The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  After his death, Wakiza explained, his sister had been submerged into a state of loss and depression. Nothing could comfort her. But over the years, she began to feel less and less of the sting of losing him, slowly transforming back into her old self. He said she'd always been a kindhearted person who could win over the hearts of the cruelest people, and that was most certainly the case with the MacClery fellow. Ayita had forgiven him for his crimes, and shortly afterward, they'd fallen in love.

  Craving confirmation, Emma grasped Wakiza's forearm, and asked, "What's the boy's name?"

  "Samuel."

  "My aunt told me about him."

  "My nephew is the one who began the bloodline of your family, Emma," he said. "Not long after I lost our heirloom and was banished, your kind raided my village, killing everything and everyone in their path. Including Ahanu, who was far braver than I. Cowardly, I watched from a distance as he, along with my entire family, was slaughtered. Huts were burned with women and children still inside. Children were trampled by their horses as they tried to flee. Warriors were gunned down by weapons they would never possess. My sister was spared only for her youth and beauty. When I attempted to save what was left of my family, the palefaces took pity on me and spared my life." He cut his eyes toward the ceiling. "The men who took us. They asked me a question."

  "What'd they ask?"

  "One of the men spoke our language. He asked . . . he asked me something . . . something I wish I'd had the courage to answer truthfully." Wakiza paused. "He asked, 'Is this the land of your people? Or is it ours?' I knew they would kill her, or worse, so in fear, I answered, 'Yours.'"

  "You didn't have a choice."

  Ashamed, Wakiza ducked his chin, and whispered, "There's always a choice." Watching his sister and killer embrace, welcoming the child into the world, he continued. "We were sold to Cora and Daniel not long after. I've returned because someone felt I deserved a second chance. A second chance to do what I was unable to do before."

  "Like?"

  "Save my family." He smiled. "And you, Emma, you are my family."

  "So you believe if you can save me, you'll be forgiven?"

  "Yes. That's why I've been following you for so long. Why you've been able to see my footprints. You were able to see me as you were dying because you gave your fate to God."

  "Your shadow appeared because I let go?" Taking his nod as confirmation, she asked, "Am I gonna die then?"

  Grinning, he shook his head and placed his hand on Emma's shoulder, transporting them back to the red room: what she had thought of as her tomb. Together they stood, watching Roland struggle with his zipper.

  Distracting Emma, Wakiza grasped her chin, and softly kissed her cheek. Wiping a stray tear from Emma's face, he whispered, "You are of my blood, my kin. You bear the same warrior spirit of my tribe—your tribe. I will never again allow death to ensnare one of us so easily."

  Again, the switch was flipped and darkness surrounded her. Roland's breath weighed heavy upon her chest. The cries of the women became clearer. The pain Emma had endured before the blackout was returned to her in an instant. She felt everything, which meant she was alive.

  Eyes closed, Emma remembered her hand lay only inches from the cross. Strangely, her hand felt as though it were being lifted and then dropped. Peeking through the slits of her eyes, Emma saw the same boy whose reflection had appeared in the creek days ago.

  At first, the image was blurry, but soon his bare chest, camouflaged overalls, bright orange-red hair, and dimples came fully into view.

  "Momma, wake up. Please don't go. Don't go," the child pleaded before disappearing from sight.

  It was then that Emma felt the sharp, jagged, cool surface of an old tool in her right hand. Just as Roland pulled down his pants, Emma tightened her grip around the spear tip, and he noticed that she was alert.

  "What the hell?"

  As he reached for Emma's neck, an unseen force shoved her from his grasp. Emma's entire body remained limp and motionless. The only thing she was capable of was keeping the spear tip from being thrown from her. Roland was taken aback by Emma being pushed from left, right, then left again, but he was still able to deliver a punch to her face.

  Suddenly, Roland leaned to the left, but Emma's shoulders were pushed to the right. He failed to see her hand being lifted by the same invisible force and coming down onto his neck. The spear tip pierced his skin, and Emma's face and shoulders were splattered with blood. Roland hitting the floor made a loud thump, which seemed to have put an end to the crying in the corner. The sobs were replaced by the glorious, gurgling sounds of a cruel and sadistic man dying.

