“Well, come with me. I’ve got some food in my truck. We’ll get you fed, and figure out what we’re going to do,” Tim said, smiling and standing up.
They walked silently back to where Tim had parked his truck, his instincts from Ranger School kicking in. Now, instead of the carbine slung over his back casually, he held it in the safe-ready position of a patrolling soldier, eyes constantly scanning ahead for threats. When they reached the truck, Tim retrieved an MRE packet and tossed it to Paul. He tore open the pack, and while he ate greedily, Tim looked him over. He was about 5’6”, and Tim towered over him at 6’ 2”. Paul was slight of build, with thick glasses. He was about thirty-five years old or so, bookish. He looked like he was probably a Mama’s boy, and most definitely scared out of his mind.
“So, what do you do, Paul? Or should I ask, what did you do?”
“I was a professor at Princeton, Applied Physics. I lived here with my mother. She died that night.”
Yep. Mama’s boy, Tim thought. He seemed like an okay guy anyway. At least he could maybe learn a few things from him, have an intelligent conversation. Couldn’t be all bad, he considered, mentally noting that Paul had been teaching at the same school at which Einstein had taught.
“What do you think happened?” he posed. It had been nagging at him for months, what exactly had happened, and the question just popped out.
“I’m almost positive it was a gamma ray burst,” Paul said, brushing back a lock of greasy hair from his eyes. “A gamma ray burst from where? I thought it was a neutron bomb at first, but the radiation levels were normal when I checked a day later.”
“A neutron bomb was a good guess, but they never made any. It was a star, a supernova, thousands of light years away. Did you see the bright star that was near Orion’s belt for weeks afterwards? I think that was it.”
“Yeah, I saw it, and thought that maybe that had something to do with it, but wasn’t sure.”
“I’m almost positive, that’s what it was,” Paul said assuredly, now discussing something that was comfortable to him. “But I can see what you mean about a neutron bomb.”
Rays from outer space sounded like something from a B-movie from the sixties. “Why didn’t it kill everything?”
“I think it might have been just a glancing blow. If it had been a direct hit, the Earth would be a smoking cinder right now,” Paul said, and it sent chills down Tim’s spine.
He went to the front of the truck and pulled on the cord strung out to the river. Out popped the six pack of beer he’d tossed into the cold water earlier.
“Want a beer?” he asked, popping the top on a cold can of Miller and smiling.
“Sure!” Paul took the offered can.
“There’s nothing like a cold beer on a nice afternoon,” Tim said, saluting his new friend with his own can.
After a long draught from the can, Paul asked, “So where have you been living?”
“At my house in Philly, got it pretty well stocked. I’ve just been out exploring, gathering things I’ll need.”
They talked for a few hours, drinking the beer, just small talk really. When they finished their last beer, Tim explained his plans for departing the city, and heading west. Paul agreed that that would be a good idea, as the bodies would really start decomposing in earnest soon. As the thought passed his lips, the slight breeze changed direction, and they could smell it already. Yes, they’d both have to leave the area soon.
“When did you plan on leaving?”
“In a few weeks, I’ve still got a few preparations to make. I figure about the middle of April or so. You’re more than welcome to come along, in fact, I insist!”
A grin split Paul’s face, showing off perfect teeth. “I’d love to go with you!”
“Good, it’s settled. You can stay at my place until we go.”
They got into the truck, and Paul directed him to where he’d been staying, a small “A” frame house off on a side street in the center of New Hope. Tim pulled up in front of the place, and Paul got out.
“Get what you need, and we’ll head to my place.”
“Right now?” Paul asked. He looked a little frightened.
“Yeah, now. Grab what you want and we’ll head out.”
“I… I really ought to say goodbye. My mother, she’s buried out back…” He trailed off.
“Do you really want to do that? What about those guys you told me about?”
“They only really come out at night. I’ve been able to hide from them so far. One more night shouldn’t hurt. Can you come back for me tomorrow?
