abandon, and afterward, Brian’s stomach felt hot and queasy.
He sat back, looking the two over. “Must be tough traveling, just the two of you.”
“It is,” the old man said. “This one here is a pain in the ass.”
“He your son?”
“My son? No, he ain’t my kin. I found him curled up naked in the middle of the woods. You remember that, boy?”
Charlie nodded. “Mary was with me. My sister.”
“That’s enough of that,” the old man said.
“Can I go to the water?”
“Go on, then.”
The tall man went to the pond and started splashing water over his face.
“He likes to shave, for some reason. Can’t get him to stop. He shaves four, five times a day. Scrubs his face whenever there’s water. Cleans his clothes at every opportunity. I think if I left him by some stream, he’d stand in the water until he drowned. I got a mind to do just that.”
“He looks healthy, considering you found him in the woods. How in the world did he survive all this time?”
“Beats the hell out of me. Must have been with some folks before I found him. The boy’s strong as a bull, carries all our gear like it don’t weigh a thing.”
“What happened to Mary?”
“Who?”
“His sister. Mary.”
“What do you think?”
“She dead?”
“She is. Everyone dies. She was young, six maybe. Don’t know how she lasted as long as she did.”
“She die a while back, from the disease?”
“Died yesterday.”
Brian could feel Steven’s eye’s staring at him. They exchanged glances and stood.
“Thanks for the food. We’ll be on our way.”
“Right.”
Brian shouted to Charlie, “You take care now.”
The tall man laughed and beat at the water with a stick.
“Knock that shit off, Charlie!” the old man yelled.
They left the fire. Brian looked over his shoulder, and the old man stared at them until they disappeared. They retrieved their shoes and gear.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Steven said. “Something ain’t right with them.”
“I reckon you’re right.”
Chapter 16
Namaste
Simon contemplated getting rid of his backpack, stripping down to his pants, knife, and pistol, and continuing the trek in the manner of a scout, dressed with mud and charcoal and becoming the wind—invisible, safe, and dangerous.
But he didn’t do that.
With Winston at his heels, traveling like a scout was out of the question. He was traveling light as it was; no sense in getting rid of what little supplies he had left.
His backpack contained dried kibble for Winston, a canteen, a water filter, emergency ration bars, bags of dried grain, a few supplies like ammunition, fishing lines, and a wool blanket. Enough to keep him and Winston healthy and safe.
After traveling several miles away from the town overtaken by the Mexican soldiers and feeling relatively safe, a calm came over Simon that he had not felt in a long time—not since leaving the cabin. He was in control. He could hear and see his surroundings without them streaming by in a rapid blur. Perhaps it was better that the van was taken from him. Perhaps it was the earth’s way of protecting him.
Several days and nights went by without incident. On foot, Simon bypassed towns when he could, maneuvered through them when he couldn’t, and slept at night in parks and woods.
Winston kept up, happily trotting beside him, sniffing charred rocks and random spots of grass along their journey.
“How you doing there, buddy?” Simon asked, looking over to his dog and ruffling his head. Winston looked up, panting and lapping at Simon’s moving hand.
“Getting tired? Me too.”
As night approached, Simon inspected his map and found a large park inside the town they had just entered, named Poricy. He made a debris hut by placing sticks against the side of a fallen tree, forming a ribcage-like structure, and then piling the construction high with branches and leaves. Next, he stuffed the inside with more fallen leaves to form a mattress, and snuggled inside with Winston, wrapping the wool blanket tightly around them. It was warm in there, and Simon slept better than he had in days. The fear of people seeing the van and lurking into the camp to mur
der and steal from him had been extinguished.
In the morning, he scattered the debris hut and started scouting the area around camp for food. He found small patches of wheat stalks mixed in a field of wildflowers, and picked every one within reach, scattering about many of the seeds from the grainy heads to continue the plants’ life cycle.
Simon thought he had heard running water as he entered the park the previous night, and sure enough, after backpedaling a short ways, he came upon a flowing creek. He filtered fresh water into his canteen, then found a thicket of wild goldenrod on his way back to camp. Although the plant was not in full bloom, he collected what he could of the small brilliant yellow flowers, crushing some in his hand to breathe in the fragrant, slightly sour scent. After collecting the flowers, he picked a handful of the plant’s leaves, to be used later, either boiled down like spinach or eaten raw.
At camp, he gathered wood and started a small fire. He added the goldenrod leaves, along with a handful of pine needles, to the water. Simon breathed in the pleasant aroma of anise and pine, wafting the steam over his face.
When the tea had finished seeping, he relaxed, leaning against a fallen tree and letting the warmth of his drink spread throughout his body.
“I bet you’re hungry, buddy.” Winston’s ears perked up. His mouth opened and his tongue panted out. “Who’s my hungry boy? Are you my hungry boy?”
Simon found in his pack the large sack of dehydrated vegetable and jerky-meat kibble, and held out a handful for Winston to gobble up. He popped a few pieces in his mouth, letting his teeth sink into the small pieces of dried meat. Winston ate three handfuls before Simon packed the bag away. The fire was out, and a faint trail of smoke whispered in the air.
Simon was contemplating whether to grind the heads of the wheat stalks now or wait until later … when he heard a noise in the woods.
He froze. Winston’s head perked up, looking sharply into the underbrush.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
There was more noise, movement. The sound of something brushing up against plants.
Is it a deer? No, too big … too many. Too clumsy.
The After War Page 12
