Brian turned to see his cousin stumbling backward from beside a tree he had stopped to urinate against. Steven toppled over on his back, scrambling backward with his legs kicking, grabbing at his fallen pants.
“Steve!” Brian dropped the wood in his arms and swung his rifle up. He darted across the clearing. “What is it?”
Steven was still kicking himself backward.
“What is it—what is it?”
Brian was kneeling beside him, his rifle darting and scanning the woods.
Steven got to his feet, pulling the front of his pants up, then fell over on his hands and knees and began vomiting in the brush.
“Steve! Steve! Talk to me, Steve!”
Steven spit up bile and strings of saliva, with nothing much to eliminate from his stomach. He began to raise his hand to point, but doubled over in another round of gags.
“What—”
Then Brian saw it.
No more than a foot away from the tree that Steven had been leaning against to urinate was a pile of human remains. Thin bones were arranged in a neat pile. Some were boiled stark white, while others were deeply charred. Leaves were scattered over the carnage, but it only took a breeze to blow them away, and they looked … fresh.
Behind the remains was a tree stump, the top of it stained dark red. Brian’s eyes darted between the hack marks on top of the stump to the hack marks on the bones.
“Oh, Jesus Christ …” Brian stepped away. “Holy shit.” His head was spinning. “Come on, Steve.” He grabbed Steven under the arm. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Steven rose to his knees and shoved Brian off. “Fuck!” He hollered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!”
Brian stepped toward him again, “Come on, let’s—”
“Fucking coon stew!” His eyes were dark slits as he glared at Brian. “Fucking coon stew! You trusted him, Brian! You trusted that old fuck!”
Brian’s stomach wrenched, and bile rose to his throat. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “Steve, we have to get out—”
“You fucking asshole!”
“What did I—”
“You fucking piece of shit!” Steven was on his feet, walking toward Brian. “I fucking told you! I told you we shouldn’t be talking to that old man! I told you we should move on! What was her name? Mary? And the retard, he’s next! Why else have him around? You don’t listen; you never listen! Even when I told you we shouldn’t go into Odyssey, you didn’t hear a word I said!”
“Now wait just a damn minute.” Brian was stepping backward. “You never said we shouldn’t go into that town. You wanted shelter too. I didn’t do nothing, Steve. Keep your voice down, for Christ’s sake.”
“All my life, all my life, it’s you that fucks everything up for me!” He had that look in his eyes, that faraway gaze, eyes that were looking straight through Brian to the wilderness beyond.
“Come on, man … let’s get our stuff and move on.”
“Ohhh,” Steven let out, and then began screaming to the heavens. “AAAHHHH!” He let it all out, screaming until his lungs ran out of air.
“You, Brian. You!” He walked toward Brian, pointing. “You never listen to a word I say! Every decision you make is for yourself!”
Brian’s hands formed into fists. “Now, you wait just one goddamned minute.”
“We wouldn’t have eaten that fucking stew if you’d listened. Look at them bones! We wouldn’t have spent that night in the house! We wouldn’t have killed people! You’re an arrogant bastard, Brian! You only care about yourself!”
“Care about myself? Care about myself!” Brian’s vision throbbed with the quick beating of his heart. “What the fuck are you talking about? Do you hear yourself?”
They were inches away—red eyes locked with red eyes.
Brian went on, “All I’ve ever done my entire goddamned life is help you, protect you. I’ve never been able to actually have a life, Steve, because you’re so fucking helpless. I moved in with you when your parents died because you couldn’t fucking deal with living alone, and you still can’t. Did you ever wonder if I wanted to be there, in your house? I’m a grown man; we’re both grown men. I could have had a life, a family, but I gave it all up. I gave it up to take care of your sorry ass.”
“Bullshit!”
“Fuck you, man. You want to know why I make all the decisions, why I don’t ask for your opinion? It’s because you’re incapable of making decisions for yourself. I do occasionally ask what you think just so you don’t get upset and throw a fucking temper tantrum. You’re an oversensitive, inconsiderate, fucking child!”
