After the firewood was gathered, he spread out his sleeping bag. Ben dug a small hole in the loose soil and laid the bag over it. He did it so he could sleep on his side and his hip would rest in the hole. It kept him from being sore the next day. A self-taught lesson learned the hard way, from pain and practice. He grabbed handfuls of leaves, spread them over the bag, and piled small pine branches on next, layering them as he went. Ben used anything he could find to mask the blue color of his sleeping bag. He did his best to conceal where he slept or rather where he lay awake. It gave him a sense of being less vulnerable.
Ben sat in front of the fire, waiting for the water to boil. He pulled one of the found cans from his pack, his belly grumbled when he saw the shiny metal. He opened the bag of chips and tasted one. It was stale. The bag had a small tear at the bottom. He would eat them anyway, they were salty, and the flavor reminded him of tacos. The saltiness caused his tongue to cramp. A large amount of drool ran out from the corner of his mouth. He used his jacket sleeve to dry his chin.
His attention returned to the can, it had been too long since he had put anything warm into his stomach. Dumbfounded by a sudden thought, he looked at the top of the can of chili.
How am I going to open it? I don’t have a can opener.
His shoulders slumped. At first, he wanted to cry because he was tired of the constant struggle. He sighed to himself and thought about the new problem. Ben ate more of the chips and watched the shadows grow longer. With an old shirt over the opening of the canteen, he strained the water from the pot. It took patience. Unable to go fast, he poured a dribble at a time and waited for it to drip through the fabric. Every so often, he would move the shirt to a clean spot.
His father had constructed a filter for their trip to make the whole process much faster. It remained in Tupelo, however, far from Ben’s reach. He considered one day he would look for supplies to make one if it was safe enough to leave the roadway to find them.
When the water filtered through the shirt, he filled the pot again for the next batch. ‘You can never have too much water’ his father cautioned them in the beginning. He had run out a few times, from carelessness, the feeling of dehydration was upsetting. After that, he promised himself there would never be another instance of it again.
Ben pondered how to open the can. He carried a small dollar store pocket knife but doubted it could cut the lid off without breaking the blade. The butcher knife seemed too large and unwieldy. He was afraid it would slip, and he would cut himself.
Again he strained water into the metal canteen, steam rose from the top into the cooling air around him. The temperature dropped as the sun retreated from the sky. The light rays poking through the bare tree branches were almost near horizontal. Soon it would plunge the world into darkness, leaving him to shiver another night.
Why did you leave me here? I’m alone and useless. I can’t even open a damn can. I’m not going to make it. I don’t think I can.
Tears dripped from his face. He sat with the can resting in his hands, trying to understand the world in which he remained. Night approached, and if he wanted to eat, it needed to be soon. He dug into the pockets of his pack for anything to use. The closest thing he found, a pair of slip joint pliers, came from the bottom zippered compartment. It was a slow process opening the thick metal top with them. Ben pinched a section of the lip and bent it back and forth until it snapped free. There was marked progress with the increasing smell of the treasure inside the can. The delightful aroma of the spices drove his stomach into uncontrollable fits of rumbling. He felt the acids enter his belly. It wanted, needed, something of substance.
He pried the final piece of the lid off, and the look of it alone excited him. Ben placed the can beside the fire to heat it. He took the time to add the last of the water from his bottle to the pot with a few pine needles to make a tea. Ben used his newfound knife to stir the chili.
I’m not going to be able to wait for it to heat up.
He lifted the can to his lips, tilted it backward, and took a big mouthful of it. He chewed and swallowed with a large gulp. Within a short time, he finished the contents of the can and debated eating another one. Ben had to conserve all of his supplies. So instead, he ate a few more stale chips and scraped the inside the can with his finger to get the last of it. He sucked the red sauce from his fingertip and made sure to get any of the bits still in the can. Ben refused to let any go to waste.
