The Wretched

by R. James Faulkner

  Burn you bastards…burn here before you burn in hell…burn forever…

  The heat intensified. She pressed her right hand down on the knob and used the inside of her left elbow to turn it. Air rushed past her to feed the flames. Angela crossed the stone and mortar steps again and onto the dead grass of the front lawn. This time there were no pursuers. She stumbled onto the dirt road and turned to her right, looking back to make sure of the fact she was not being followed. The windows and doors of the house billowed flames and smoke into the clear blue morning sky. A screaming figure with flames trailing from its body fell from the back porch of the house. It lit the surrounding grass ablaze. She tried to quicken her steps when she realized the house was in the middle of a large overgrown field.

  A wonderful sight awaited her as she walked past a small wooden shed. They had parked their truck behind it to hide it from view. She opened the door by lifting the handle with her thumbs. The keys were still in the ignition. It took some time to figure out how to crank it by biting the key with her back teeth and moving her head sideways. She pulled the shifter down into the forward gear, pressed her foot on the pedal to the floorboard, sending up a cloud of dust behind the truck as she turned onto the dirt road.

  Angela drove past the fire-engulfed house, turning to see a blackened body as it ran from the front door. She did not stop until she had gone fifteen miles, heading east on a blacktop road. When she parked the truck and got out, she stood in front of a looted pharmacy. The sun was still high in the sky. Before the past few days or weeks of being inside that house, she would have steered clear of any buildings. She would have made Mike search for the supplies instead. But that was then, now Mike was no longer with her, she would have to do it for herself.

  She walked inside over broken glass and strewn greeting cards and grabbed a shopping cart that sat beside a cashier counter. Angela pushed through the fallen items in the aisle ways, gathering bandage materials from the floor. She found sports drinks and a large pack of bottled water. To open the bottle of blue colored liquid was challenging, she cried in frustration, but it was well worth the effort. Her body reacted immediately to the fluids going into it. She was able to walk better, her hands still lacked full function, but her thumbs and index fingers regained some strength. A selection of t-shirts was scattered on the tile floor, she grabbed a handful and tossed them into the cart.

  She looked at the shelves until she found shoes. The variety was limited, and no one had disorganized them as they had everything else in the store. She found a pair her size, tried to pull them on, gave up, and dropped them into the cart as well. The door that blocked access to the medicine had been broken in, and the ax they used lay on the floor in front of it. The ax joined her collection. She hunted through the jumble of pill bottles that littered the floor. Once she had been a nurse’s aide, able to quit when her husband did well by trading stocks. The knowledge of the different types of pills still memorized, proved useful, she gathered more than she would need for a long time. Her thinking was that she did not have a clue what might happen next. If something horrible happened again, or she could no longer go on, she wanted to be able to take the biggest handful of pills she could get down her throat.

  Just say to hell with it.

  Angela picked among the unwanted food items she found on the littered floor. The dirty tile floor was covered with loose candies, bags of chips, and dry packages of flavored pasta noodles. Spread about was a large amount of tuna in small cans. She guessed no one liked tuna anymore. When she had scrounged for what she thought she needed, she pushed the cart to the truck and loaded all of it into the cab with great effort.

  She managed to open a bottle of pain pills. Angela wedged the plastic top into the doorjamb of the truck and pushed the door shut, crushing the lid off. After taking a few of them, she redressed her wrists, poured iodine over them and applied clean bandages. She tried to pull a shirt on her naked top, and it sent sparks of pain from her breasts. Stuck on the end of each nipple was a small metal disk, she turned the truck door mirror so she could see them. Angela grasped the one on her left side with her fingers and tried to remove it. The disk did not come off, so she caught her thumbnail under it and tried to pry it free. She realized it was not a metal disk. They had stuck nails straight into her breasts through her nipples. She cried as she stared at them in disbelief, unsure what to do.