Steven’s face was stone cold and bright red. His hands were clenched. It was too late now. Things had been said that could not be unsaid. A wheel had been set in motion, and there was no way of stopping it.
“Nobody tells you the truth about how much of a baby you are because the only way you know how to deal with negative feedback is by beating people up. So everyone smiles, pretends that they’re your friend so you don’t cry and act like you’re not just a big dumb—”
Steven punched Brian hard in the face. Brian’s head jerked violently, the whacking sound loud in his ringing ears, the pain electric. He stumbled back on his heels but caught himself. Warm blood dribbled from his nose and his eyes teared up.
Steven snarled, his teeth clenched, breathing so heavily that strings of drool flew from his lips. Brian knew Steven had passed the line. He could not speak if he wanted to; he could not think if he wanted to, or control his actions. Steven’s vision was now pure crimson. What Brian had no way of knowing was that all the demons that had tormented Steven’s mind for so long were now out to play … and letting them take control … felt … so good.
Brian swung a powerful right hook at Steven’s jaw, making a sickening crack. Steven wobbled and his head turned, but his feet didn’t budge. A drip of blood trailed from his lips. His eyes were wild, crazy—the most terrifying thing Brian had ever seen.
“Oh … shit,” Brian muttered and braced himself.
Steven sprang forward and Brian crouched low. They gritted their teeth like wild wolves and lunged. They met halfway and grabbed at each other, swinging their arms and gouging at each other’s faces. Their hands felt for eyes, ears, anything to grab ahold of. Steven’s teeth searched for Brian’s nose.
Brian bobbed, swerved his face, hauled his head back, and struck Steven square in the nose with his forehead, producing an awful cracking noise. Stars flashed before Brian’s eyes, and blood poured from Steven’s splintered nose, but the strike only seemed to strengthen his cousin’s resolve.
Brian looked at him … and Steven smiled. He smiled wide through the flowing red blood, making his teeth shiny and terrifying.
Steven grabbed Brian under his armpits and tossed him away. Brian stumbled back and caught his footing, but right as he steadied himself, he saw a streak of Steven’s fist as it walloped his eye socket.
Intense brightness enveloped his vision, and pain struck Brian’s nervous system like lightning bolts throughout his entire body. He stumbled backward, his heel caught a rock from the edge of the fire pit, and he fell over, landing hard on his back. The wind knocked out of his lungs.
Before he could inhale, Steven was on him. His large body straddled Brian’s chest and his massive palms locked around Brian’s throat. The eyes staring down at Brian were not the eyes of Steven Driscoll. They were the eyes of a blind man, of a man without a mind, incapable of control. There was no way out of this … Steven would kill him for sure, and would not even remember doing so.
Blood from Steven’s face was dripping over Brian’s eyes, making everything red and cloudy. Brian kicked his feet frantically, and Steven pressed his weight down harder, crushing Brian’s esophagus. Brian’s head felt like a balloon; his chest was in spasms trying to take in air.
He punched wildly at Steven’s head, causing more blood to flow down upon his eyes, but Steven was like a stone, an effigy of madness. Brian’s vision was turning
from red to white to black, and vivid with a strange twinkling pixilation. His eyes were ready to burst from his skull.
This can’t be it … this can’t be the end.
Brian grabbed at the ground, scratching at the earth with bleeding fingertips. He grabbed handfuls of dirt and mud, grinding it into Steven’s eyes, his nose, his smiling mouth. Brian reached his hand out far along the ground, his mind fading, and felt something hard against the tips of his fingers. He grabbed it—something heavy and warm, almost hot in his palm—and with every ounce of strength he had left, he swung it upward …
Steven’s eyes flashed wide and his neck twisted violently to the side. Brian felt a splash of hot blood fall over his face and chest, and Steven jumped to his feet.
Brian kicked at the earth, pushing himself backward, while taking in gasping breaths. The air felt like razor blades against his raw throat.
