Curiosity wins. Zak gathers a few of his own provisions and hurriedly sets out on the couple's trail.
He also packed a few extra strips of dried meat—just in case the dog came back around.
9
Their time in Carson's Crossing had been uneventful. Finding an empty house, they’d relaxed, made love, talked about the future, made love again, then discussed what was to come. Early the next morning, they set out for the place he'd spent so much of his youth. They didn't take Pete, however. Roughing it through fields and forests, they didn't need a packhorse slowing them down. Instead, they found an old sports complex where most of the fencing was still standing. There was plenty of grass and Pete should be relatively safe for the day since they were coming back to Carson's Crossing either that night or the next morning.
By mid-morning, they came to the house first—the old rambled down place where Remy's traveling companion, Austin, had stayed. The house and its surroundings had changed little—as it shouldn’t have since Chris was here less than a year ago. The thick trees opened on a grassy little valley. A creek bisected it, running from west to east where it eventually dumped into what Chris and his father had named the Snake River. On the near side sits the squat, wood-framed house. The left portion of the roof had collapsed before—now it looked as if more than half of it had fallen in.
The siding, yellowed by time and relentless sun, clings to the walls like a snake, ready to shed its skin. The front door is just as he'd left it, gaping open for anything to gain entrance. Machete at the ready, he carefully steps inside. The entire left side is uninhabitable. Splintered wood, like broken bones, stick up haphazardly amongst mold infested insulation, ragged plywood, and torn roofing shingles.
Everything is almost just like before. The large living area to the right still contains an age-stained mattress lying in front of the blackened fireplace. On the ceiling is something he'd forgotten about. He turns to Karen to keep her from looking, but her eyes are already examining the artwork and the name he'd drawn there all those months ago.
"Remy. Was that her?"
Chris's silence is answer enough.
She turns toward him and lifts his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "It's okay...I'm not jealous or anything. It happened a long time ago."
His eyes gravitate upward to the stick figure with the decapitated head. "Not so long ago," he admits quietly.
"Yes, it was. Two months ago or two years ago...it doesn't matter. You were a different person living a different life. You've changed so much in just the time I've known you. You might not realize it, but you have. Once we get today and tomorrow behind us, I don't think it'll take long for you to heal and forget what happened here."
"You think so?"
She nods adamantly. "I'm already seeing it...even if you don't feel it." She touches his cheek. "I think I know what might help you..."
She lets the comment hang and watches his eyes widen.
"Here?" he asks, surprised.
Karen laughs. "No silly, this..." She reaches down and grabs a piece of fabric lying near her feet. She hands it to him and gestures toward the graffiti.
Closing his fist around the wad of cloth, he stares at the low ceiling. With a sigh of relief, he steps forward and starts wiping the soot away.
The change in the air is clear, even to her. As he wipes and smears the image away, it's as if he's erasing that part of the past. That's what Karen hopes, anyway.
* * *
What in the world? Zak wants to get closer but doing so would reveal himself.
He'd followed the couple south of town to the house in the clearing by the creek. He watched them enter and just about the time he thought they would take an extended stay; they emerged. He started to panic as they began making their way almost directly toward his hiding spot. They cross the creek and, thankfully, turn away from Zak and follow it until it disappears into the trees.
Giving them a few minutes to get ahead, he slinks from his hiding spot and crosses to where they entered the forest. A well-used game trail that cut through the trees. The Machete Man knew this trail had been here. As soon as they crossed the creek, he'd turned them directly toward it. This helped solidify Zak's theory the Machete Man had been here before.
Now, after following them for several miles through the forest, he watches from behind yet another tree—one that had plenty of thick, and prickly, berry bushes around its base. Between his grey-green clothing and the surrounding vegetation, he had no worries about being spotted. Besides, the two have payed little attention to what was going on beyond their immediate surroundings. Sure, they were quiet, didn't talk much, and seemed to be tense and ready for something to jump out at them, but that's not the way to travel. You had to be alert to everything around you, not just the immediate vicinity—that went double for your back-trail. They rarely ever looked back.
Zak wondered how the Machete Man had ever made it on his own. The girl was another story—he knew right away that she'd come from a sheltered environment. She was as skittish as a deer hunted by a pack of coyotes.
But this new development—was interesting.
The Machete Man had veered off from the trail and into a small clearing in the woods. At the center of the clearing were mounds of dirt. Broken sticks, lashed together for makeshift crosses, lay scattered about the head of each grave. At one time they were probably standing upright, but whether it be wind or some other element, they now all lay on the ground.
Shrugging out of his backpack, the Machete Man places it on the ground and begins digging around inside it. He pulls out two identical items. Curious, Zak leans forward as if a couple more inches will help him see the items better. The Machete Man gives one to the girl and they both begin unfolding the items. When they finish, Zak is even more confused.
Shovels? Why do they need shovels?
What in the world?
The couple begins to dig.
10
"We've got company," Chris observed, stepping away from the smudged soot. The graffiti he drew on the ceiling all those months ago is now just a giant grey smear.