  Her hands shook with violent trembles as she tried to pull them free. Her nerve endings were on fire. The pain was immense, the nails held tight by her skin made progress slow. When she finally removed both of the two-inch long nails and dropped them to the concrete, blood poured from the holes left behind. Her only option was to hold some shirts against them by pulling the first one on and stuffing the others under it. She swallowed antibiotics, chewed another pain pill, and got inside the truck. She planned to follow the road until she found a river, then she would do what Mike told her they would do together. Get a boat and float down the water until she found a yacht at the coast. After that, she would sail to the Bahamas.

  It was at least better than sitting in the parking lot waiting for the sun to go down. She cranked the truck and left the parking lot. With no clue as to where to go, or even how long it would take, Angela drove south until she was out of the town. She had trouble reading the signs on the roadside. She did not care though as the pills had begun their work. The warm sensation crawled its way over her body. Angela fought to keep her eyes open, her head nodded, and she returned to the soothing darkness of the void.

  19

  Frank pushed the cart to the top of a small hill. He drank enough liquor that he stumbled as he walked. He knew his limit and often overreached it. One last swig and he placed the bottle back into the basket. The call of his bladder made him stagger to the edge of the road to seek relief on a tuft of grass. As he emptied himself on the dead grass, he turned his head toward a strange sound. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Maybe it was his mind hesitating. He stood, unmoving, as a truck drove past him and into the ditch. It stopped abruptly with the horn blowing when it hit a small oak tree. The truck was close to running him over, its mirror had slapped his chest as it went by. The horn continued to blow its single loud note.

  What the hell?

  He pulled his handgun out and stood looking at the truck. The fact he did not hear it until it was too late made him upset. He eased up to the passenger door, gun held ready to shoot anything that moved. When he looked inside, he saw a woman slumped over in the seat, head against the steering wheel. He figured she was gone to the sickness. When he saw the fresh bandages on her, he changed his mind. Frank was conflicted by it. Should he pull her from the truck and shoot her, or just leave her to die on her own?

  What to do? What…to…do…

  Night swallowed the world. He lit a fire, large and warm. The crackle and sizzling of wet wood in the blaze played a song for him to hear. He sat a can of stew beside the coals and gathered more wood. To break the long pieces he stomped on them, the loud noises sounded like gunshots. His thoughts flowed to the man who called himself Theo. He considered the man’s purpose in the world, chasing, visible, and single sighted. With his prying questions of what happened, the invasive nature of them and the last question, the unanswered one. Frank stood and stared into the flames, lost within silent reflection.

  He was not sure how long he stood, caught inside his head. The can of stew had scorched on one side, the smell of burning meat gravy filled the air. He waited to hear the talk from the men in the woods. Nothing. Not even a single word spoken in a hushed argument. He stepped to the trees, and peered into the darkness. He strained to hear, but the only sound was his fire.

  “Hello.”

  He spoke into the pitch-black shadows, waiting to hear a response. The smell of burning stew called him back to tend the fire. Frank was confused at the sudden absence of his tag along puppies. Maybe they were indeed mourning, perhaps they were lost without the one-eyed leader.

  Like the blin
d leading the blind, and the dumb talking to the deaf.

  Visions of the ragged men perpetually walking in a circle around the dead body made him smile. He chuckled to himself as he sat on a small rock and warmed his hands. He lifted a bottle from his sack and twisted off the cap. There was the crackling sound of the snapping metal ring. Steel cap threads traveled over glass grooves. It was similar to a knife over stone. No, he thought, it was similar to another noise he did not want to remember. The whiff of strong alcohol hung in the air, promising to wash away his troubles one swallow at a time. He held the mouth close to his nose, it carried sweetness to it, a hint of molasses in the aroma. Frank drank it in large gulps. The burn passed and his mind fogged.

  Get away, you foul demons.

  He lifted the bottle above his head and tilted it toward the fire. He smiled to himself.

  “Here’s to you, Theo.”

