The Wretched

by R. James Faulkner

  “Hey there.”

  She turned toward the voice. Shock kept her from running, even though her mind screamed it.

  Run, just run.

  6

  She pulled at the handle again and got the same rigid stubbornness. Angela wiped her wet, bloody hands down the front of her pants to dry them. It refused to move, no matter how many times they tried to pull it free. Each attempt, with muffled screams, made his complexion fade more. He placed his forearm over his mouth as she tried again. She gripped the handle, tugged, and watched him fight the urge to shout aloud from the pain. Mike patted her hand and spoke between gasps for air.

  “Stop…just stop,” he said. “I can’t take anymore.”

  They both sat in silence and looked at the knife sticking from his chest. Sweat dripped from his chin. Mike grabbed the handle with his shaking hand and made one last attempt to wiggle it free. His hand slipped from it and fell limp onto his lap. He clenched his teeth as he exhaled a long slow breath. Mike looked at her face. He saw the worry in her eyes and gave her a weak smile. She wiped the sweat from his brow as she stared back at him. His face was bone white.

  “What do I need to do?” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Oh, let me rest a moment, Angela,” Mike said. “Just let me catch my breath. I need to catch my breath.”

  “We have to get that out,” she said. “Mike, we have to, before they find us.”

  She wiped at his forehead again and ran her fingers through his wet hair to pull it from his face. Angela looked around the kitchen for something to catch her eye, anything that would be of use. The wear-shined floor was bare, the cabinet doors had been left ajar, and a thick layer of dust covered everything. This house was like the dozens they had been in before, ransacked and worthless. The smell of his blood hung in the air. It made her stomach feel unsettled. His breathing had become shallow, and his head hung close to his chest. Angela lifted it to look into his eyes. She saw his dilated pupils.

  “Stay awake, Mike,” she said. “Do you hear me? I need you to stay awake.”

  The small slits of his eyelids twitched and half opened. He tried to smile again for her, to let her know he was still alive.

  “Just let me rest, losing my strength…” His words slurred as they tapered off to a whisper.

  Angela remained knelt beside him, waiting for him to get up from the floor. She begged him to stand up so they could continue on their way. Outside came the noise of footsteps on gravel. She got to her feet, raised her body up, and looked over the counter out the dirty window. The shape of a man stood on the strip of the grass in the middle of the gravel driveway. Angela tried to figure out if his head pointed in her direction. As soon as she saw his head move, she squatted back down from sight. She squeezed her eyes together and cursed herself. If she had remained motionless, not ducked from view, the man might not have noticed her.

  Seconds passed as she pressed her body closer to the cabinets, attempting to hide. The loud creaks outside of the boards on the porch disclosed the approach the man. She held her breath while covering Mike’s mouth with her shaking hand. Tense moments passed as she waited. The creaking of the boards drew closer to the window. A shadow formed on the floor. It became ever larger, spreading across, darkening where the light reflected from the smooth surface of the brown wood. The shadow stopped growing, and within a heartbeat, it receded. She heard the loud sound of the man’s boots landing on the porch boards as he retreated.

  He saw Mike’s feet.

  Mike’s legs stuck out in front of him, bathed in the bright sunlight, anyone could have seen them when looking in the window. She jumped upright, leaned over the counter, and peered from the glass. Angela tried to figure out which way the stranger had gone. Her mind raced as she paced the floor. Mike was in no condition to run, and he could not fight.

  They are coming.

  Angela shook Mike’s shoulders. He lifted his head with a strained effort. Bloody drool dripped from his bottom lip. His head fell back to his chest. She pleaded with him.

  “You’ve got to get up,” she said. “They found us. He’s going to get the others. Please, Get up. I can’t fight them alone.”

  He tried to lift his head but had no strength left, only a weak gurgling cough came as a response. Angela grabbed him under his arms and pulled him forward in an effort to lift him. His body was limp, a moaned cry came from his mouth. She tried dragging him away from the spot where he leaned against the cabinet. Mike fell over onto his side. His head hit the floor, bounced once, and came to rest without a reflexive response.

