A Depraved Blessing

by D. C. Clemens

  I knew the bridge spanned about a mile in length, but steering with the constant sound of gunfire in the background made it extend tenfold. Midway through the passage, two fast moving objects appeared in the sky in front of us. It was apparent a few seconds later that they were two jets flying no higher than three hundred feet. The sound I then heard after they passed over us was one I had only been familiar with through television. I could practically see the sonic boom they released, the ripple of air shaking the van. Endeavoring to follow their path in the rearview mirror, I saw a pillar of flame rise above the woods behind us. If it was a missile or a bomb initiated by the jets or by something else entirely, I didn’t see, and I did not have time to provide a guess as another like it instantly erupted, cropping up uncomfortably close to the backed up line. I was so overwhelmed by the view behind me, and so immersed by my own thoughts, I had almost forgotten I was still driving. I didn’t even realize I was about to strike Mr. Tillar’s braking vehicle, and I would have if I didn’t hear the blaring horn his truck produced. Apparently, more vehicles than could fit were trying to merge on the new lane and the lane we had left. Some were not as patient as others, something I could not hold against them.

  Notwithstanding the narrow escapes, the extra lane did allow us to keep moving at a reasonable pace, and we were finally able to touch ground on the other side. Almost immediately afterward, we were impeded by a bottleneck on the main road where automobiles were raucously deciding their future of which road to take next. It was impossible for anyone to consider going off road since a dense timberland of towering trees surrounded us. Never before had I wanted to grab a hatchet and start ripping down our precious forests so badly. I could no longer hear the gunfire, but it was only because the sound of the boisterous horns from the automobiles surpassed everything else, proclaiming everyone’s innermost fears.

  I could sense the apprehension rising as the traffic progressed at a painstaking pace. Ten seizure inducing minutes later, we were finally at the crossroads. I stalked Mr. Tillar onto the chosen path, progressively hearing my van’s engine hum longer and longer the faster the line moved. I had not dared glanced at the spectacle behind us after the jets flew overhead, lest I should forget about my responsibility of driving, but I could not resist the urge any longer when I heard a noise I never liked to hear, but had heard too much of late. Faint screaming was ballooning from the backdrop, and glimpsing into the rearview mirror, I saw people on the bridge running to our location. I couldn’t see what they were fleeing from, but perhaps it was better I did not know. I was losing sight of them as we moved quicker, but before they were able to vanish completely from my view, I watched some of them drop headlong to the ground, not dissimilar to what I might have seen if they were shot in the back or suddenly being dragged by their legs. That was the last I saw before the vista of the bridge was lost from my sight forever.

  “Can you still see everyone?” Liz asked me, never turning to look what was happening behind us.

  “Yes,” I answered, noticing my hands were trembling. “Mr. Tillar’s truck is a couple cars ahead and everyone else is farther back, but I can still see them.”

  Another peek at the rearview and I could not elude observing the heavy smoke continuing to rise in the distance. It made me feel a new form of emotion; relief with an element of sadness, sadness with an element of confusion, confusion with an element of dread, and everything in between.

  The company joining our less popular southeastern route was a small number compared to the many more traveling directly south. The drive itself was mostly smooth and, for my part, mostly quiet. Liz was busy recounting various kinds of family stories to Dayce to take his mind off from what we were going through, but I didn’t pretend it was only for Dayce’s sake. My mother chimed in every once in a while, but was mainly reserved. I kept watching the mirrors to make certain that the rest of our coalition were still in my sights, knowing staying together was our top priority.

  Mr. Tillar guided the way until he parked at a rest stop about seventy miles from the bridge. It was already occupied by several others, but there were less than I projected there to be. As soon as we dismounted our vehicles, we were bombarded by questions from those who were famished for news. Neves’ disposition made him best suited to tell our audience what had happened at the bridge, but not even he could have prevented them from feeling troubled.

  “How much longer do you think you can go?” I asked Neves as we ate from our supplies near the van. I was having a simple heated soup straight from the can. Given the choice, I probably would not have been eating, but I knew Liz would have been worried if I didn’t, seeing as I only had some water since we set forth.

  “Twenty, maybe twenty-five miles at the most,” Neves answered with his mouth full of sandwich. He was always an untidy eater.

  “Did you see how close that was?” entered Bervin, practically yelling across the rest stop as he was returning from the washroom. “If we had arrived five minutes later, that would’ve been our asses.”

  “I wonder if that’s happening in all the bridge crossings?” said Orins. “I hope Talib is far enough south for us.”

  “What do you think, Rendry?” Neves asked Mr. Tillar, who was near his truck, but it was close enough for him to hear the conversation taking place.