  Frank ate his dinner of stew and beef sticks. He would have eaten noodles, but he did not have a pot. He concluded he should find one anyway if only to boil water. It would be nice to wash up with hot water, he thought, and give his scraggly face a shave. Taking a smell under his arm reaffirmed the need to bathe. He could not remember the last time he had put soap on his skin. Several more swallows of the whiskey later and a trip to piss, Frank staggered to stand in front of the trees, looking beyond into the soundless void.

  “Where the fuck are you? Huh? Did you give up on me?”

  He pulled his gun from his belt and pointed it, threatening with it. He grabbed a tree branch for support and fell, crashing to the damp leaves. Frank waited for the laughs, he knew they would howl with delight. Only silence and the occasional chirp of a lone cricket came from the woods. He sat up, baffled with their abandonment. His temper flared, he stood and staggered back toward his bag. Frank pulled out his machete and tucked the gun into the waist of his pants. He grabbed the flashlight to hunt for them, he knew they were there, watching him, always watching him.

  “I’ll find you, you dumb shit eaters. You can’t hide from me.” He shouted as he walked amongst the trees, chopping at branches with his machete.

  He shone the light left and right, past trees and bushes. Frank looked in any spot he could think they might hide. Slurs, strings of cursing, and vivid descriptions of what he did to their mothers rolled from his tongue. He called them all cowards, as though offending their integrity was the best way to flush them out. Frank was breathless, moving about in a sprint to catch them. He leaned against a large pine tree and gripped the rough bark with his hand to steady himself.

  Lacking evidence. I’m lacking evidence. There’s no sign of them.

  He held the tree as he tried to think.

  The trees.

  Frank looked into the tree branches overhead.

  “You ignorant assholes, you can’t hide from me. I know you’re here. I know—”

  He tripped over a large root and slammed forward to the ground. A thick spread of pine needles formed a soft carpet under his face. He sat up and held his head.

  What in the goddamn hell am I doing? I’m losing it.

  He knew he had more to drink than he needed. Slowly he made his way back, following the beacon of the fire. He was tired, his head hurt, and he felt like throwing up.

  Frank lay down beside the fire on the bare ground.

  It’s better this way.

  He put the gun under his back and folded his arms over his chest. Morning would come, headache too. At least he had pain medicine. Perhaps he would treat the cuts on his knuckles.

  Dreams of fire. Screams in the flames. That unblinking solitary eye and the last question. He lay restless on the ground. Never fully sleeping, reaching more of a state of alcohol-induced lucidity. His body felt weary, his head felt worse. He had too much alcohol and would have to pay for it. He chastised himself for the overindulgence. Frank got up, feeling the world swim from him. His cure was to take another swig of the whiskey. The hot taste made his stomach tighten.

  No you don’t. You just hold on, it’ll get better.

  He opened the truck door and grabbed two aspirin from a bottle on the floorboard. He chased them down with a bitter tasting sports drink. Breakfast first, after that he would get back on the road. His plan was simple, make it to the coast, spend his days fishing and growing old. He finished the beef stew, drank the last of the drink, and took another swig of whiskey. His hands ached and his head felt as though a bomb had exploded within it. The fluids made him feel better. He put his bag inside the truck and cranked it. After pulling it into gear, he remained with his foot on the brake. Frank cursed himself. He shut off the engine, opened the door, and stomped back to the fire.

  He stirred the coals with the metal blade as he thought. The sun crested the far-off hills. Crows called to each other. One, in particular, lifted his voice higher than the rest. Frank stumbled as he paced, his head was not yet right. He considered what he needed to do as he watched the sun rise higher into the sky.

  A few sunrises over the water would be nice.

  He looked at the ground and kicked at the empty can. After slapping his face a few times and rubbing his neck, he squatted back down.

  What to do? It’s now or never.

  He decided on it, made it firm within his mind.

  Maybe it was for the best.