  I can’t leave him. I can’t leave…Oh god, I have to leave him.

  Her movements were hasty and anxious. She cast a quick glance through the window, stepped out the door, and ran to both ends of the long back porch. After a quick scan in the distance for any movement, Angela rushed back inside the house and locked the door behind her. She looked for something to use as a barricade but found nothing. Her mind buzzed with panic. The sight of Mike lying in a small pool of his blood caused her to cry.

  Oh. God, please. This can’t be it. It can’t be. Not now. I need him.

  She made one last attempt to pull him to a hiding place. The weight of his ragdoll body was too heavy for her to slide but only a few feet. He did not make a sound as she tugged on his legs to move him. Angela gave up and knelt over him. She looked into his open eyes as he blinked with sluggish movement. He was oblivious to the present danger. She leaned over him, kissed his lips, and lingered just enough time to speak a few words into his ear. Angela pulled the metal lighter from his front pants pocket. She stood and ran to the front door. Bright light flooded in as she swung it open. Her feet touched the grass past the stone and mortar steps as a truck came like a dust devil on the dirt road in front of her.

  She turned sharp to the right and tried to run from them. Her mouth opened and a long distorted scream escaped her throat. It was an involuntary action. Panic controlled her. She was unaware of which direction she ran.

  A baseball bat struck her forehead, blinding her with a flash of light. Her head snapped backward from the force. She landed on the hard ground with her back. The air fled from her lungs as she slammed to the earth. A pair of hands covered in filth and dried blood reached for her face. It was the last thing she saw before darkness pulled her into a silent embrace.

  7

  Charlie began the same way he always began. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and stretched his arms back behind his body. When he felt his shoulders pop, relieving the tension, he stopped and adjusted his tattered jacket.

  He walked from the road and down a long gravel driveway that ended in front of an abandoned house. The white vinyl siding stood out in vivid contrast to the blacks and browns of the surrounding trees. Dead vines clung to the porch railing and spiraled up the supporting posts. Charlie sighed as he looked the place over. He had hoped there would be more.

  Dead grass scrubbed against his pant leg as he walked toward the painted steps. Charlie tried the door handle. It was not a surprise to find it locked. He rubbed the grime from the small window of the door and peered into the darkness on the other side of the plate glass. He glanced over his shoulder before kicking the rough and weather aged wood below the handle. It produced a solid thud when his heel met it. In the distance, a startled bird called out as it flew from a tree branch.

  He stepped to the end of the porch and leaned over the railing. The sky was growing dim, and the temperature had fallen several degrees. He let out a puff of breath to see the steam. The air around him threatened it would be another cold night. He wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve and stepped from the porch. Charlie hunted around the storage shed close to the house for something to use. He found a piece of rusted pipe standing beside the corner of the building.

  The back door of the house had nine panes of glass that shattered with little effort. Charlie reached through the opening, unlocked the door, and pushed his way inside. The house was old
. It creaked and groaned with every step he made as he searched the three small rooms. The dwelling appeared to be vacant for a long while.

  There was nothing edible in what served as the kitchen side of the largest room. An old metal bed frame sat next to the far wall. There was no mattress over the crosshatch of metal strands that made the bottom. He found a pile of old clothes in the corner of the smallest room and spread them over the thin wires. His backpack would serve as a pillow.

  He tried it out and found it more comfortable than the hard ground. It was also better to shiver inside a house than it was to shiver huddled under a tree. Anything was better than shivering under a tree. Ben came to his mind, and he laughed to himself.

  Where are you, Brother Ben? Have you found what you were looking for?

  He chuckled at the thought of his brother, lost, crying at the side of the road their father told them to travel. Charlie did not believe Ben could make it far on his own. He was fragile, nervous, and unable to fend for himself.

