Palimpsest (Book 1): Feral

by P. J. Post

  Splinters fly in our face as the horses hitched and tethered to the wagons go nuts.

  Feral pulls our mount up short and I hold on tight as it rears up on its hind legs, screaming in protest. Gunfire is chewing through the wooden side of the old, fifties flatbed trailer in front of us.

  The defenseless scream; kids and folks — not like me and Cam — try to lie low and wait it out, praying they’ll live for one more day. Others are fleeing into the forest. I’m not crazy about anyone being that exposed, but I can’t stop to deal with them right now.

  Feral jerks the horse around and cuts it between the next gap in the wagons, driving our mount along the drainage ditch on the forest side of the wagons.

  Cam and Paco are still galloping through the weeds on the other side at full speed.

  When we get close to the front of the wagon train, I clutch my rifle and slide from the saddle, hitting the ground hard.

  “You okay?” she asks as she jumps down next to me.

  “Yeah. Stay here,” I say.

  She raises her goggles and gives me a withering stare.

  “Fine,” I say. She’s not staying anywhere.

  She ties the horse to the gate clasp of a flatbed and then we run behind the wagons and trailers toward the fighting.

  Gunfire continues, random and unfocused, up and down the wagon train.

  “Who is it?” I shout as we run.

  “No idea. There’s a bunch of them up there,” she says, pointing to a projection of trees at the top of a weeded hill off to our left.

  “Is it them?” she asks.

  “The Cart People? No, at least I hope not.”

  As we get closer, I see the first three wagons in flames. Most of the refugees have abandoned the front and are hiding further back among the other trailers. Bodies are scattered around the wagons, some burning, none moving.

  A line of armed men and women have taken up firing positions from behind the fourth and fifth wagons, but no one is shooting. As we fall in next to the guys at the front of one of the U-Haul trailers, a woman takes a shot in the hip, the bullet penetrating the thin metal skin of the trailer.

  She cries out and collapses to her knees. Feral reaches out to her, but the next shot takes the woman in the head.

  Feral cries out as the blood mists in front of us.

  I pause as the woman falls.

  Several men nearby drop their rifles and run to her side. They think there’s still hope. All of these people do.

  For all of their planning, the front is chaos.

  But getting through this afternoon isn’t about hope or salvation — it’s about rage.

  I’m not seeing anyone that needs killing and that’s a fucking problem.

  I drag Feral back to the next wagon and pray she has better protection here. “Stay here!”

  “I have to…”

  “Stay the fuck here,” I shout in her face, shoving her back against the side of the wagon. “I can’t do what I need to if I’m worried about you. Fight from here.”

  “Who do you think…”

  “Please,” I whisper with desperation.

  Her eyes soften and she nods. She hands me her .38 and a box of shells. She’s about to say more, but I turn away and run into the forest.

  “Coward, you can’t run away!” I hear Craig’s voice shouting at me and then a chorus echoes him. Sometimes, I hate people most of all.

  I run diagonally through the trees, trying to put some distance between me and the highway. The forest floor is ankle deep in a golden carpet of dried leaves.

  The sky opens up above, gray and hazy.

  It’s a beautiful fall day, except for the bullets whizzing by, some ricocheting off tree trunks, but I don’t think anyone is aiming at me. I’m sure it’s just poor marksmen overshooting the wagons — I hope so anyway.

  Slowly, I come alongside the burning wagons. A few men with scope rifles are shooting from the safety of the forest, systematically picking out targets.

  Some of them nod at me and point across the road with their rifles — the same woods Feral mentioned.

  I pause and study the tree line.

  There.

  From deep within, I can see the spark of the guns going off.

  It’s an ambush. They must have been tracking us for miles.

  The road curves up ahead, disappearing around their position in the woods, so if I can follow the line of trees long enough to get behind them, without getting spotted — or shot, and if we can hold out that long…

  I pick up the pace, my breath a cold fog as I leap over fallen branches and kick up leaves. The forest is slowly pushing left, following the road. When I get even with the bend in the road, the wagon train is a straight line behind me, the forest is right up the hill. I can see the fuckers shooting at us in the tall weeds at the bottom of that hill.

  I stop behind a clump of birches and raise the rifle, laying the barrel against the gray-white bark and take aim, lining my sights up on the asshole closest to me.

  Shit, I’ll only give away my position and lose any surprise I have; besides, regardless of Cam’s praise, I’m not that great of a long range shot, at least my experience is limited.

  Begrudgingly, I lower the .308 and keep running.

  I need to get closer.

  After another five minutes, I stop, bend over and hold my knees, panting as I try to catch my breath. I feel like I’ve been running all morning. The enemy position is now to my left and the wagons are lost from view, somewhere on the other side of the assholes shooting at us. I’m taking a huge risk, but I slowly move to the edge of the forest.

  They’re over there somewhere.

  I take a deep breath and then rush across the state highway, through the underbrush and up into the forest on the other side.

  I fall to a stop, spinning on my knees and lean back against a fat tree near the edge of the woods, breathing hard, waiting…

  No shots.

  I peak around the tree and see nothing.