He tossed the empty can down the hillside and smothered the fire with handfuls of the dirt he dug out from his sleeping spot. Ben removed the revolver and holster from his belt. The knife was cleaned by wiping it off on the ground. He packed the shirt into his backpack and placed it under a pile of pine branches.
With evening upon him, it left little light to see by as he slid into the cold sleeping bag. He smelled the scent of the chili on the knife as he stuffed it under the edge of the sleeping bag at his waist. Ben cradled the revolver to his chest. He hoped he would not have a reason to use it.
The heavy steel, cold and rigid against his ribs, was a reminder of what he lost. It was first his grandfather’s, brought back from the war, then it became his father’s, and now it was his. There was no ceremonious passing of it to him, no time-honored family tradition, he simply grabbed it and ran. No thought to it, no pausing to regard the heirloom, he snatched it, belt and all, and ran from his father’s dead body. Charlie followed him for a while but soon gave up and abandoned him. Ben patted the gun and tried to clear his mind as he closed his eyes.
It was night and Ben lay on the cold ground, unable to sleep. He was overtired and sleep was all he wanted. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang a song, but it was solitary, and no others joined it. He slipped into a shallow sleep filled with scattered dreams, small fragmented mementos. They were of the time before it happened. Before it came and changed everything.
It was midnight, or not much past when he awoke from the light sleep to a strange noise. He opened his eyes and waited, unsure of where the noise came from. Several seconds passed before he realized it came from below him, on the road. He remained quiet and still, waiting to find what was in the dim lit night. The half-moon had risen overhead in the cloudy sky and cast down a faint light.
Had someone followed me? I made sure I wasn’t followed. I always make sure.
Relief washed over him when he saw a mother deer with two young ones. They were crossing the blacktop, taking a deliberate and slow pace. The doe paused several times to make sure it was safe in the exposure. Their tiny hooves played an erratic cadence that echoed in the silent air. Ben watched them. There was fear in the way they moved.
The doe jerked her head up, ears forward, and the little ones imitated. She sniffed the air, made loud blows from her nose, and looked to the north. Something had spooked her. Something Ben did not see. A sudden wave of dread came over him as he heard it as well. From far in the distance came the sound of a woman screaming in pain. Her cries swelled and faded between the light gusts of the cold night breeze.
Ben gripped the handle of the gun tighter. He watched as the deer fled from the road and into the shadows like ghosts. Time felt like it stopped, the night seemed eternal, but the screams drew no closer. His skin crawled at the sound. It came in waves, long and primal. Like a wounded creature unwilling or unable to go peacefully into the quiet of death.
Will it be quiet when I get there?
5
Amy looked out the window. She listened to her uncle yell as though they were a dozen yards away instead of confined inside the same vehicle. He rolled down the window as they drove past a destroyed gas station.
“This one’s burned too. Holy Jesus.”
Amy looked and saw that it was like the two before. Burned by arsonists, or unhinged vandals, the twisted and distorted metal of the canopy sagged down onto what remained of the pumps. The metal supports lay on the scorched concrete in front of the collapsed storefront. They had seen similar before in their travel. Her father di
d not slow the van’s speed as he navigated past an overturned tractor-trailer.
“All the cars I can see on this side look like they’ve been burned too,” her father said. “Lord knows.”
“Evan, do you think we’ll make it past?” her mother said. She sat holding Maggie, Amy’s younger sister, in her lap. “Is the way clear?”
“We’re almost to the exit, Jessica. Just need to find some gas.”
Jessica leaned forward to look out ahead as she patted Maggie’s head with her hand.
“Daddy, look over there.”
Amy pointed to a small house sitting near the roadway. There was a small car parked in the front. It had not been burned.
“I see it,” Evan said. He slowed down and stopped the van. “I don’t know. Doesn’t look like its moved in years, the glass is busted out.”