  He offered his brother true freedom. An alternative to his father’s plan, one that would not have them groveling to the authorities in Jackson for protection that may not exist. Ben made his choice when he ran away. He would have to live with that decision.

  Charlie sat up on the bed and screamed at the walls. He heard a mouse scurry behind the peeling paint of the wallboards. It made him smile. He liked the world the way it had become. The state of things suited him. He reveled in the chaos.

  The cold air made his teeth chatter. Charlie stood, grabbed an overturned side table from the floor, and smashed it into small pieces. He discovered an old phone book as he piled the wood on the floor. It would serve as tinder. Numb fingers made the work difficult.

  He planned to set it alight for warmth, but when he held the flame of the lighter close to it, he changed his mind. Charlie did not want to burn the house down around him. The thought made him giggle at first. It faded as he realized he had no way to get warm other than by a fire.

  Charlie lit the pages and grabbed his backpack from the bed. The orange glow lit the way as he left the house. He sat on his backpack a fair distance away as the yellow and orange tongues caressed the wood. The flames glinted in his eyes as they grew and swelled from the windows and doors. Fire amazed him with its power to change things into nothing but ash and smoke.

  Under the spell of its hypnotic movements, Charlie danced around on the ground in a circle, chanting various lyrics of songs he remembered. He mimicked the dances of the Native Americans he saw in countless westerns until the flames died down. Dawn broke the horizon, and he left the burnt house. It was an exhilarating experience. One he wished he could have shared with his weaker brother.

  He walked the roadway in no particular hurry. The sun’s warmth felt good on his skin as he strolled along. His father had warned them to keep to the road he traveled. He said it was the most direct route to follow toward Jackson. At the first available highway, Charlie planned to turn west. He wanted to live like a cowboy, on the untamed land, hunt for his food, and be a real man.

  Several miles passed as he daydreamed of his new life. He caught sight of someone standing in the middle of the lanes a few hundred yards ahead and stopped to look at them. It was a woman. She appeared to be much older than his mother was. The woman was nothing more than skin and bones wearing a thin light pink nightgown. He listened to her sobbing. She swayed back and forth with her arms wrapped around her body. A red metal gasoline can sat on the highway at her feet.

  Charlie studied her for a while, not moving closer on the roadway. He knew she was sick by the strange movements she made. The woman jerked her upper body backward and lifted her chin straight up in the air. When it seemed as if she would topple over from the extreme angle of her pose, she opened her mouth and shouted at the sky. Her scream was short, yet louder than she seemed able to produce. She lowered her chin until it rested against her collarbones and the cycle repeated.

  Her wailing made him cringe each time. He sat on the cold asphalt. Captivated by her, he found he could not turn away. The sight of her movements excited him. Charlie wondered what happened to make her react in such a mysterious way. The sun fell lower in the overcast sky as he observed her with growing fascination.

  He considered what he was doing, sitting on the road, staring at the woman. Charlie realized he was not simply watching her. He was witnessing her. The act she was performing was a ritual, and he was the singular witness to the ceremony. Charlie stood and walked towards her. He wanted to contribute to her practice, to be more than a bystander.

  Every faith has a disciple. Every disciple has a faith. She needs an apostle to carry her word into the world.

  The woman quit moving when she caught sight of Charlie. She wrapped her arms tighter around her body as he came closer. He saw the look in her eyes and stopped a dozen feet from her. The woman moved her mouth, speaking in a low whisper, as he strained to hear her words. He held his hands out in front of him to show her he was not a threat.

  “Hello,” he said.

  She lowered her head and turned her body away from him. Charlie took a step closer. The scent of the woman reached his nostrils. He fought the urge to vomit. It was the smell of death. He wondered if she had eaten from the corpse of a dead animal. The powerful odor kept him at a distance from her, but it did not diminish his interest.

  “My name is Charlie,” he said. “I saw what you were doing.”

  She turned her head toward him. He smiled and nodded his head while keeping his hands held out in front of him.