  In a state of shock, Emma watched as Roland bled out. The feeling of something resting upon her shoulders woke her. Turning her head, Emma saw two light-brown hands grasping her. Instead of his loincloth and bare feet, Wakiza was clothed in his brilliant moccasins and furs. Emma hoped to see Stella standing next to him, but instead, it was his brown, shaggy dog, Ahanu, wagging his tail.

  Kneeling beside her, Wakiza placed a consoling hand to Emma's cheek.

  "Stay strong," he whispered.

  What do I do now? Emma thought, as her bruised vocal cords prevented her from speaking.

  In response, Wakiza took the spear tip from her hand and traded it with Mary's cross. A second didn't go by before he slowly began to disappear. Fading away, he whispered, "Live," leaving her behind with a farewell smile. "Live because you must."

  Collecting herself, Emma made an effort to button what remained of her shirt, and clasp her overalls. When Emma had lost consciousness, Roland had nearly ripped the shirt from her body, but she was relieved to see her overalls still pulled up past her waist.

  Roland perished within seconds of Wakiza helping Emma stab him. Sprawled on the floor, he lay dead, clutching at the open wound she had caused. Struggling to her feet, Emma used Roland's body as a crutch. The taste of blood was still fresh in her mouth, accompanied by the wretched flavor of his snuff.

  In a mirror hanging above one of the dressers, she caught the reflection of an unrecognizable person. Disgusted, Emma noticed bite marks littering her ear. Her left eye was reddened, and the right was swollen shut from the punch Roland had been able to deliver. Stubbornly, Emma's hair stayed matted to the back of her skull. Numerous abrasions lined both sides of her neck, making the slightest movement painful.

  Turning her one good eye away from the ghastly image, Emma heard the cries begin again from the women sitting helpless in the corner. Huddled together, the mother continued to shield her daughter while keeping her eyes clamped shut.

  Trying to speak to them was excruciating. Emma's throat was throbbing and swollen. It felt as though it was on fire. Even whispering was difficult. Emma wasn't able to utter a single coherent peep.

  Emma retrieved her boots, and sat gently on the bed and winced at the twinge in her ankle. Somehow she had forgotton about the cut the spear tip had been gracious enough to leave behind. It was clear to her that she needed clean bandages, maybe even stitches.

  Soon Emma's old friend named Worry began settling in. Only a few minutes passed, and Emma felt someone dabbing gently at her wounded foot. The crying mother, who had shielded her daughter from the grisly scene, was equipped with a water bucket that Emma guessed she'd retrieved from the bathroom. The woman was no longer naked, having donned a rather large Texas Longhorns t-shirt. The woman didn't make eye contact as she eased Emma's foot into the cool water. When she did lift her eyes, they seemed filled to the brink with sorrow.

  "You should be dead," she whispered, analyzing the damage. "I didn't believe miracles existed anymore."

  The truth was, Emma wasn't angry with her or her daughter. She understood why the mother hadn't taken action. Helping Emma would have put the woman's life, along with her daughter's, in jeopardy.

  Despite the turmoil the mother and daughter had been forced to endure, their natural beauty could not be taken from them. Both had the same high cheekbones, brown hair, and s
uperb jawlines. But their eyes were their most beautiful feature. They were big and round, and electric blue.

  "My . . . my name is Eleanor. That's my daughter, Marion," she said, wrapping Emma's foot in cloth torn from the sheets.

  All Emma could do was point to her neck, hoping they'd understand she wasn't able to speak.

  "I figured he'd let you join the family, as he called it. Pretty sick idea of what a family should be, I'd say."

  Eleanor patched up Emma's wounds fairly quickly while still being gentle. She was kind enough to wet a rag so Emma could wash Roland's blood from her face. There was quite a bit of it; the entire rag was stained by the time she was finished.

  As Emma struggled to pull her boot over her ankle, she grimaced as the leather brushed against her freshly bound wound. Looking up, Emma watched as Marion snatched the boot from her grasp and then was touched as the women began easing it carefully onto her wounded foot. Kindness was the only thing they could offer Emma after all she'd gone through, and it was deeply appreciated.