  “We keep going as planned,” he impassively responded. “If we want to change course, we’ll have to do it once we reach Talib.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Casting

  The time had finally come when Neves’ truck expended its final drop of life. Instead of abandoning it for naught, we fastened it to Mr. Tillar’s truck for the rest of the journey. If in the off chance the Spirits had not completely forsaken us, we hoped to find more diesel to keep it running. We touched the outskirts of Talib an hour before noon. We could not allow ourselves to waste any more fuel maneuvering our way into the town itself, so we parked at the edge of a park near the river where other refugees were making camp. They were filled with families and supplies of different sizes and characters, but all with the same goal. There were some organizers from the town directing people, but with the lights out here as well, there was little they could do other than keep order.

  The rest of the day and night was better than I thought it was going to be, but still not what I would call restful. The following evening, after employing most of the morning and afternoon getting acclimated to our new setting, Dayce and I decided to use the remaining sunlight to go fishing by the river. It was good for the both of us. Dayce wanted to test the new skills he learned, excited to show his mother he could take care of us on his own, and I wanted to spend time with him, understanding I had not really talked to him since we left either home. We were not the first to get the idea. The town organizers had to keep watch over the herds of people, making sure no one seized more fish than was necessary and used practices that would not decimate the population. Dayce and I found a relatively secluded spot down a gently sloping hill.

  Not long after we started attempting to catch dinner, a young man with the same intention joined us when he sat down a few yards away. He evidently considered his skin a blank canvas, as it was coated with tattoos.

  Dayce noticed him and garnered a couple of inquisitive peeps before he could not help asking, “Do you have a bad memory?”

  I was a bit embarrassed when he asked, but not at all surprised. The stranger looked at Dayce and me curiously, and returned his question with one of his own.

  “What makes you say that, kid?”

  “My dad says people who get tattoos must need a lot of reminding, so they get tattoos to help them.”

  “That so?” he replied, eyeing me for a second, though it was anything but callous. I simply expressed an amused shrug. He stared at Dayce again with a more pleasant countenance than before and continued. “Your old man is right, in a way, but it’s not about losing my memory. It’s more like not losing my favorite things. You must have a favorite sports team, picture
, or story, right?” Dayce nodded. “Well, you can lose a book, a photo, or I suppose even a memory or two, but you can’t lose it if it’s on you. You see?”

  “I think so,” Dayce replied.

  “Your old man doesn’t say people with tattoos are bad, does he?”

  “No, he just says I can’t have tattoos until I’m old enough to buy a house or if we win the lottery.”

  “That’s a good kid. So where you headed?” he asked me, but keeping his grin for Dayce.

  “We don’t know yet,” I answered.

  “I’m headed to the coast myself. I figure I might be able to catch a boat, go to some far away island and fish there for the rest of my life. Who knows, maybe I’ll be the one to restart the species.” I don’t know if it was because he found it funny or because he was thinking it could become a serious mission, but his grin widened.

  “Are you here with others?”

  He turned to gaze at the languid river. I don’t know if I might have asked him the wrong question, but he answered nonetheless.

  “A friend of mine is with me. There were others, but we were separated before we crossed the river.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said as kindheartedly as I could.

  “No sweat, old-timer,” he said, as if it was foolish of me for trying to sound considerate.

  I would have liked to ask more questions, such as at what bridge and how it happened, but it did not take much assessment to know it was not my place to ask. The next few moments were spent in silence, but it was far from a grave one. There was a soft zephyr whispering through our ears and which rippled the pale blue water. All the while, the warm colors in the sky faded as the sun made its final bow in the horizon. Even the refugees around us were dim and far away. Dayce and I weren’t actually talking much, but I it still felt as though we had a meaningful exchange.

  The tranquility was interrupted when the line of our acquaintance began to call the attention of its owner.

  He rose and said, “This one’s a fighter!”

  The struggle persisted for several concentrated minutes. A stalemate seemed imminent, but just as the sun was leaving the brightest of its light behind, the fisherman finally trounced his catch. Rising above the water, I saw it easily reached a foot in length and, even with its recent defeat, it continued to thrash vehemently in the air, still not willing to accept its demise.

  The victor, after trying to steady the line, released his grasp from the fishing pole and shouted, “Dammit!”

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  “The fish, it’s bleeding all over,” he responded coolly, inspecting the fish with bodily contempt.

  I warily began walking toward what he had caught, not remembering commanding my legs to do such a thing. The catch writhed every which way, with more than a trifling effort to return to its rightful domain. I made sure before completely leaving Dayce’s side to take a stern glare at him as a sign not follow in my steps, enforcing it by keeping my arm between me and him. He obeyed, but his eyes stayed watching in the background. I tip-toed closer to the bloated looking animal, becoming nauseated when I caught a whiff of its putrid stench. It seemed to be gaining power as it beat itself more aggressively against the ground, generating a revolting squashing noise with every flop. Despite the offending smell and sound my nose and ears picked up, they were secondary compared to what my eyes could not fail to identify. Glistening crimson blood leaked uncontrollably from its oval shaped eyes at the top of its head and the gills on its stomach. When it would lay immobile for a moment, I noted that its inflamed eyes burned a flash of rainbow-filled color as they reflected the rays of the wilting sunset, making it appear more alive than it ever was. Only one thought came into my mind with this sight.