Evan shut the engine off and stared out over the wrecked vehicles. He rubbed his forehead with his dirty fingertips. Amy held her little sister’s hand as she watched her father and uncle debate what to do. They seemed unsure, nervous, and frustrated. Her father pulled out his pistol. He held it out the window while her uncle, John, got out of the van. John walked ahead, looking for any signs of people. With his shotgun raised to his shoulder, he stepped across the median and then the other lanes of the highway toward the car Amy pointed out. He moved along the ground until he was crouched beside the vehicle. He tried the door handle and motioned to Evan that it was unlocked.
John poked his head inside to search for anything of use. He found nothing and slid back out to open the gas cap. His free hand fed a long length of clear tubing down the filler neck. They had siphoned so many tanks since they began their travel it was a short process for him. When he could no longer push the tube in any further, he put it to his mouth and blew into it. He listened for the sound of bubbles. All he heard was his breath escaping into the empty void of the tank.
He stood up, pulled the tube back out with one single motion, and walked to the van. Amy listened to her father sigh as he realized they would not get gasoline from that one. She leaned against her mother’s soft shoulder and waited to learn what was next. She stared at her sister Maggie, seeing the way her mother held her clutched to her chest.
“How far can we go?” Jessica asked. Her voice was a thin whisper, almost silent.
“Probably another few miles, maybe more if we dump some weight.” Her father looked at them in the rearview mirror.
“Are we still going to go there?”
“Jessica, we don’t have a choice. It’s the only place left to go.”
Amy watched her uncle walk back to join them, his face full of disappointment. Her father warned them when they first left home, there was a chance they might not be able to drive the whole way. Amy understood the likelihood of it, but she hoped he would be wrong. They had made it so far but had a long way yet to go. When her father said the town was the last one before they headed south, she was relieved. They had been through too much hardship already. Now it seemed they would have to walk and she feared the journey was only becoming harder.
John leaned against the front fender and pulled his hat off with his scabbed right hand. He rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes with the injured hand, taking care not to push on his knuckles. His wounds were healing well enough, but if he applied any pressure to them, it caused a sudden wave of pain. He stood beside the van but did not glance inside to see their faces.
“Come on and get in,” Evan said. “We need to get as far as we can.”
John nodded, put his cap back on as he climbed into the van, and listened as Evan cranked it. He watched through the window as the gas station faded from sight, replaced by a scorched repair shop, and a large dilapidated factory. The thought of what would come next frightened him. He kept his head turned to hide the tears from the rest of his family.
“Stop!”
Amy pointed, tapping her finger against the glass. Her uncle and father shared her disbelief. There, just from the highway sat a small wood frame house, in front was a neat row of plastic gas containers.
“What the hell?” Evan asked.
He stopped the van again but left it idling. Evan turned and looked at his brother. He waited to see if John saw the same thing. By John’s wide-eyed stare, Evan knew he had. Both men sat focused on the dozen neatly arranged containers, lined up from small to large, with the nozzles facing west.
“You think we should try for it?” John said.
“I don’t know. Could be a trap.”
“Or…they could be full of water…empty…god knows…” John said. He leaned across the seat to study the layout of the area.
“Okay,” Evan said. “You and I will run over and grab what we can carry. If they had a gun, they would have shot by now.”
“What? You can’t even walk. Your leg is still busted up.”
Evan turned the engine off and opened his door. He lifted his makeshift crutch out, sat it to the asphalt, and placed the end under his arm.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Jessica can get up here and be ready to drive if there is any trouble.”
“No. Amy can help me. You just sit here and cover us. She can grab the small ones.”
John jumped from the van, opened the side door, and grabbed Amy’s hand. Her mother resisted letting her go at first until she saw the worry on her husband’s face. Evan knew he was not of any use to run, much less able to carry any weight. He nodded to his brother, closed the door, and aimed his pistol at the front windows of the house.
