by Ray Wench
“Yeah, I agree. How we ever gonna grow if he keeps killing everyone we find?”
The first man glanced into the woods. For an instant, Myron thought they had locked eyes. He was screaming inside. Run, he urged, but could not make his body respond.
A second later the man looked away, deeper into the woods. He sighed, picked up his bounty and said, “Let’s head back.” He turned and walked away.
The second soldier took one more look at the dead woman. He shook his head and said, “It’s a damn shame,” and then followed his partner.
To Myron, an eternity passed before the jeep drove off. Even then his brain took several minutes to convince his body to respond. He stood on shaky legs staring in the direction of the bodies. Tears dripped from his face as his legs struggled to keep him erect. They moved, as if of their own accord, toward the carnage.
At first sight of the blood Myron stopped, unable to move closer. He’d seen dead people before – lots of them – but he’d never witnessed anyone actually die, especially in such a violent and bloody way. The man’s head was almost gone. The woman’s torso was covered in red. Myron dropped to his knees and vomited.
How could anyone do that to another human being? After all mankind had been through over the past few weeks, how could anyone take life so callously – so easily? Why was this new world so cruel? Hadn’t there been enough death?
His stomach lurched and he retched again.
Thirteen
In a more southwestern corner of the woods, Mason Armstrong had watched with an almost orgasmic excitement as the two people were gunned down. He wanted to howl, but was able to control his need to celebrate death.
He crouched and watched the two men in uniforms search the bodies. A snarl escaped his lips. He hated men in uniform. He hated anyone in any uniform. Most of his life had been dealing with people in uniforms – usually white. But sometimes blue, like when the police came for him.
The doctors, nurses, and orderlies were always yelling at him. Making him do things he didn’t want to – forcing their poison down his throat. But no more. He showed them. When that stupid guard had come to let him out of his locked and padded room, Mason had used his cunning to escape.
He remembered the man’s words.
“It figures that all the good people are dying and a homicidal maniac like you lives. That’s just not right.” He motioned for Mason to move, but left his hands and legs shackled. They moved down the hall toward the door that led to the common room.
Mason smiled. He wasn’t allowed there often. He wanted to hurt the other loonies. They needed to die. They weren’t as smart as he was. In fact, few people were as smart as Mason Armstrong. The only hindrance to a normal and very successful life was that he liked hurting people.
When the guard reached the door, he said, “You probably haven’t noticed, but people are dying. There won’t be anyone to take care of you anymore. I’m leaving after I let you out of here. You’ll have to fend for yourself.”
When he turned to unlock the door, Mason looped his cuffed hands over the guard’s head and strangled him. While the guard fought, Mason cackled. He had seen an old John Wayne movie once, with a hobbling old man who laughed funny. Ever since then, whenever Mason got real happy he copied that sound.
The guard reached for a Taser on his hip, but as he pulled it free, Armstrong gave a quick jerk and snapped the man’s neck. The body fell to the floor, and Mason grabbed the keys and the Taser. First he opened the cuffs on his hands and feet, and then he opened the door. The common room was empty. It was always empty of other residents when he was allowed in there, but now it was also vacant of any staff, as well.
Feeling bolder, Mason explored the entire facility. He found one other patient wandering the halls. Mason stabbed him repeatedly with a pair of scissors.
When he got outside, he shouted and danced. He was free. Over the past few weeks, he had wandered the city. He hid from any mobs, fearing they would put him back inside the institution. The two occasions he found people alone, he killed them. The fewer people around, the less chance of being locked up again. He liked this new world.
Now Mason saw men in uniform and wanted to kill them too. But there were too many of them, and their weapons were more powerful than his knife. He held up the knife he had found in a house. It was a stainless steel chef’s knife with an eight-inch blade. Killing them would take some planning. Mason directed his attention farther into the woods to the man he had been stalking before the army guys arrived. The boy who thought he was an Indian.