  “I liked it. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

  The woman smiled and lowered her arms. She wiped at her eyes with her thin dirt-caked fingers. He moved closer and circled her. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, savoring the muse before him.

  “I want to help you,” he said. “I want to see what you are. To see what you want to do. What you want to become.”

  Charlie flashed a wide grin. He stopped walking and clasped his hands over his nose and mouth. He took a deep breath and exhaled in a long fashion. The woman smiled back at him. She squatted down and lifted the gasoline can from the road. Charlie stepped around her with slow, steady strides. He did not want to miss a single moment of her miracle.

  Her feeble hand twisted the cap free. It landed on the asphalt with a light metallic rattle. Charlie rejoiced as she lifted the metal container over her head and poured the liquid on her scalp. He clapped with delight.

  When the last of the gasoline flowed from the can, she placed it back on the road and took a box of matches from her gown pocket. Charlie stepped back and raised his hands high above his head.

  “Yes,” he said. “This is yours. You will be reborn. I will witness your reincarnation.”

  “I am the light,” she said.

  She pulled out a match and ran it along the side of the box. Soaked with the gasoline, it did not strike. The woman looked at it for several seconds before her expression changed to confusion. Charlie noticed the sudden shift. He let out a loud, irritated sigh.

  “You can’t stop now,” he said.

  She glanced from the matchstick toward him and back to the box in her hand. It was clear something occurred to her, and she dropped the cardboard box. Her lips quivered as she tried to wipe the gasoline from her skin with her hands. Charlie reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his lighter. Her eyes widened when she looked at it, and she shook her head. He took a step forward, and she moved several feet back from him. Panic set in and she knelt down on the hard surface of the highway, covering her chest with her arms. Charlie stared down at her. He felt a slight disgust at the sight of her in the most vulnerable position she could have taken. She was not the prophet, he thought, she was the lamb.

  “And lambs are sacrificed,” he said.

  She lifted her head enough to meet his eyes. Her fuel soaked hair clung to her gaunt face. The stinging fluid made her eyes red. Charlie thought it made her all the more i
mpressive. He squatted in front of her and reached out to touch her trembling shoulder.

  “You can’t stop,” he said. “I need to see what you will become.”

  She smiled but hesitated to move. He patted her bony shoulder and nodded his head in reassurance. The woman stood upright on her knees and spread her arms out from her side. Charlie stepped back from her and waited for her body to reach the final position.

  “I am the light,” she said and tilted her head back to look at the sky.

  Charlie struck the lighter and touched the flame to the splashes of gasoline on the road. Yellow flames swelled around him and over the blacktop. He jumped away as the fire raced back to the gasoline can. The heat from the blaze that danced across the woman’s body forced him to move farther from her. He envied the woman and her transformation. She was becoming more than she was before. Charlie watched in unblinking captivation.

  The screams faded as her body fell forward. She attempted to crawl on the blacktop, but the fire made her muscles seize. Her life ended, body contorted, on the cold, unforgiving asphalt. He cried for her, for her sacrifice, for her gift to him. She allowed him to witness her and he appreciated the honor. He thought to say some words over her body but decided it would diminish her miracle.

  Afternoon faded into dusk, and he hunted for a place to sleep for the night. His head hurt from a continual throbbing headache that refused to ease. He attributed it to the fumes from the gasoline. For a long while, after he found a suitable camping spot, he sat on the edge of the road and looked at her body. Her form remade, perfected by flame. She was a testament to the world, the new world, and he intended to spread her gospel to all that would hear.

  8

  Ben woke to a light frost that covered the ground. He heard nothing around him but remained hidden in the sleeping bag for the rising sun to give more light. He felt the urgent call of his bladder while he waited for the sun to come over the horizon. Ben needed the warmth of a fire. He could no longer feel his toes, his body shivered in uncontrollable fits. His shuddering movements made the camouflage of leaves and branches useless. If someone did not see him, he was sure they would hear him. The temperature dropped to a bitter cold over the night. It was more than he was accustomed to.