"What?" Confused, she looks up at the ceiling.
"Outside," he states, nodding toward the window. "I saw someone sneaking through the trees. He's obviously watching us."
She reaches for her ax but her stops her, pulling a hand against hers then intertwining his fingers into hers. He lifts them to his lips and kisses her knuckles. "It's okay...I don't think he's any harm. So far, he's just watching us."
"Don't think he's any harm? What do you mean? How could you know that?"
He assures her. "If he wanted to hurt us, he'd have done it by now...I think he's been following us for a few days."
"What?" she demanded. "A few days? When were you going to tell me?"
"I didn't know he was until just now," he states, moving toward the door and pulling her along. "I saw him before we had the incident at the interstate, and since I didn't see him again, I figured it didn't matter."
"You sure it's the same person?"
He nods. "Yeah. Pretty sure."
"So, what do we do?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" She lets go of his hand. "Why nothing?"
"I know he's there, and so far, he's done nothing to threaten us. We have the advantage now because I know he's there."
"Well, it makes me nervous."
He takes her hand again and pulls her close, hugs her for comfort. "Karen, you have to understand that no matter where we go, you can bet someone is watching us. There’ll always be people hiding, watching, and hoping that when they see us, we won't see them. They are afraid and want to be left alone. Until there's a threat in front of us, I don't think we need to worry about it."
"Still..." she begins, but lets the argument go unsaid.
"We'll be okay," he reassures her. "We're two...he's one. I don't think he wants to mess with us."
"What if he has friends?"
Chris smiles, thinking abo
ut a quote his father used to say. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
He's not sure why, but her next words send a chill up his spine. "What if they burn the bridge while we're standing on it?"
He has no answer to that one.
* * *
"Are you okay?"
He feels her hand take his. He's glad she's here. Before meeting her, he thought he would be alone forever. In fact, after his father died, he honestly believed he was the last living person on earth—that there was no one else. He didn't know how much he needed companionship until he'd found it and realized it had been missing from his life. Now, standing before his family's graves...
No, not their graves—these were all for show. His family was never here. Thoughts of his family turn to thoughts of Karen? What if she were to die? How would that affect him? He'd known Karen only a fraction of the time, but they'd shared more together, been more intimate than anyone he'd ever known before. And by intimate, he wasn't thinking just about the sex. He'd had deep conversations with her. Conversations about the stars in the sky, the depths of the oceans (and if she'd ever seen it—neither of them had), and how many of the living were left in the world. That last one had brought the discussion to a halt—they were afraid the answer to that one might scare them.
"I'm okay," he declares, shrugging out of the backpack. He removes the shovels he’d taken from the military surplus supply in Martinville and hands one to Karen. They unfolded them in silence. He couldn't help but think he was about to do something wrong even though there's nothing beneath that dirt but...
What? More dirt?
"Actually," he admits. "I'm feeling a little strange about this."
"They're empty, right?"
Chris counts the graves again—one grave for every family member that protected Homestead on that horrible fence. According to his father, they were the Guardians. They weren't family—they were Guardians!
He falls to his knees, and the shovel slips from his grasp. Karen kneels beside him, hugging him but saying nothing.
"He couldn't even call them family anymore." He reaches for the nearest grave, digs his fingers into grass and the soil beneath. "They were the Guardians...not mom, not my sister...the Guardians! How can any man just throw his family away like that?" Tears of anger sting the corners of his eyes.
He turns, eyes boring into Karen's. "I hate him...I hate him so much."
She pulls him to her, wraps her arms around his shoulders and puts his head to her breasts and whispers, "It’s okay, Chris. It's okay."
It's not okay though.
It's not okay by a long shot.
He hopes that coming here one last time will help him rid the old demons within him. Between Remy and his father, he has enough hate to last two lifetimes—and he can't help but feel that that hate is holding back this newfound love for Karen. Because of them, he can't give her all that he is, and that pisses him off even more.
"I just want to get all this over with...I want to put them both behind me."
"You will...it'll just take time."
They are quiet for a few minutes while he sits in her arms, basking in her warmth. Finally, with a huge sigh, he pushes himself to his feet, grabs the shovel, and moves to the oldest grave—or what he believes is the oldest. He's judging their age partly on memory, but mostly on how far the dirt has settled. This first grave, going by his father, belongs to either his aunt or uncle on his mother's side.
He pauses.
"What is it?" Karen asks, stepping up next to him.
"He'd never talk about them...no matter how much I wanted to know. It was like, once they were dead, that was it. He completely erased them from his mind." He drives the short spade into the ground. "I can't even remember their names."
He tosses the dirt aside and grabs another shovelful.
Karen begins digging at the opposite end. She tries changing the subject. "Have you seen our stalker?"
"Mmm hmm," Chris murmurs without raising his head. "He's behind some bushes behind your right shoulder. If we were to suddenly drop everything and head back up the trail, we'll catch him."
She laughs quietly. Then, unable to stay off the topic at hand, she asks, "How deep do you think we need to dig?"