  He walked to the other side of the fire and lifted her. She was light, he thought, probably had not eaten anything in a long while. He placed her on the passenger seat and reclined it. Frank made one last trip to the fire to grab his blanket and tarp. Her scent was on it. He smelled it as he walked back and got in the truck. He started the engine and drove east.

  Frank turned on the radio. He scanned all the stations, but there was nothing other than static. Not a single human voice had been on the radio for months.

  It’s funny how you miss things. Somebody talking about traffic. Stupid love songs. The news.

  He tried the compact disk player, found it needed a disk, and hunted for one. The glove box was empty. He could not find a single one inside the cab. He looked at the woman on the seat beside him.

  She had been through something that appeared to be of great detriment. Her damaged body lacerated, bruised, worse for wear. Perhaps he should have left her, or at least put a bullet in her head. He could have ended her pain, done it while she slept. He spotted a small group of cars parked ahead. They sat jumbled at an intersection. He stopped behind them, pulled the keys from the ignition, and got out. He checked the cars one by one. All were empty, but not destroyed by fire. He grabbed the siphon hose from inside his bag. Countless trips with an empty gallon antifreeze container and enough gasoline spilled on his legs to drive to Chicago. He checked the vehicles one last time, searching for one item in particular. The last car he checked had it, a single disk. He did not even see what it was as he pulled it from the glove box.

  He walked back to double-check the fuel gauge. The needle pointed to full and that was all he wanted. Frank sat the full container and the tube in the back of the truck. After taking out his map, he studied it to find where he was. He fired up the truck and drove off the road to make it past the cars. The way south was just one turn onto the road, an almost straight shot. He drove at the speed limit posted on the sign he spotted. There was no reason not to, he was not in any hurry.

  The vapors of gasoline made him lightheaded. Air coming in from the opened window helped. He let the breeze flow between his fingers as he held his hand out the window. Frank glanced at the woman with her head slumped on her shoulder. He debated if he should open the door and push her out. She would never know it. He would never have to explain it. However, he would have to live with it.

  He pulled the disk from his pocket and pushed it into the player. The sound of a man’s deep and soft singing filled the truck. Frank knew none of the words, but he tried to sing along. Just the sound of another voice, a voice from before it happened, was soothing. He tapped the steering wheel with sore fingers. A bottle of whiskey in his la
p, music on the radio, a once attractive woman riding with him. It started to feel like the old world again and then the screams started.

  She became a wild beast, wide-eyed and thrashing her arms about in the air. Her dreams appeared to be worse than his. The woman had the look of a dying animal, ignorant as to the cause, but smart enough to know something was wrong. He tried to grab her but she fought against his touch. She opened her mouth and released a high-pitched yell that grated within his skull. He pulled out his gun, stuck it to her ear, and shoved her head against the passenger door window.

  “Shut the hell up. You make another goddamn sound and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

  She held her hands up as fresh blood ran down her arms. Tears flowed along her cheeks. Her body shuddered as she looked around, trying to figure out where she was. The woman turned her head a slight bit against the barrel. He saw her doe eyes pleading with him.

  “Wuh…wuh…”

  “Will I shoot you? Hell yeah. I’ll blow your crazy brains out all over the highway. Just try me.”

  Frank jammed the gun to her head and slowed the truck.

  Time to get her out of the vehicle.

  She had shown him what he needed to know. The risk was too great. She was not worth the effort.

  Another damaged mind.

  “Where are we?” she asked, between gasping sobs.

  “A mile past Kosciusko.”

  Frank turned the volume down on the radio. His hand left the steering wheel, it caused the truck to drift. He snatched the steering wheel and the truck rocked. It made him shove her head into the window several more times. He started to apologize, but decided against it. Better off that she think he was crazy as well.

  “Kosh-chush-ko.”

  She enunciated the name several times as she looked out the window. Frank steered the truck off the road and pulled into a rest area. He cocked the hammer of the pistol and nodded his head. Her tears dripped onto the blood spotted shirt she wore.