  "I'm a nurse—used to be, anyway," Eleanor said. "I've learned that after someone's been strangled and lives to tell the tale, they have problems breathing, even speaking. I know it doesn't make what I did or didn't do right, but I hope you know we're sorry."

  The bruises and welts covering their bodies made it impossible for Emma to be angry with them. She hated not being able to tell them it was okay, so she gave them the only smile she could muster.

  Back on her feet, Emma realized her Aunt Mary's cross still rested in the palm of her hand. Placing the cross in its rightful place, Emma instantly felt recharged. Reenergized, she searched through the nightstands on either side of the bed. It wasn't a complete loss. On the right, she found a Swiss army knife, replacing her old one, and a pistol with only two rounds left occupied the left. Emma set the weapons on one of the nightstands, and continued to search—under the bed, through the closet, behind the toilet. Nothing.

  Just as disappointment began to consume her, Emma remembered where Maddox hid his spare rifle. Quickly she began throwing pillows from the bed, and cast the covers off as well. Finding nothing, she shoved her hands beneath the mattress. Frustrated when she came up with the same result, Emma pushed the entire mattress from its frame. Sitting directly in the middle was an AR-15 rifle equipped with a precision scope. Emma wouldn't be able to miss.

  Bo, Ethan, and Ansley were still downstairs. If they had any knowledge of Roland's death, Emma believed they would've been pounding on the door by this time.

  Pocketing the knife and slinging the rifle on her shoulder, Emma stood before Eleanor and Marion. The only way they were going to survive was if they did exactly what Emma said—or better yet, signaled—for them to do. They weren't of any use to her. The smart thing to do would be to leave them behind and try erasing the memory, but Emma's conscience would get to her, so leaving them behind to die was out of the question.

  Communication was the big issue. She couldn't say a word, so Emma simply handed Eleanor the pistol and signaled there were only two shots left. Pointing to her head, Emma tried conveying to them to use the remaining bullets wisely, but Marion's waterworks started up again. Eleanor focused on consoling her daughter as Emma tried not to cry herself.

  The rifle was loaded with only half a magazine left—more than enough, Emma believed, to get the job done. She didn't want to kill anyone else, but she couldn't see a way around it. Someone was going to die, and Emma would rather it not be her or the two innocent bystanders.

  Doolie had tried to prepare her. He had tried warning Emma of all of the things she needed to be prepared to do. He had asked, "Will you be able to inflict the same savagery that's inflicted upon you?" Foolishly, Emma had said she was prepared for anything, but she wasn't prepared for what she knew was coming.

  "You'll die, you know that," Eleanor stated as Emma opened the window. "When they find out what you've done, they'll kill you. They killed my husband just for defending us. What do you think they'll do to you? You've killed one of their own."

  Even if she'd been able to speak, Emma wasn't sure how to respond. Either they were going to get what was coming to them, or Emma was going to get what was coming to her.

  "Two eyes are better than one, you know," she said, stopping Emma halfway through the window. "You're going to need both of them." Sensing Eleanor had an idea forming, Emma stepped back inside of the room and motioned for the woman to finish her thought. "The blood's still forming beneath your skin. If you let me slit the flesh around the swelling, it'll go down and you'll be able to see."

  Nodding, Emma took the knife from her pocket and handed it over, thinking, What's a little more pain to a person who's already broken?

  The cut hurt, but the pain couldn't be compared to what Emma had previously experienced, and soon she was able to see. Using the bottom of her bright-orange shirt, Eleanor dabbed at the blood streaming down the side of Emma's face.

  "If we waited till it bruised over, this wouldn't have worked," she said as the blood flow slowed. "It's an oldie for sure, but it works."

  Mouthing "thank you" before climbing from the window, Emma signaled for them to stay put. Roland had locked the door, so they were as secure as they were going to be.