He could wait until the soldiers left and then continue hunting his prey. The uniforms hadn’t seen the other man yet. Mason felt the excitement building inside him. The soldiers went back to the jeep. Mason hated them. Anger grew into rage. Those men threatened his freedom. He snarled louder this time. One of the men turned around and looked in his direction. Mason froze. Come on, soldier boy, come find me. But the man climbed in with the others and the jeep drove off.
Mason glanced to where the easy kill hid. He wanted that kill, but the sound of the jeep accelerating drew his attention. He could find the boy anytime. But with the soldiers alive, he would never feel safe. They had to die.
Mason ran through the woods and crossed the street. He would follow the jeep, and when he got the men alone, they would die.
Fourteen
Myron crawled away from the death scene. I should bury them. Animals would be at the remains within hours. But as the distance increased between him and the victims, the desire to do so faded. He couldn’t face the corpses. Killing for food was one thing, but killing for no reason, especially a person, Myron couldn’t accept.
He walked back the way he’d come, to the far edge of the woods. To the right, the tree line stretched for a long way. Fifty yards to the left, a road ran east and west. For the moment, it was clear of any traffic. A cornfield stood twenty yards in front of him, reaching from the road to the extent of the woods. The fully grown stalks would offer good cover, but Myron had trouble getting up enough nerve to dart across the open space between the field and woods.
The sound of the machine gun amplified in his head. Fear immobilized him. Why had they run? Perhaps they were criminals. No. The man looked like he was protecting his wife and unborn child. Regardless of whom they were or what they did, they didn’t deserve to die like that.
With another look at the road, Myron moved. He crawled across the open space until he was several rows into the stalks. There, he stopped and sat on the ground, knees bent, head between them, until he stopped shaking.
The sun was setting. He feared being outside in the dark alone. Picking up his pace, he reached the end of the corn. The open space before him was too far to brave crossing. A gravel driveway ran from the street back to an old two-story farmhouse. With only a sliver of light stretching over the horizon, Myron studied the structure. A barn and another long outbuilding stood behind the house. The buildings looked uninhabited. What if this was where the killers lived? If not, what if the soldiers came in the middle of the night and caught him there? Would they kill me too? He shuddered.
As he stood trying to make a decision, a cool breeze blew, reminding him of his wet pants. He glanced down, ashamed of his cowardice. He choked back a sob. He hated this world – hated that he was not brave enough to function better within it.
Sucking in several deep breaths, Myron tried to harden his resolve by getting angry with himself. “Come on, you chicken shit, move.” He stepped from cover, faltered, and stepped back. He was too afraid to be in the open. Flopping to the ground, he covered his face and cried. Those poor people. Why did they have to die? How was he supposed to survive if he had to constantly be watching for two-footed predators?
When he was cried out, he stood, wiped his face, and walked toward the farmhouse. It was now dark enough to cover his approach. He went around back and looked down the drive at the road. There was no sign of lights or life. Myron climbed the back porch and tried the d
oor. It was locked.
Reaching behind him, he withdrew the handgun he carried. It might have come in handy, but he was afraid to fire it. He hated the noise. Holding it by the barrel, he smashed the door’s window and scraped any remaining glass from the frame. Once inside, he stood holding the gun in a shaky hand.
He had only fired it once. The gun had pitched backward, the barrel almost hitting his face. He wasn’t strong enough to control the weapon. When he stole it from the house he’d broken into two days ago, he’d been excited. It was a .45. All his favorite heroes on TV used one just like it. When his breath rushed out, he realized he’d been holding it. With caution, he advanced through the house, afraid at any second someone or something would jump out at him. He set his pack down on the floor making too much noise. His heart pounded and a muffled cry escaped his lips. Seconds later, when no one came to challenge his presence, Myron moved from room to room ensuring he was alone. He held the gun in both hands in front of him. When he cleared the house, he sat on a bed upstairs and stared at his feet. A moment later a putrid smell rose to his nostrils. The acrid odor was coming from him.