  No one saw me.

  Jesus.

  I got lucky, but now I have concealment.

  I feel like an ancient warrior, stalking his prey through the forest — saving his people, his tribe — slipping from tree to tree, ravine to ravine.

  It doesn’t take long to find them, mostly men, but some women, all of them firing from behind the front line of trees at the edge of the forest. They have a clear shot down the sloping field. I can see the men in the weeds too, lying on their bellies down below.

  I only count fifteen or so of them, with another handful down the hill. Why are they attacking? We must have them outnumbered ten to one. They had to know that.

  Desperation is a cruel mistress.

  They’re lined up along the front of the forest, with their backs to the tree trunks, turning and firing from safety behind the trees.

  I check Feral’s .38. It’s full — six shots. Once this starts, I won’t have time to reload.

  There’s a guy, the fourth one in from where I’m hiding, wearing black and gray camo, like a discount store Crayton poser. But he has three pistols in his belt. If they’re loaded…I just need to get to him. I don’t need to kill them all; I just need to distract them long enough for Cam to see what’s going on up here and circle them, cut them off.

  The nearest guy is wearing a brown down jacket and a Wheeling Yellow Jackets sweatshirt. He’s young, maybe my age and he’s scared shitless. He’s not even shooting.

  He’s crying.

  Jesus Christ.

  He’s first up, though. Just shitty luck he ended up where he did. I don’t know how to get past him without making any noise, unless…unless I kill him.

  I don’t want to kill him, but I want to save Emily and Feral more.

  It’s a trade.

  Pimple boy for Emily.

  That’s probably his dad over there at the next tree, him for Feral too — and for Emily.

  Life sucks.

  The pop of rifle fire continues spora
dically as each side searches for targets.

  My search is over.

  I set my rifle down and pull my knife out as I creep closer to him. Every crunch of the turning leaves sounds like a freight train, but no one seems to hear me.

  From the next tree over, I can hear him sobbing, talking to himself. He’s praying to God to save his ass, and his family, his sister, his brother.

  Jesus fuck.

  This isn’t fair.

  I can feel my own tears joining his.

  My jaw tightens.

  I’m waiting for him to look around the tree to see what’s going on, to his dad — just away from me.

  A bullet hits the tree he’s hiding behind and he cries out and jumps. And then human nature makes him look…

  I’m on him in a flash, wrenching him back behind his hiding spot, away from Daddy, away from his family and his friends — away from everyone that gives a shit about him — and twist his head around as I shove my blade deeply into his throat, once, twice…and again.

  Blood squirts over both of us.

  He drops his rifle and stares up in shocked surprise, clutching at me. His hands are warm on my forearm. He’s got sad brown eyes and freckles, like Brandon. They could be brothers. The tears are flowing freely.

  I hold him, pushing the blade deeper as his life drains away.

  I glance over to his dad as I lower him to the waiting leaves.

  Camo boy is a middle-aged fat-ass, but he’s the scariest looking one at this end of the woods.

  I sheath my knife and raise the .38, take aim and hold my breath — it’s a long shot, but I can’t miss, if I do — I’m dead.

  I slowly squeeze the trigger, the hammer ratchets back — poised.

  My revolver sounds like a cannon when it goes off. I see more people than I even knew were up here suddenly shifting around, faces staring, arms flailing as everyone leaps into action.

  It’s like slow motion, but then not — like a nightmare within a dream.

  And I’m the boogeyman.

  I don’t wait for the fate of Camo-boy, I begin running as fast as I can, selecting targets in the line, one after the other. Dad goes down and then some other old guy jumps into my path, he’s confused and turns just in time to die.

  I shove the .38 into my coat pocket as I get to Camo-boy.

  I bend down and scoop up two of his pistols, one in each hand and immediately begin firing with both of them as targets present themselves, one after another. I run as fast as I can along the edge of the woods, dodging between trees and in and out of shadows and the rays of sunshine struggling to break free of the clouds.

  Faces blur.

  I try not to see them.

  I don’t want to see them.

  I hear myself screaming like I did when I thought I’d lost Feral in the crowd.

  The tears feel like they belong to someone else.

  It’s not me running through the forest.

  The targets are so close, so still, so surprised — I’m shooting most of them in the face, but due to the way the tree line lays out, no one has a clean shot at me.

  I see the men down the hill begin to take notice about the time I see how they set the wagons on fire. Small bags are lined up in the dirt, while some of them are attached to arrows, arranged next to a small fire back in the woods.

  Robin-fucking-Hood is shooting kerosene or some shit at us.

  I race toward the center of camp and the huge tree they are hiding beside and shoot the two women tending the arrows and then the archer. He’s the youngest one yet.

  I hide behind the tree, drop my pistols and grab his bow and notch an arrow with one of the bags and then set it on fire. The arrow flies out of the woods.

  Dry weeds flare up, igniting when it lands, and the breeze does the rest.

  I drop the bow and then begin throwing the bags of kerosene or whatever it is like a runner is stealing home.

  They explode and throw fire further across the field.

