He Runs (Part One)
Page 2
‘Not yet, boy. Not yet.’
Hound lies down again, his eyes growing slightly in his head until they resemble two large, obsidian orbs. Man sees himself in those eyes, in the beast itself. Man sees nature, the unwilling patron of a man-made notion called fate and begins to laugh.
‘We’re the same, you and I.’
The dog whimpers.
‘No, I mean it. We’re the same. Well, apart from the fact that I can talk and reason and form opinions and judgements.’ Man lies back, his warm head cooling on shaded grass. ‘Come to think of it, how come Nature chose to give human’s the Earth? I mean, look what we’ve done to it. And we weren’t even here first. We’ve evolved from other life forms, as if Nature has been continuously revising its designs until it got to us. And the other animals that broke free from our mould just kind of fucked off, did their own thing to survive and evolve while we were being perfected. Mankind! Nature’s seemingly greatest accomplishment and worst enemy, all in the same package.’ Man turns over, faces Hound and tries to imagine how he would sound if he could speak. ‘Or maybe what I’m talking about could be complete bull shit and lending to the ideal that humans, as a species, are arrogant and misguided. I think we are. Fuck it, I know we are.’
Hound murmurs lowly which Man interprets as a sign of boredom.
‘Okay, something else, perhaps. We’ll give it two hours and I’ll go back, get us that leg. Sound good?’
Hound makes no sound and Man looks up at the Sun, positions his fingers in front of it.
‘Two hours should be just about right.’
************************
A dim light emanates from the farmhouse; the flickering of dozens of candles, the glow from a dying fire. It is night time and Man has overslept.
Daniel and Celeste are sitting at the table in the kitchen, talking and laughing. Man sees them. Man envies them.
And he was right; there was another person in the house. A female. But the female is not yet able to chew her steak. The female is not older than six months.
Man licks his lips at the sight of steak and eggs and freshly grown greens and what looks to be homemade wine. He sees Daniel’s mouth open and close, yellowed teeth mashing cow flesh, blood-coloured wine pouring down his bearded chin.
The thought of stealing from them, a thought he has harboured as soon as he saw them retrieve number forty three has been a burden of guilt weighing lightly on his chest. But after watching them eat, after witnessing their feast he can feel that guilt dissipating, leaving a searing red hole behind.
They have everything. He has nothing. And that’s about to change.
Man listens to the feast as he moves to the barn door, waits patiently until the noise levels increase and then slips the lock off the latch. In his hand he holds the karambit and it feels heavy but also like it is a part of him, an extension of his existence. Using his spare hand he opens the door slowly, an effort to minimise the hinges’ screams.
The barn is in blackness, a dark box that reeks of death. A hint of ferrous in the air, the throng of spilled blood. It tingles Man’s nose, takes him back to another time, when claret wetted his brow and stained his hands. He shudders, shakes it off and closes the door slowly behind him.
He fishes a lighter out of his pocket and in the darkness the flint sparks like Chinese fireworks, the gas igniting in a primordial firestorm. He has always loved fire.
The glow from the lighter’s flame is enough to illuminate what he needs to see: a black, paint-peeling girder used to hang number forty three’s butchered remains. It seems that David and Celesye have used everything; the lungs, liver and kidneys hang at the end of the gory clothesline, best to use quickly to preserve the quality. Two rear legs, two front legs, a torso halved. The head is missing, more than likely next on the menu.
Man moves forward, weighs up both the rear legs and picks the one he thinks is larger. He releases his grip on the lighter and the world turns ink-black, has Man imagining what existence was before our sensory experience began. He shakes it off, no time to dwell on such things.
It takes two attempts for him to successfully remove the preferred leg and he staggers back under its weight. With a brutish heave he throws it over his shoulder and waddles to the outside world. No need to close the door; they’ll know they’ve been robbed. But they have more than enough to share and the leg will last Man as long as he can make it last.
Hound will eat. Man will eat.
He knows he’ll be back for more.