The tears welled up again. The horror of the gruesome bodies and the shame he felt for his cowardice was too much for him to bear. He brought the gun up under his chin and began pulling back on the trigger. A little more. Just a little more. He pleaded with himself, but his finger wouldn’t budge. He placed it at his temple and imagined the bullets ripping through the flesh. Still, he couldn’t end his anguish. Next, he rammed the gun into his mouth, chipping a tooth and gagging on the barrel. It wasn’t going to happen. Myron threw the gun on the bed and cried again. I’m too chicken to live and too afraid to die.
Myron stood and searched the closets until he found clean clothes that would fit. Then he went into the kitchen where he found a few bottles of water in the refrigerator. They were warm, but that didn’t matter. He drank one and carried the other bottles upstairs to the bathroom. There, he stripped off his clothes. Pouring some of the precious liquid onto a face cloth, he scrubbed away the dirt and embarrassment from his body. Myron toweled off and dressed in his new clothes. That complete, he went in search of anything edible.
The pantry held many staples, including canned soups and veggies, but he opted for peanut butter and crackers. While he ate, the memory of the murder ran through his mind once more. He would have to get much tougher. Perhaps if he’d been able to help the man and woman survive, he would have had some friends.
If he had helped them escape, would they be alive now, or would he be dead too? In his mind-numbing fear, he had left his bow and arrows behind. Myron reached over and ripped the feather out of his hair. “You’re no Indian Chief, you coward. You don’t deserve to wear this feather.” He tossed it on the table.
Myron replaced the unused food and carried the remaining water upstairs. He removed his shoes and slid under the covers of a bed. He stared at the ceiling. What horrors would tomorrow bring?
Fifteen
Myron woke with a start. He scanned the room in a panic, not remembering where he was. As the memory streamed back, he relaxed. He gave his face a vigorous rub and scooted out of bed. He stretched and put on his shoes.
He walked out of the room and down the hall to a front window. The sky was dark, announcing the threat of rain. No other people moved. He studied the outside for a while without seeing it.
Myron used the bathroom and went down stairs. He rummaged through the kitchen drawers until he found a can opener. Pulling cans of chicken noodle soup and pears from the pantry Myron opened them. Grabbing a spoon and a two-liter bottle of cola, he went to the table and sat down. He dug into the cold meal with a hearty appetite
After eating his fill, Myron stared at the feather on the table. Letting out a long slow breath, he slapped the table and stood. It was time to earn that feather back. He slid it into his pack. He would not wear it again until he deserved to.
Myron cleaned up, placing the empty cans in a plastic bag. The pop was too big to carry so he poured what he could into an empty water bottle and put it in the netting attached to his backpack. The peanut butter and crackers went into the pack.
Outside, he deposited the garbage in the trash can and went into the garage. There he found a shovel. Shouldering his pack and with a new resolve, Myron retraced his steps until he found where the bodies lay. He angrily fought back the urge to vomit. He swallowed hard and set about digging a large hole. Unused to manual labor, his arms and back hurt. Blisters formed on his fingers and hands. But Myron dug on, pushing the pain and discomfort from his mind.
Several hours later, the irregular hole was deep enough for both bodies. Myron hoped it would also be deep enough to keep the animals from digging up the bodies. He steeled himself and before he could lose his nerve, grabbed the man’s legs and dragged him to the hole. Myron rolled the body in. The man didn’t lie flat. One leg was up on the side, but Myron wasn’t about to jump into the hole to fix him.
He returned for the woman, her accusing eyes still open. Flies had begun their work on them, giving her a demonic look. He closed his eyes and said a prayer for forgiveness. “I’m sorry,” he said, before pushing her to join her man. She landed face down, her weight causing the man’s leg to drop flat. The bodies were face-to-face, perhaps as they should be. The hollowness of loss filled him, even though he had never met them.