  I take shelter behind the same tree as gunfire from the wagon train suddenly erupts, splintering the back side of my hiding place. I reload my .38 and pull my knife again, waiting.

  I’m guessing the new screams belong to the men in the field that are standing up, trying to escape the spreading fire only to be shot down.

  I look around for someone else to kill, or to kill me, but everyone is taking cover or has already run away.

  Once the gunfire subsides, I stand up; the .38 and knife hanging from my hands like weights. I glance down to see I’m covered in blood. The remaining warriors are huddled in a shallow ravine behind the clearing — the still armed, but beaten, women and children.

  What must they think of the monster in their midst?

  They’re all that’s left, apart from the moaning and burning wounded down the hill. I walk over to a crying kid and grab his shoulder. He wails louder. He’s maybe four years old and I have no idea why he is even here.

  I place the barrel of my gun against his head.

  I would rather die than hurt this kid, but they don’t know that.

  To them, I’m loco-Diablo.

  “Drop your guns,” I hiss.

  The sound of pistols and rifles hitting the ground reminds me of dirt being shoveled onto caskets.

  I see the look of a young woman, probably a teacher or secretary last spring, she’s staring at the kid, tears running down her cheeks, arms outstretched — he’s hers.

  I push him toward her and she embraces him, whimpering as he falls into her arms.

  One of the stragglers, a middle-aged man, jumps from behind a tree on the far side of the clearing and fires his pistol at me.

  He’s wearing a ripped and ratty dark gray suit. It was probably expensive. He looks like he might have once been Will’s boss. He wasn’t made for this world either, but then who is?

  Me?

  Cam?

  The Cart People?

  This won’t ever end.

  I turn and walk toward him as he fires another shot.

  Women and children scatter and duck as I cross the small clearing.

  His face is twisted in rage and fear, but mostly — it’s fear. His pistol wavers, jerking about.

  He fires for the third time.

  I raise my .38.

  “Murderer!” he shrieks at me and fires again.

  Another miss.

  I walk so close he can’t miss this time. He points his gun at my face, inches away and pauses, staring me in the eye, judging me, his eyes are full of grownup, I-don’t-understand tears bunched up in the corners, but he summons the courage and pulls the trigger one last time — he’s empty.

  I press the barrel of my .38 against his head, between his eyes.

  “Please,” he whimpers.

  I pull the trigger and turn away before his body hits the ground.

  The gunshot echoes through the forest.

  The other survivors scream.

  Everyone here is going to want revenge, even though we were only defending ourselves from their attack. They’re the motherfucking evil fucks in this story. But they won’t rest until their mothers, and fathers, their children — their dead — are avenged.

  I have to kill them — all of them.

  They’re bunched up again, hugging one another near the big tree in the middle of the clearing on the far side of the campfire.

  I stand before them and raise my .38 one last time. I have five shots left.

  I tighten the grip on my knife, studying them and pick the best order to take them in.

  A young girl steps forward, around the fire, separating herself from the rest.

  She’s average in every way that average can be measured.

  She’s wearing jeans, running shoes that have seen better days, and a hunting vest over layers of t-shirts.

  Her hair is brown and matted.

  Her eyes are brown.

  The circles under them are brown too.

  She’s probably lost whatever glimmer of hope she m
ight have been holding on to today — and I’m the one who took it.

  “If you’re going to do it, start with me,” she says bravely, her chin up, eyes defiant.

  She kneels at my feet.

  Fucking start with her?

  She’s so much better than I am. She deserves…

  I can feel the tears again, mixing with the thicker blood on my face.

  Feral and Emily will be okay, they have a new home; I just can’t — not after this.

  I did what I had to…what I had to.

  I slowly fall to my knees in front of her and force the gun into her hands.

  She slides her fingers around the grip and then I guide the barrel to my forehead, watching her eyes grow wide in surprise as she begins to tremble, shaking her head.

  “It’s okay,” I say, “it’s okay.”

  I can feel the tension in her hands, the pistol is jerking back and forth, she’s trying to pull it away, but I won’t let her.

  “It’s okay, I’ll help you,” I whisper. “You don’t have to be alone.”

  “No…”

  “Do it,” I whisper.

  “Please,” she whimpers.

  “What’s your name?” I ask her.

  “Jen.”

  “Jen, take your revenge and then everyone can go home, okay?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to, please.”

  The .38 presses into my skin, it hurts. She’s getting it.

  She’s crying too, shaking her head.

  “Shoot him,” a woman hisses behind her.

  “No,” she sobs. “I can’t, not like this, not…”

  “Kill him!”

  “Please,” I beg.

  “No.”

  “He took your daddy, girl, do it!”

  “I’m begging you,” I stutter through my tears.

  I feel the barrel dig into my skin. She blinks and her eyes narrow, not so much with resolve or anger, but with plain old exhaustion. I’ll take it.

  I can feel the peace coming…

  I see her falling before I hear the shot.

  I scream as her eyes roll.

  No!

  She collapses into my arms, her brown eyes staring up at mine — empty.

  “Jen…”

  I cradle her, holding her tight, rocking her back and forth.