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Paul. If you want to stay the night, why don’t I stay here with you?”
Paul shook his head. “No, I think I should be okay for one night. I just want a little privacy for a while, to say goodbye, and gather up some things. You go, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I really don’t like this. We really should stick together,” Tim said, thinking he really needed to protect this guy. But if that’s what he wanted, he couldn’t force him, could he? And he had survived this long by himself. What was one more night?
“Well, I don’t want to argue with you. If you really feel like you’ll be okay for the night, I’ll come back tomorrow. You sure you don’t want a gun? I can give you mine.”
“No, Tim. I’ll be okay,” he said. “I really have something to live for now! I’ll hide really well tonight.”
“I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” Tim said, and Paul waved, turned, and bounded into the house.
Tim shook his head, not liking it one little bit, but put the truck into gear and pulled away. He really should have insisted on staying with him, but he did respect the guy’s desire for a little privacy. He drove back to Philadelphia, his mind in conflict. He really should just turn around and head back. But Paul had insisted, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and so he continued on home.
Tim stopped at a camping store, got another folding cot and a nice sleeping bag for Paul. When he got to his house, he set the cot up opposite his near the wood stove, and lit a fire. It was still getting chilly at night, and the wood was almost gone. He could go and get more, but they’d be leaving in a few weeks, so it would be a wasted effort. Making supper, he scratched his face again. He was getting pretty shaggy. His hair was far too long for his liking, and the beard was starting to annoy him. After supper was eaten and the mess cleaned up, he stripped to the waist, washed and shaved. He felt almost human, but he’d have to do something with his hair.
With that thought in mind, he sat on his cot, took off his boots and dropped off to sleep thinking about his newfound friend, hoping he was alright. It was the first time since The Event that he’d fallen asleep without the help of John Barleycorn, and he drifted off to a dreamless slumber, the sounds of an approaching early thunderstorm echoing off empty buildings.
Tim awoke before the sun the next day, and almost felt giddy, like a child on Christmas morning. He got dressed hurriedly, eschewing breakfast. He’d make a late brunch for Paul and himself when they got back, he reckoned. Grabbing the M4, he went out to the truck and looked up at the sky. There was a steady drizzle of warm rain, and he heard the distant rumble of thunder, but didn’t see any lightning. The streets were pooled with water, and he figured drainage was going to start being a problem soon without the Department of Streets cleaning the debris from the storm grates.
Leaving the city behind in the growing daylight, he meandered up River Road, along the Delaware River. The storm that had come through last night must have been a pretty good one, he thought. The river was up over its bank and was running fast, churning with brown mud. Quite a bit different than the serene blue flow of yesterday. He rounded one bend in the road and slammed on his brakes. A huge tree had been downed overnight by the storm, leaving it lying across the road, completely blocking his passage.
He turned the truck around, thinking about putting a chainsaw in the truck, for this very purpose. That�
�d be on the list of things to get, later on in the day. He had to backtrack all the way to Yardley and over through Buckingham to get back on River Road, and it took him far more time than he wanted to take.
It was almost ten AM when he pulled into New Hope, and the town being as small as it was, it was easy to remember where Paul’s house was. A cold chill went down his spine when he pulled up and saw that the front door was hanging wide open and every pane of glass in the front of the house was shattered.
“Oh shit,” he whispered.
M4 in hand, he was looking at the house when a mountain of a man came out holding a pump-action shotgun in one hand and a half empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s in the other. They saw each other at the same time and the man dropped the bottle, saying something Tim didn’t hear, bringing the shotgun to bear.
Tim dropped below sight, taking cover behind the truck bed as the man let off a blast, which went wide and hit the far side of the truck. Instincts taking over, Tim popped up from his side of the truck, flipping the safety on the carbine to three-round burst. Seeing the big man rack the slide of the gun, loading another round, Tim squeezed the trigger easily when the man’s center of mass entered his sight picture. The carbine rattled off three rounds rapidly, and the tat-tat-tat of the 5.56mm rounds gave out a higher pitched bark than that of the louder shotgun.