Myron moved away from the grave, refusing to allow the tears welling in his eyes to fall. He let out a low growl and took up the shovel. Thirty minutes later, the job was done. He stood over the mound, tried to think of a eulogy, but gave up. Leaving the shovel, he picked up his pack and bow and arrows and walked out into the open field the couple had run across. Five steps out, he stopped. Brave was one thing, stupid something else. He backed up and used the trees to move away from the road.
Sixteen
Hours later, Myron stopped when his stomach told him it was time to eat. He pulled out the peanut butter and crackers and a chocolate chip granola bar. He polished off the remaining pop and stowed the bottle with the remains of the food. Emitting a moan as he stood, Myron clutched at the complaining muscles of his back.
How far had he come? The day’s journey had taken him across quite a few country roads. Crossing them had caused many anxious moments. At any second, he envisioned the jeep barreling straight at him with its deadly machine gun spitting massive rounds at him. Each road became easier to cross, but still that chill passed through him.
Myron had no idea where he was. He had never been this far away from the city before. Traveling west was the best direction to find other people. However, from what he’d seen so far, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to meet anyone else.
With his muscles loosened somewhat, Myron started out again. The woods he traveled in curved toward the east-west road. He approached a crossing north-south unpaved lane. Five minutes later, knee-locking fear struck him. Motors reverberated across the open spaces and bounced around the trees. Myron couldn’t tell from which direction the sound was coming, but it was loud and there was more than one.
He threw himself to the ground and crawled to the tree line. There he waited as the engine sounds grew. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to run, but whether from fear or curiosity, perhaps both, Myron stayed. Less than a minute later, a convoy appeared. The number of vehicles took him by surprise. They were all military. A Jeep led the way, followed by several canvas-covered trucks. Two more open-backed trucks came next. But the next vehicle caused his jaw to drop.
The tank rumbled loudly as its treads slapped against the concrete. A man sat in the hatch on the turret. He held binoculars to his face and scanned the area. Myron ducked and held his breath. Two more trucks and four more jeeps appeared behind the tank. If Myron hadn’t seen the men in the jeep gun down the couple, he would have been happy to see so many living people in one place. Shouldn’t the army protect the people? He planned to stay far away from the soldiers. Was it wise to continue heading west since t
he convoy was going in that direction too?
Myron lay for ten minutes trying to decide what to do. He pushed from the ground and wiped the leaves and dirt from his clothes. He wouldn’t go back, but that didn’t mean he had to continue west either. If he moved north, he would have to cross the road the convoy had driven on. That appeared to be more traveled than any of the cross streets he had passed. That only left one direction. Myron turned and began walking south.
He kept to the side of the road, but there wasn’t as much cover in that direction. There were also more farm houses. Not wanting a confrontation if anyone were alive to challenge his trespassing, Myron detoured behind the houses.
By late afternoon, he needed a rest. He wasn’t used to this much exercise. Yet something about the outdoors made him feel good. Much of the pudginess he carried most of his life was now gone. The extra energy he had exhilarated him in an unfamiliar way.
At the back of a large brick ranch-style house was a pond. A small shed stood at one end. A picnic table sat on a small paved covered patio next to the shed. Myron stopped there and set his pack on the table. The shed was windowless and the door unlocked. The room inside was about eight-by-ten feet and held a variety of pool equipment. A small bench and cupboard lined one side. Myron found towels and some bathing suits.
He went back outside and watched the house for nearly a half hour before deciding to take a chance and rest there. He pulled out whatever food was left and took inventory. Six assorted granola bars, two packs of string cheese, two apples he’d found on a tree, his peanut butter, and a few crackers. He needed more food if he was to continue his trek.
Two bottles of water remained. He took out the empty and deposited it in a blue plastic barrel just off the patio. He might be one of the few people left in the world, but he still couldn’t bring himself to litter.