  “Infected,” I said to myself, and I suppose to the fisherman next to me.

  “Beautiful,” said the catcher of the sordid creature, with an exhale to reveal he was nothing but derisive.

  After beginning to wonder what we should do next to the miserable animal, I unexpectedly saw a foot long hole appear beneath the creature, dropping it below the surface. I thought my eyes had deceived me, but after blinking a few times, I saw it had indeed plunged into the ground. When I came to terms that my eyes were undertaking no elaborate scheme on me, I saw the dirt around the hole enclose itself over the fish, completely burying it. I was astonished by what I saw, knowing what the action represented.

  I looked at the person who had undoubtedly created it and asked him, “You’re a spirit warrior?” I hoped my amazement didn’t entirely shine through, since I was sure he received enough of that.

  He returned the look I gave him, and replied with a little humility, “I’m technically no warrior, but I do know a thing or two.”

  “That’s so cool!” I heard Dayce say behind me, taking some rushed steps up to us. He had enough excitement for the both of us. “He can control Evon!”

  “Not only that, I can make a bit of fire too,” said the elemental conjurer, “but that zaps my energy more than anything, so I use it sparingly.”

  “We better tell the organizers what we found or people might start eating the infected fish,” I suggested, my inner child in awe at meeting a sprit warrior.

  His expression told me he thought it too much trouble for him to come along, but finding he could not think of an excuse to refute my words, he said, “Lead the way, old-timer.”

  “It’s Roym by the way,” I informed him, hoping that would end my impromptu label.

  “And I’m Dayce,” eagerly inputted my son, adding a look of admiration.

  “Yitro.”

  I didn’t blame the organizer we found for having misgivings to our words, or my words, as I did all of the talking. I knew it was not going to be easy to swallow such news. He wanted to see it with his own eyes, saying we might have mistaken it for something else. I could not fathom what we could have misidentified it for, but I didn’t think he knew either. We led him to the creature’s burial site. When we were near, Yitro did the honors of warping the soil to uncover the grave. As soon as the fish was exposed, it began flopping wildly in its tomb. Its eyes were brighter and bloodier than before.

  “Spirits, the little bastard’s still alive!” said an amazed Yitro.

  “Shit,” stated the organizer, sounding more annoyed than shocked by what he saw. “Looks like the infection can get to marine life too. This isn’t going to go over well. Well, thanks for letting us know.” He turned to Yitro and fretfully requested, “Do you mind burying it again, and maybe a bit deeper?”

  “Sure. I’ll even make sure to kill it,” Yitro said with a half smirk.

  A wave of his hand reburied the corrupted being and, after making his hand into a fist, I heard a muffled squish where the shallow grave was located. With the last of the daylight gone, we started our return to our respective camps.

  Parting, I said, “Take care, Yitro.”

  “Yeah, you too,” he replied. He next looked down at Dayce by my side and told him, “Take care of your old man, will ya?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  My son was still captivated and it only strengthened when he looked at him. Whatever Yitro would have said, he would have had the same answer.

  I felt it was far too often I was a bearer of bad news. As expected, the update dejected my group. Liz might have been further troubled by the fact Dayce witnessed it, but she was eased when our son would only talk about the spirit warrior we met.

  “I thought fishing in the river would be safe, at least for a little while longer,” said Orins. “I can’t believe the infection is already this far downstream. I mean, aren’t we a thousand miles from the Tower upstream?”

  “The infection seems to make everything hyper and stronger,” answered Siena. “The constant pain it causes is what likely coerces everything to be in constant motion. So, theoretically, a fast moving fish going downstream nonstop can make a several hundred mile trip pretty quickly.”

  “But isn’t that why we’re here, to
have fresh food and water?” Valssi interposed, not attempting to hide her frustration.

  “Can’t we just boil the water and cook the fish?” wondered Neves. “Wouldn’t that kill the infection?”

  “There’s no way of knowing that,” I said. “We still don’t know exactly what this infection is. I doubt it works like a regular biological contagion due to its artificial nature.”

  Siena next added, in a low voice that implied she did not want to listen to her own words, “I hate to be even more of a downer, but with this apparently being spread by using nanotechnology, it’s likely we can’t cure it using conventional means. We can’t take the chance to eat or drink anything if it has a chance of being contaminated.”

  “Should we move away from the river?” Delphnia asked, with my mother nodding her approval.

  With his strong baritone voice, Mr. Tillar responded, “We have food and our own water to last for a little while longer, and everything is pretty organized here. I say we wait a couple more days before deciding what to do, or at least until we hear news of a better option.”