************************
A sharpened punji stick pierces cow flesh, the point blackening with heat of fire. Not long, two minutes each side. Hound takes his steak raw, a large cube of marbled meat to keep him busy. Man has fully removed the dog’s muzzle. Hopes to keep it that way.
Laphroaig is the accompaniment, along with some water that Man has had tucked away. No need to boil it this far up; no toxicity, and Man’s stomach has adapted appropriately. A swig from the whiskey burns his throat in a good way, a pleasurable pain. He lifts his steak from the fire, bites into it and tears, warm, salty juices splattering his beard. He chews slowly, letting the pink flesh melt with each movement of his jaw, swallows and falls back in child-like jubilation.
On his back, eating and drinking, he feels like some sort of Roman nobleman. Hound is grunting quietly, attacking his food with patchy paws, bouncing on the spot like his legs are made of springs.
‘Told you, boy! Didn’t I tell you? A reward for the both of us. There’s enough to last us a while but I think we should go back.’ Man looks up at the tree line, watches as the moon, fuller these days, hides behind two tall trees, its luminous glow creating a white skull-like shape through the protruding branches. ‘They’ll be more careful next time. But I’ll find a way. I always find a way. You’ll find that out about me.’
Hound ignores him in the way that dogs do when they are eating. Man laughs under his breath, thinks about how wonderful it would be to have that much focus every time he ate. Of course, he’s had that focus before. That focus that comes when you need it most, that arctic chill that infects the eyes, turns them a bloody shade of black. The time when violence is absolutely necessary. The act that ignited his hunters’ pursuit, day and night. He had to be focused that night. He had to be to get the job done.
At least that’s what he tells himself.
***********************
A smouldering grey volcano of ash throws miniature plumes into the sweet morning air. Man sleeps well, deeply, the reward after a hearty meal and a few drops of good whiskey. The hunting knife idles in his right hand in case of nocturnal troubles. In case anyone approaches his camp.
Birds sing their morning greetings, the Sun smashes its rays through the shelter of tree leaves and branches to fall warmly on Man’s face. His eyes flicker wildly as light bursts into his skull and he stretches, as far as his withered tendons will let him.
‘Put the knife down!’ commands a voice.
Man jumps up, turns on the spot, facing every direction, the green and brown smudges of forestry blurring into a real-life watercolour. His knife hand is moving, rotating at the joint with the back of the blade resting against his forearm.
‘Who’s there?’ asks Man, ‘show yourself!’
‘Behind you!’ states the voice, which Man deciphers as being male.
Man turns, shakes his head, his good eye concentrating on the blurred world in front of him. He sees Hound, standing on his hind legs. Behind the dog he sees two humanoid shapes. He rubs his eyes with his free hand and slowly Daniel and Celeste come into view. So does the over/under shotgun that Daniel has pointed at Man, undoubtedly loaded with birdshot.
Man estimates Daniel to be no more than twenty feet from him, close enough for the pellets to cause a lot of damage.
‘That’s my dog!’ snarls Man. ‘Let him go!’
‘And that was our cow!’ says Daniel, gesturing with the shotgun at the hacked cow leg that leans against a nearby tree.
‘No, but we might blow yours off!’ says Celeste, her silky voice making such a threat sound sensual.
‘Not with birdshot, you won’t,’ states Man, calmly.
‘It’s solid shot,’ says Daniel with a hint of menace.
‘I doubt it’s even loaded,’ says Man. Daniel smiles incredulously, points the barrels at the ground and pulls the trigger. A root jumps up as soil explodes, leaving a mini-crater of dry earth that resembles cooked mincemeat. Hound barks wildly, runs side to side, testing the grip of his new captor.
Man smiles and drops the knife. He knows that once the guns is pointed elsewhere, he’ll have a better chance.
‘Who are you?’ asks Celeste.
‘Number forty four, it seems,’ says Man. He edges forward again, the rigid half-moon of steel in waistband pressing against his flesh.
‘You’ve been watching us?’ says Celeste.
‘Just one day,’ says Man. ‘I very much admired your cows. And I’ve been very hungry.’