All three rounds hit the big man right where Tim wanted them— center of his barrel chest. The guy’s legs gave way and he fell backwards, dropping the shotgun. Tim rounded the truck in a flash, aiming the carbine at the still body on the ground. It had been an easy shot, only about ten yards or so. Kicking the shotgun away from the dead man’s hand, he bounded the five steps up the front porch and took cover behind the doorjamb. Peering around the frame, he didn’t see anyone, and he took a second to think about his next action. He peered slowly around the doorjamb into the house. He could see an empty living room, decorated in what looked like, early 20th Century American Matron. There was an explosion of handmade lace and fussy, uncomfortable furniture.
“Hey, Dwayne, what are you shooting at? You okay?” a voice called down from the upper floor.
No, Dwayne is not okay, Tim thought. He’s laying out in the front yard, with a ventilated chest. The decision was made for him when he saw a pair of feet in grungy work boots start down the stairs. He brought his M4 up to the ready as the second man descended. When his knees were visible, Tim took aim and let out another three round burst, hitting the man twice in the legs. He tumbled face first down the rest of the stairs with a loud yell, dropping a handgun in the process.
Tim rushed in, pointing the carbine at the face down figure, who was screaming in pain. Kicking the gun away from where it lay on the floor near the second man’s hand, Tim stepped over him, and bounded up the stairs two at a time, the muzzle of the M4 leading the way. On reaching the top landing, he caught movement on his right. A medium-sized man stood in the doorway to a bedroom with his trousers around his ankles, holding a large knife.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man demanded angrily.
“The Angel of Death,” Tim replied in an ice-cold voice, and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle was so close to the man’s face that the flash engulfed it, and the three-round burst hit, turning his head into a crimson mist of bone and brain matter that sprayed out behind him in a red fountain. The body fell backwards through the doorway and landed with a thump. He was dead before his body hit the ground, the big bowie knife rattling on the floor. Tim stepped over it, entered the room, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Paul had been stripped naked and tied face down on a bed. It looked like he’d been sodomized repeatedly. Burn marks from cigarettes were all over his back and buttocks. So much blood… he saw. The lower part of the bed was drenched in it. There were several empty liquor bottles lying around. They’d probably raped him with those too. His anger boiled over as he went to the head of the bed. A small groan erupted from the still form. He’s still alive! his mind screamed.
“Paul, can you hear me? It’s me, Tim.” He came closer to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress.
“I… I knew… you’d come… back for me…”
“Ah fuck, Paul! I’m so sorry!”
“It’s okay now, Tim. You’re here now.”
Tim took out a pocket knife to cut away the cords that bound Paul to the bed.
“Paul, they’re gone now. They won’t hurt you anymore,” he said, tears welling up in his eyes. He knew Paul wouldn’t survive. There was too much blood lost. Sure, maybe if there had been a doctor, and a good hospital to get him to… but that wasn’t going to happen, not now.
“We’ll get you out of here. We’ll go away together.”
“Island…” Paul whispered.
“What was that, buddy, an island?”
“Go to an island, far away. Be safe…”
“Sure! That’s it! We’ll go to an island and be safe!” Tim said. He sat back down on the bed and pulled Paul up into his lap, brushing his shaggy hair out of his eyes. He’d seen the look before, his life was slipping away. Tim’s frustration grew, as he knew there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
“I knew you’d come back for me…” Paul said quietly.
Tim saw that he’d bitten through his tongue at some point during his assault. “Those fucking animals....” He looked down at Paul and saw something in his eyes. Hope… but that was a lost cause, he knew.
“You’re going to be okay, buddy.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yeah, I promise.”
“We’ll go to an island?” Paul said, his eyes drifting away.
Tim followed his gaze to an old 1950’s framed travel poster on the far wall. It was a travel advertisement for the South Pacific featuring snow-white beaches, and coconut palms. The water was an unbelievable shade of turquoise.