Brian wiped his eyes and saw through a red veil, Steven standing, his body twisted as if he was looking for something behind him.
“S-Steve …”
Steven collapsed. His body seized and twitched, and then became still. Blood pooled around him.
Brian was unable to move. He stared at Steven in shock, as his cousin’s body grew cold and gray with the coming of night.
***
When Brian came to his senses, he was crouched on the ground, his mouth agape and his eyes staring at the body sprawled on the dirty ground before him. The fire had burned down to a light crackle, and darkness had settled in.
Brian rushed to his cousin, his fingertips fluttering over Steven’s wound, the blood pooled about him. His vision was a haze, his mind speeding in circles. He realized he was still clutching the grapefruit-sized rock in his hand. The side was red and sticky, as were his fingers. He dropped the rock as if it were a thing on fire and smacked his palm against his leg, chasing away the flames.
His trembling hands searched over Steven’s neck and wrists for a pulse, but he felt nothing. The shock that he was touching his dead cousin made him recoil.
The night had grown pitch-black.
In a panic, his mind told him to run like hell. Brian snatched his rifle and backpack from the ground and ran, ran like a man set ablaze. He felt eyes staring at him from the brush, observing and judging. He ran through the woods like a blind man, every branch, both big and small, seeming to find him and whip at his body and face as he sprinted forth.
Then he just stopped and stood where he was, unable to comprehend what had happened, what he had done, what he would do now. Guilt washed over him, and the unimaginable pain of his crime sank heavy in his chest.
This is all a dream … it has to be a dream. This can’t be real.
But it was not a dream.
I killed him. I killed my … cousin … my brother …
Brian stumbled in the darkness, over rocks and brush, not sure where he was going or in what direction. He tripped twice, and the second time, he remained where he fell. He sat up in the darkness, feeling the eyes of demons all over his body, examining and judging his soul.
I’m all alone.
Flashes of the fight shot through his mind. The feeling of Steven’s grip around his neck was still very real. He saw Steven’s body twisting unnaturally, all the blood that flowed from his head. He watched him lie there so eerily still.
I didn’t mean to kill you. Lord … what have I done?
He pictured Steven at that very moment, his unblinking eyes facing the stars above, his body cold on that same earth that Brian now shivered upon. The dirt around his cousin’s body laying claim to his flesh, accepting him with the onset of decay.
“I won’t leave you there, Steven,” Brian said. “Why did I run? Jesus Christ, I ain’t right.”
What have I done?
Brian stood.
I’m coming back, Steve. I’ll bury you proper.
It was too dark to see more than a few feet into the bramble, and Brian had no idea from which direction he had arrived in that place. After taking only a few steps and tripping over something on the ground, he stopped and sat back down.
He had to wait for a long time, hunched over, his knees pulled to his chest for warmth. His own wounds from the fight were barely noticeable, but the weight of his cousin’s death was crushing his soul.
At first light, he stood, grabbed his pack and rifle, and followed his stumbling tracks. As he walked on, his head felt dizzy and faint, and his own injuries began to throb.
I don’t deserve to live … Steven, I’m so sorry … I’m a monster.
Brian followed his tracks into the morning hours. He didn’t remember running as far as he had, and it took some time until he saw the familiar thicket of trees surrounding the campsite.
“I’m here, Steven. I’m here.”
Brian didn’t want to see his cousin dead on the ground. There was a real chance that he would faint. But the thought of leaving him out there for the wolves and the bugs to consume made him boil in despair.
Brian crashed through the brush and into the clearing.
“Steven, I’m so—”
He looked about.
“Steven?”
His cousin was not there. The campsite was empty, wiped clean.
“S-Steve?” Brian swung his head around, looking into the woods. “Steven, Steve? What the … Steve?” He began shouting into the woods. “I’m sorry, Steve! I’m so sorry!”
Brian’s eyes darted everywhere, but there was no trace of his cousin. All the gear he had left was gone. The sleeping bag, the food, everything.
Did it really happen? Am I going insane?