‘They’re ours…’ starts Celeste but is cut off by Daniel:
‘You’ve had your fill, stranger! Enough from us. Now take that leg and leave. Don’t come back. I don’t want to kill you, but I will. You hear me?’
Man nods. Another shuffle forward.
‘Can I have my dog back?’
‘Yes, you can,’ says Daniel.
‘Don’t let go of the lead, whatever you do!’ says Man. ‘He’s sure to run away. Let me come and get him.’
‘You’ll stay where you are, stranger!’ warns Daniel, the gun shaking in his grip.
Man raises his hands, palms down, fingers stretched out and fans them in a calming motion. He learned how to do it from his mother when she had his calm his father. Man looks over Daniel’s shoulder, sees the sun glistening on Celeste’s scar, the slight breeze wafting ringlets over her face.
‘Okay, okay,’ says Man, edging closer, pushing his luck. ‘How about I come slowly to you, and you tie my dog to that tree over there. The skinny one.’ Man motions with his head and Daniel falls for it, looks away. Man has half a second, probably less but knows it has to be done. He’s seen people like these two before. They act honourably, then shoot you in the back when you walk away, string your body up from a tree to let crows feast in the beating sun, a warning to those who travel by. Man remembers the seeing the birds, black as night, prehistoric beasts, fighting over the torn shards of an optic nerve. His eyes belong in his head. And he’ll do what he must to ensure that they stay there.
In a single bound Man leaps forward, rolls over his shoulder and stands within two feet of Daniel. His left hand flashes into his waistband while his right hand parries the shotgun away. The karambit moves like a silver ghost, splits the skin on the back of Daniel’s forearm, severing flesh and tendon. The shotgun drops to the floor and Man moves behind his victim, jams the tip of the curved blade into his throat and rips swiftly, windpipe tearing in two, the jugular bursting in a vibrant arterial spray.
Hound is loose, running in circles, barking at the human commotion that he will never understand.
Man holds Daniel up, feels his human form turn limp, as Celeste looks on, her face frozen, her mouth open in a silent scream. Man has killed before. Just like Daniel, he’s had too, hand forced by the threat of death. And each time, instead of it getting easier, it weighs heavier in his guts.
Man relinquishes his grip, Daniel’s body slumping to the ground like a sack of fresh meat. Man looks at Celeste, looks at her scar and into those eyes and he knows before she does what she’s going to do. She’s done it before. It’s been that way since the world changed.
Her sinewy body lunges forward, hands reaching for the over/under. No time to grieve. That comes later. Or at least it’s supposed to.
He takes one step, swings his right leg back as if he’s about to take a penalty kick, then rushes it forward until the red canvas connects with a petit jawline. Her head snaps back like a Pez dispenser; the world as she knows it, the farmhouse, the cows, the lush green fields, the love she has for her child, whirling together in a centrifugal cosmos.
Man walks to her, watching Hound out of the corner of his eye, just in case he decides to bite. He kneels beside her, lays the karambit on the floor. He cannot do it the same way as Daniel. No, not for this beauty. Quick, warm, like falling into the deep sleep. He rolls her dazed body over, puts his left palm across the back of her skull, fingers pointing to her right, and loops his right arm around her neck until the hand rests on his left bicep. At this angle he can’t look into her eyes but he imagines them, bulging from their sockets, her instinct to survive clawing like an animal trapped under ice. The world, the reality we are born into is there but just out of reach and slowly, slowly, slowly the darkness creeps in. And Man sees her eyes in his mind, her body writhing, her pink scar turning blue, and he sees her letting go, her hands forming fists and folding over her chest, making peace with her end of days.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
Hound growls as Man rolls her body over, drags her next to her lover.
‘Shut up!’ snarls Man and the dog listens. Sits down on its hind legs, head hung low. ‘Don’t give me that look. It had to be done. I’ll make it right. I’ll give them their send off. Don’t you worry about that! Can’t just leave them here!’