“You got it, Paul. We’ll go to the island. I promise.” Tim took Paul’s hand and looked back down at him. Paul was smiling back at him. “I’d love to take you to that island, Paul. We’ll leave today, in fact.” Paul smiled, one more time, and Tim could see the last vestiges of life drain from him. With one last deep gasp, Paul died in his arms. Tim sobbed uncontrollably for a while. When he regained his composure, he closed Paul’s lifeless eyes, gently laying the lifeless form back onto the bed.
Tim picked up his rifle, and headed back down stairs, where he found mutt number two still lying on the floor at the foot of the steps, bleeding all over a handmade Persian rug and whimpering like a baby. He stepped over him and looked down. His eyes were feral and pleading.
“Man! You gotta help me! It fucking hurts so bad, man! Please!”
“Help you? You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” Tim said.
“Help meeeeeeeee! My leg don’t work, man!”
“You just killed my friend, what makes you think I would help you?”
“You gotta help me! I got rights!”
“Rights? You don’t have any fucking rights!” Tim sneered.
“You’re in the Army right? You have me as your prisoner, so you gotta help me! Geneva Convention and all that shit man! You gotta!”
“Tell you what, pal. I don’t have to do anything,” Tim said. He reached down and grabbed the scruff of the mutt’s collar, dragging him unceremoniously out the door and down the porch steps, his bad leg bouncing with an accompanying shriek on every step. Tim dragged him over to the lifeless form of his former partner and dumped him, his face inches away from mutt number one.
“You gotta help me, man!” he yelled when he saw his friend’s lifeless eyes staring back at him.
“I don’t know if you’ve realized yet in your tiny little mind that there is no Geneva Convention, no Constitution, no due process and no Bill of Rights anymore.”
“You gotta help me man! Please!” he moaned.
“What there is now is Tim’s Law.” He’d known pieces of shit like this all his life, they were nothing more than bullies.
Whether it was
in a classroom, on a playground or more formally, like terrorists and brutal regimes, no matter what you called it, it was bullying. Subjugating the weak for gain, pleasure, or both. Tim held them in total contempt. The husband who beat his wife and kids after coming home drunk from the bar was no different than a dictator who held power over a nation by fear. They took what they wanted, and left in ruins everything they touched, even people.
“What the fuck is Tim’s Law?”
Tim smiled broadly. “That’s where I am judge, jury and executioner. It’s pretty simple, really, and there are no lawyers to fuck it up.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I can do this,” Tim said, matter-of-factly. He pulled out his .45 auto, thumbed off the safety, and pointed the muzzle right at the mutt’s face.
The man held up his hands in defense and wailed, “Noooooooooo! You can’t kill me! I got rights!”
“You know something? You’re right, I’m not going to kill you!” And with that he lowered the muzzle down to the mutt’s stomach and squeezed the trigger. The pistol barked once, and the mutt let out an Ooof and screamed in agony.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Tim asked, squatting down to be closer to the mutt’s face. “Yep, learned a long time ago stomach wounds are really painful. And it takes a long time to die. It’s a very slow, agonizing death. I’ve heard stories about how during the Civil War, soldiers on both sides would lay awake at night, unable to sleep because of the sounds of the shrieks and moans of the gut shot soldiers lying in the battlefield. They’d last for days, writhing in pain.” Tim stood up, still looking down at the piece of garbage at his feet.
Screaming now, clutching his stomach, the man screeched, “Help meeeeeeee! Oh God it fucking hurts!”
“In Vietnam, the Viet Cong would take a prisoner, a village chief or someone that they wanted to make an example of. They’d string them up in the center of the hamlet and slice them open from their groin, to their solar plexus, letting their intestines and other guts fall out. Then, while they were still alive, they would let the pigs eat the guts. Yeppers, pal. Not a real pretty way to go.” Tim looked up, and saw a few turkey vultures circling. “Yeah…you ain’t going to go quick.”
One Man's Island Page 8