Brian scanned the ground where he had left Steven. Sure enough, the soil was dark with blood.
Where? How? He was dead … wasn’t he? Didn’t I check his pulse?
It occurred to Brian that his hands had been trembling and were torn-up raw from the fight, but still …
He was turning all gray. He wasn’t moving or breathing … There’s no way …
Brian studied the ground around the camp.
What the?
There were hoof prints in the spongy soil and several piles of fresh dung that smelled sharp. These tracks had not been there when he and Steven had first entered the campsite; they were fresh and deep in the wet dirt.
“Horse tracks,” he whispered to himself. “Riders. Four, maybe more.” There were plenty of human footfalls to go with them. Brian went to the edge of the clearing and walked in a circle, studying the ground until he came to where the riders had entered and exited the campsite. They had followed a similar path as Brian and Steven.
Brian walked fast, rifle up, listening to the wind as he followed the tracks. There were deep ruts carved in the soft ground. Perhaps a cart, but the marks looked dragged.
The prints went on for miles, and the morning went by in a blur as Brian followed them. As the afternoon progressed, the sky turned dark. A rumbling sound echoed from the thick heavens. Rain returned, and fell beating to the earth.
“No, no—No!”
Brian watched as the prints before him began to wash away and vanish. The water soaked the already saturated ground so fast that small streams sprung up all over.
Brian ran up a ways and watched the farthest track get wiped clean, turning to a slate of wet mud.
What now?
The rain was cold. Brian’s core shook and his jaw chattered. He ran up farther, attempting to guess the path that the riders would have taken, but there was no evidence to suggest that he was right in his assumptions.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
A voice inside his head spoke, He’s dead, Brian. He’s got to be dead. But Bethany isn’t. You get to them. You stop this foolish pursuit. You don’t got any food or water, and you’re dripping cold.
“He’s dead,” Brian whispered. “There’s no way he’s not.”
He shook his head.
“I’m so sorry, Steven. I’m so sorry … I’ll never forgive myself. I love you, brother.”
<
br /> Brian raised the hood of his poncho and turned back the way that he came.
Bethany was waiting.
Chapter 20
Monticello
Far north was the city of Chicago, like a great evil looming over the land. Simon dared not entertain the very notion of going near that city. It would be ravaged far, far worse than anything he could imagine.
At a junction of interstates, several miles outside of Monticello, Simon saw a tremendous white tent erected along the distant horizon like a great white mountain. The tent was the size of a football field, possibly larger. He stopped and studied it through his binoculars.
From his distance, he could see an abundance of military vehicles—ambulances, Hummers, and mobile offices—left abandoned around the tall fence surrounding the tent. A gigantic red cross was painted large on the broad side of the tent, and signs attached to the chain-link fence read:
QUARANTINED AREA. RESTRICTED ACCESS.
Simon put the binoculars away and continued on the path. He looked over his shoulder as he walked, glancing at the gigantic tent, and his pace quickened. The inside would be worse than anything he could imagine, and the images his mind produced were horrific—infested and diseased corpses, creatures emerging straight from the bowels of hell.
He hastened his steps until the tent was well behind him and gone from sight.
A few miles later, he came to a vantage point where he could see the town of Monticello in the distance. A black and cratered land led to a burned crisp of a town. Hundreds of tanks and vehicles were scattered in the valley like an infestation.
Simon studied his map. It would be easy to bypass the center of town. All he had to do was stay northeast and he would skirt along the border, but he would have to walk straight through the cold war zone.
“All right, buddy,” Simon said to Winston. “You ready?”
Simon started walking with Winston at his heels, sniffing the air.
They walked into the fields of battle, and Simon quickened his pace. The land had been cratered and burned so long ago that new bright green plants and little colorful flowers were now sprouting from the charred and barren soil, and between the cracks of machinery. Corpses—some shredded beyond recognition—had been overgrown with vining weeds. Tall sprouts emerged from ribcages and poked free through hollow eye sockets.
The After War Page 16