"I'm not sure, but probably not too far. Remember, there's no one really buried here. If anything, he probably just used these graves to bury their personal belonging."
It's as if his words manifested reality, Karen plunges the shovel back into the ground with an audible crunch of plastic. Chris drops his shovel and kneels beside her, using their hands to clear out more dirt to reveal a flat plastic box. It's brittle from being out in the elements for so many years. Karen's shovel splintered one corner but otherwise, the rest of the box looked to be intact and the lid sealed tight to the body.
Chris pulls it from the grave and onto the beaten grass. They share a look.
"Well, guess I should open it, huh?"
Karen nods.
He removes the lid.
* * *
Zak watches the graveyard with growing interest. He'd been shocked when he saw the Machete Man pull out the shovels. Surely, they weren't about to dig up those graves.
And that's exactly what they did. Whoever was buried here must have been close to the Machete Man because at one point, he became overcome with emotion. He leaned into the girl and she held him and rubbed his back and shoulders for several minutes.
The emotional pause was over almost as soon as it started and they both started digging. They didn't have to dig long. The girl struck something. Zak could neither hear it nor their verbal reactions to it, but the Machete Man dropped his shovel and began scooping dirt out of the shallow hole with his hands.
Zak shifts uncomfortably. The curiosity is killing him—he wants to know what's going on with these two. Obviously, there are no bodies in these graves—at least, in that particular grave. He's watched them enough to build an opinion of them and part of that profile is that they are not a threat. Until this moment, he thought he'd just observe and then let them go about their business. But, on the other hand, they've both come from places beyond his scope of existence—that means they could very well have knowledge that might help him in the future. Other towns, other communities, food sources, and water—the knowledge about any of these could be more beneficial than just letting them go about their way.
And he had information he could share too. If they leave here and go back to Carson's Crossing, as he believes they will do, he feels he should warn them about the Highwaymen that roam the lands to the north.
He makes his decision...
* * *
"He's coming," Chris says, eyes wide, looking over Karen's shoulder in the direction of the trail they'd used earlier.
Her eyes narrow in a moment of confusion, then the reality of what he said registers. She stands and spins in a blind panic, expecting their stalker to be on top of her already, attacking her while her back was turned. When she faces him, hand on her ax and about to draw it and bring it up for action, she pauses. She looks back at Chris in confusion. "He's just a little kid."
Chris smiles knowingly. "I told you I wasn't too worried about him."
The boy, only a few feet away now, addresses Karen. "I'm not a little kid."
Brows furrowed, she asks, "How old are you?"
The boy looks at her, confused.
Chris grabs her elbow and though he addresses them both, his gaze is on the newcomer, says, "I quit keeping up with my age a long time ago."
Karen tilts her head toward him. "You don't know how old you are?"
Chris shakes his head.
She looks at the newcomer and he shakes his head too.
"I guess my grandfather liked to hold on to the past. He made calendars for every year that I can remember and marked off the passage of every day."
Chris shrugs. "My dad was the same way, but I never saw the need in it." He holds his hand out to the young man. "I'm Chris."
; "Zak," says the boy as he shakes.
"This is Karen," Chris says, introducing her since she still seems to be a little dumbfounded about the whole age thing.
"Nice to meet you both."
Well, Chris thinks, he's certainly polite.
He looks the boy over. Now he's confused. "Do you not carry a weapon?"
Zak puts his hand on the leather sheath attached to his hip, which contained a small hunting knife. "I'm armed," he retorted.
"You kill the Tainted with that?"
"Who are the Tainted?"
"The dead," Karen states, jumping into the conversation. She nods at Chris. "We call them the Tainted."
"Weird name," Zak says.
Chris doesn't bother explaining where the name originated. The last thing he wanted right then was to get into a long discussion. Zak's appearance was distracting enough—he has graves to dig and standing here talking is keeping him from it.
As if reading his mind, Zak asks, "What's with the graves."
Chris kneels and the others follow his lead. As he opens the plastic box, Karen answers Zak's questions as best she can. She lets slip that they've known of his presence for several days.
Zak snickers under his breath. "I guess I need to be a little more careful."
Chris has the contents of the box laid out. Most is unimpressive—clothing, jewelry, and books by authors with names such as Patterson, Roberts, and Poe. "I think this was my aunt's." He lifts the most interesting item—a journal containing page after page of hand-written notes. Each letter, every word is meticulously drawn across the page. He thumbs through the pages while the other two watch in silence. He gets to the half-way point and there, pressed between the pages, is a photograph.
He removes it from the pages and hands it to Karen. "That's all of us...that's the entire family that lived with us after the world changed."
She looks it over, taking a moment to study the face of her lover when he was about the same age as Zak is now. Thirteen, maybe fourteen years old. "I remember them taking the picture. We all posed in front of the river and my aunt set the camera up—the kind that developed the picture right on the spot and spit it out a slot in the front." His gaze is far away as his mind travels back in time. "I remember..."
Tainted Souls Page 5