Man picks the karambit off the floor, wipes it on Celeste’s t-shirt and puts it in his waistband. He walks back the smouldering camp fire and he can feels his hand starting to shake, worse than his grandfather’s used to when he developed the disease. He feels the bile, the salted globules forming in his gut, ready to make their way to the surface.
And he pukes. Violently, loudly, onto the ashen fire so that small cloudy puffs explode into the atmosphere, crowding his streaming eyes. He falls back on to the ground and his body convulses. He turns his head and sees Hound sniffing the sputum, licking cautiously and then eating it.
*******************
Man stands over a crying infant girl, a spade he found in the barn clamped in his right hand. He looks at her in confusion; not at why she is crying or what she wants or how to care for her. No, he’s done that before, prides himself on holding on to the knowledge. He’s confused at what to do with the child. He’s taken two lives today, two names wiped from the hell they now call Earth. He’s not keen on adding another.
Hound sits next to him, muzzle off, sniffing through a prison-like cot. His tail wags, circling as he savours the child’s scent. Man knows that dogs have always made great companions and guardians of families. But that was in another time. Hound is battle-hardened, bred to hunt and kill and savage. Man will keep them apart for the time being.
**********************
Man digs. A worn out spade thwacks against toughened earth. The job is taking longer than he expected.
Eventually he finishes, a wide shallow grave roughly a hundred yards into the forest. The corpses tumble in, Daniel and then Celeste, the latter falling face down on Daniel, arms open wide, ready for the everlasting embrace.
As he fills the grave in he whimpers under his breath, devastated at the world and the life he sees before him. Everything has changed so much since the lights went out and now, killing is the solution to everyday problems. Man knows that humans are primed for such action but after thousands of years of acting on instinct they had developed a sense of society and democracy. He knows that his ownspecies has evolved in such a way that it protests its base reactions and for most of these human creatures the regression has been hard, often fatal.
But necessary.
The bodies are covered with soil and man debates with himself as to whether or not he should mark the grave. He doesn’t want any ne’er-do-wells coming across a free meal. After a little deliberation he decides against it and trundles back to the farm house, Hound in tow, the spade clinking and jumping as it
hits against rocks. Man looks at the paddock, sees a row of cows, maybe eight, all hanging their heads over the wall, looking up at him one by one, their eyes hinting at scandal. Hound lunges to attack the beasts but is pulled back.
‘Stop that,’ says Man, the vigour in his voice having diminished. ‘Stop it, right now.’ Hound takes heed and stops, trots by Man’s side. Finally, after months of being on the run, of fighting the canine for its affection, they seem to be on a mutual ground. As he smiles, a thought smashes its way into his mind: they cannot stay at the farm for long. If he found the bloody place then his hunters will find it. He’ll stay a week, maybe two. It should give him enough time to decide what to do with the child.
********************
Man sits, eating. The sun has retreated and darkness has engulfed the land. Sat in an old, wooden high chair is the infant girl, crying a eulogy for her dead mother. Hound is tied to a table leg next to Man, a safe distance from the screaming youngster.
Only a few candles flicker in the darkness; the fire does not burn any longer. From a great distance, the orange glow of a wood fire can be seen. Man doesn’t want that. He only wants to eat and sleep in peace.
He managed to boil some rainwater over the fire while it was burning; he found a tank at the rear of the house. Although lukewarm, he drinks it, along with a mug of homemade beetroot wine.
As the rainwater was boiling he threw some root vegetables in, foraged from a multitude of patches past the barn. When the potatoes, turnip and carrots were soft, he mashed them up in a bowl, waited for them to cool and tried feeding the baby girl. Her face wrinkled and her mouth contorted as he attempted to plunge in spoon after spoon of mushed veg, most of it ending up on the floor.
Man holds his mug up, says ‘cheers’ to the little girl and drinks the purple wine. He hopes that like the dog, the child will relent. She’s young enough to be moulded into something else, young enough to forget about the warmth of her mother and father’s love. Man searched high and low to find a name for her but to no avail. A new life, a new name. That’s how it goes.