  The shingles on the second level had either been blown off or had been loosened by the storms. In some parts, this made it difficult to cross, so Emma searched for any sign of a good place to climb down. Having a clear view of the backyard, Emma spotted Ansley busy singing what he wrongly believed to be a country classic. It was Luke Bryan's, "Buzzkill." He didn't seem to be paying attention to anything but the fire on which he'd started to roast some of the dead fellow downstairs. Transfixed on the flames, he was only a follower. A slow one at that, but still, he might be the first to go.

  Emma eased to her stomach, and positioned the rifle. If it worked out the way she planned, after shooting dumbass number one, his buddies would come running to see what happened, and she would simply pick them off.

  Aiming the rifle, Emma's hands began to shake as fear, regrettably, sank in. This was different from how she killed his boss and the other two in the woods. When she'd taken their lives, they'd been trying to harm her. Ansley was just standing there singing his songs. Guilt and shame flooded Emma's lungs as she took a deep breath. Placing her finger on the trigger, pressure began brewing inside of her as she thought, Kill or be killed.

  Emma tightened her grip on the rifle, and slowly began squeezing the trigger. The countdown in Emma's head began: three, two, but then a shot was fired, but not by her hands. Emma had been aiming for his back. Ansley had been shot in the middle of his chest.

  Petrified, Emma watched as his body tipped over, falling dead before the roaring flames. Not a moment passed before more shots were fired. Keeping her head low, she could hear Bo screaming for help and then returning fire. Emma lay still until the shooting came to a halt. Bo's cries for help had ceased. Assuming him to be dead, that left Ethan and whoever had come to take what the cannibals had stolen.

  Anxious about being seen, Emma crawled around the roof to the other side of the house. A pipe wrapped in wisteria caught her eye. Investigating further, she found that it led to the ground. Hurriedly, Emma slung the rifle over her shoulder and began shimmying down. The amount of rust and sharp metal peeling from the pipe consistently cut Emma's hands as she went.

  Halfway down, her boot caught between the pipe and the house. As Emma focused on getting unstuck, Bo began yelling and cursing at the intruder.

  "Leave! Now! You motherfucker!" he screamed, firing two more rounds. "Go on!" Bo didn't have much longer to live, and he seemed fully aware.

  As Emma's foot was freed, her grip faltered. She landed flat on her back, and the wind was knocked from her. The impact of the fall slammed the rifle butt against her ribs. Lying there, trying to catch her breath, she heard stomping coming from inside of the house.

  Slowly, Emma eased herself up. On her knees, she situated the rifle for fire
. The tall grass made a shuffling sound with every move she made. Making it to the window was her goal. If she could just get to the window, she could sneak a peek inside and possibly see what she was up against.

  Whoever it was moved about the house, knocking over furniture, and stomping around with great purpose. Occasionally, Emma would hear them breaking glass. They seemed aggravated. Aggravated at what, was the question, but Emma wasn't going to be the one to ask them.

  Like the rest of the yard, the grass surrounding the window was overgrown, and needed for camouflage. Emma rested the barrel of the rifle on the windowsill. Fear of moving from the well-camouflaged area kept her firmly in place.

  All of the furniture had been turned over. The mirror hanging from the living room wall had been shattered, its glass scattered throughout the room. Bo's body was covered by the overturned couch. His brown eyes stared up at her, glazed over. He had been shot in the chest, Emma assumed, because the blood on the floor had spilled from that area of his body.

  The house wasn't as well lit as it had been before. Most of Eleanor's scented candles were turned over, like everything else. Only a few of them remained upright, lighting the small area of the house. The full moon kept the yard barely visible. The fire in the back caused that side to become illuminated, and the shadows of flames danced across the house. Due to the eerie visit in the night she had experienced, Emma half-expected them to turn into figures of people.

  Suddenly, their stomps grew louder. The excitement of it all coming to an end filled Emma's spirit as she placed her finger on the trigger. The target would have to walk past her line of fire. As Emma steadied the rifle, the intruder walked plainly into view. Keeping his back turned, he stood in the middle of the entranceway to the living room. This would've been the easiest trigger to pull if he hadn't started crying. Nonetheless, she knew he was dangerous even though he was weeping like a schoolgirl.