John and Amy raced across the tall dead grass. Amy reached the first container, lifted it, and found it was empty. She grabbed the next one, and it was the same. Her uncle lifted two of them and tossed them back down to the ground. She watched as he kicked the rest over because they were empty.
“I’m sorry, Amy.”
She did not bother to respond to him. Her father lowered his pistol and waited for them to come back to the vehicle. Amy turned to walk with her uncle, but he had moved to the side of the house.
“What is it?”
“It’s a truck. Wait right there, Amy. Let me check it.”
John lifted his shotgun up as he moved toward it, conscientious of anyone nearby. He kept himself low to the ground, making each step land without noise. The element of surprise worked both ways. He wasted no time getting the tube out of his pocket and pushed it into the gas tank. Amy watched as he blew into the tube and smiled. The tank had gas. He pointed at her and motioned with his hand past her. He pantomimed for her to bring him a gas container.
Amy waved to her parents as she grabbed two of the closest ones and hurried to join him. Her uncle sucked on the tube until the light brown gas flowed within. His thumb stopped it from pouring out, and he pointed for her to take the nozzle off a container. John pushed the tubing inside and watched as it filled the small red plastic container.
“When this one fills up, you take it back to the van. I’ll stay here and finish filling the other one. Okay?” Her uncle smiled at her as he spoke.
She nodded her head as the scent of gasoline reached her nose. It did not take long to fill the container. He pulled the tube out, capped it with his thumb, and slid the larger container into place. As Amy screwed the nozzle on she looked up at him, his eyes were alive with excitement. He spoke with hurried words.
“All right. Take off. Bring another one when you head back here.”
The gas container was heavy and awkward as she tried to run with it. She was out of breath when she got to the back of the van. Her father had already limped to the gas flap and opened it. He grimaced from the pain as he tried to stand and avoid any weight on his left leg. She set it down in front of him.
“I’ll pour it. Uncle John is filling another one.”
“No. You go help him. I can do this, Amy. Oh, thank God.”
Amy did not argue with him, she knew he was right. Gasoline was the most important thing for them. They had to have it if they were to continue. Without it, there was l
ittle chance of them succeeding.
Maybe we will make it.
The prospect of completing their journey was invigorating. She sprinted back to the gas cans, grabbed two more in her trembling hands. Amy did not know if it was joy or lack of food that made them shake so.
She rounded the corner of the house. The strong smell of gasoline greeted her. Until she reached the truck, she did not realize her uncle was not there. The gas flowed through the tube into the container unattended. John was not nearby. His shotgun remained propped against the driver’s door. She looked on the other side of the vehicle and into a curtain of dead kudzu vines that hung from trees at the edge of the yard.
Maybe he went inside the house to find some supplies.
A shiver ran down her spine when she spotted the blood splatters against the fender of the truck. Amy crept forward and prayed nothing bad had happened. Her hunt ended, to great distress, as she found his body lying a few feet in front of the truck. He did not move, a clothed statue, stiff and motionless, lying on the ground in an unnatural position. His body half hidden by the tall grass, her eyes made out the shape of his head, but she could focus on nothing other than the blood on his jacket.
She ran to him and knelt over his body. Her mind raced to find an explanation for what happened. A long cut on the side of his head left his skull exposed through his scalp. Dark blood covered his face. His body moved only because she shook it. She pushed and pulled at his body as if to revive him from a mysterious and deep slumber.
“Uncle John?”
He was silent, and his body felt strange under her hands. His head moved freely as she grasped his face. She shook it in an attempt to wake him. The blood from his wound covered her hands in warm slick thickness. The metallic odor of his blood mixed with the fumes of gasoline caused her stomach to squirm. Her throat tensed and she had the urge to vomit. A sudden surge of heat came over her body. Amy struggled to stand. She knew she had to get her father. Her legs were weak and failing, unable to support her own weight any longer. She heard a strange voice speak from beyond where her uncle’s body rested.
The Trace Trilogy (Book 1): The Wretched Page 3
