The Trace Trilogy (Book 1): The Wretched

by R. James Faulkner

  There were no returning laughs, no hushed whispering, only the stillness of calm morning air. He smiled to himself as he gathered everything into his bag.

  Probably mourning their loss. But more likely, fucking the corpse.

  His boots scrubbed the hard blacktop. He strolled eastward while the thick fog shielded him in a hazy bubble. His breakfast was another crushed candy bar and some water from the gallon jug. He would have to rummage another store before long. Maybe find a vehicle that would crank. Drive for a change. He had not driven a car in three months, and even then, he only made it ten miles before it ran out of gas. Frank came across a gas station another ten miles past where he left the car, but to double back would have been suicide. Pure and simple.

  Frank wrestled with the fact the one-eyed man knew his history. He thought he was done with the world of that time. Regret and misery were what he carried into the new world. In all his trepidation, as he walked the long roads, nothing scared him more than the stranger digging into his past.

  I must have said her name in my sleep during the night when those bad memories filtered up from that damned dark hallway. I must have.

  He checked over his shoulder to see if the vagabonds still chased his shadow. There were no sounds from the trees, no glimpses of bodies ducking for cover. He heard only his own steps on the pavement and nothing more.

  Walk until midday, and then I’ll find water. Maybe I’m free of the parasites. Perhaps I removed the head of the snake.

  The sun cleared the fog from the air, and the heat of its rays beamed down on Frank’s neck. He thought of the coast, fishing, living out his life on a quiet beach. Sounds of water sloshing gained his full attention. He stopped walking, pulled his pistol out, and squatted down. Long seconds passed as he tried to determine where the noise was coming from. He got back up but remained stooped over as he crept forward. The sound came from a creek running along the opposite side of the road. He moved past a large bald cypress tree. In the shallow dark water sat an obese naked woman with her back to him. She was unaware of his presence as she slammed her arms toward the water, splashing a brown spew of droplets high in the air. The woman waited until they all rained down and repeated her actions again. In each pudgy hand, she held the small body of an infant, lifeless and blue. Frank could not be sure if they were hers or cradle-robbed while they slept. To shoot her was a waste of time and ammo, best to hurry by, the threat of her chasing him did not exist.

  Tired feet and an empty stomach told him it was time to stop, to rest for a spell. Ahead was a small town, he would pillage what he needed and walk on. The roadway was clear of vehicles, pushed to the edges of the road for emergency vehicles to pass, he could tell by the crushed inward side panels. In the distance, he saw the sign for a hospital, standing like a tribute to the burned shell behind it. Frank had seen dozens of hospitals in the same condition, they seemed the first to be set afire. No one knew why, but the firebugs loved to burn down hospitals.

  He looked inside the cars and tried to crank them. They all sat empty and dead with the batteries missing. The road split at an intersection, he held to the right only because it looked to be going south. He sped up his pace, to stay inside a town was dangerous. There were far too many places to hide. A small store was off the corner of a car packed intersection. He slipped around the weathered wrecks, rusted where flames had ravaged them, and walked straight to the front of the building. He kicked a shattered window to clear the glass from the frame and ducked through the open spot.

  “Hello.” He shouted as he scanned the piles of goods on the floor.

  “Hello.” His word echoed back by a squeaky voice from the shadows of the back wall.

  He paused and raised his gun high enough to be visible inside the dim lit store. Thumbing back the hammer, he waved it, making sure his intention was clear.

  “Just want some food and water.”

  “Just want…just want…everybody just wants.”

  He kept looking at the floor, sifting through the mess with his foot. He picked up a package of cookies and a handful of beef snacks from the floor at the last register in the line. Frank needed water and was willing kill for it.

  “I don’t want any trouble. Just food and water. Then I’ll be on my way.”

  A shrill giggle came from the shadows. The voice said, “Preacher will find you.”

  Frank eased toward the right wall to search for supplies but kept a watch for whoever answered him. He could see several cans of beef stew lying on the floor in the corner of the back wall. Against his own better judgment, he tiptoed toward the scattered cans. Pausing at the end of the aisle, he peered around the shelf. The back of the store was empty of people. He grabbed all the cans he found and turned to make his retreat. Silhouetted by the bright daylight outside, a thin and short feminine figure stood at the register he had walked by upon entering. She spoke, her voice quivered, sounding warped and childlike.

  “You plan to pay for that?”

  Frank stood up straight and strode back toward the front of the store. He held his gun sighted on the bushy head of the woman. The sound of rushing footsteps came from the other side of the shelves provoked his panic. He fired a shot, the sound deafened him and caused his ears to ring. The woman’s body collapsed, landing slumped over the counter. The sound of high-pitched yells came past the fading monotone ringing in his ears. He dared not look back until he touched the concrete parking lot outside the store. Several cats and dogs ran over the broken glass, split up and scattered a dozen different ways.

  Frank stopped running. He stood and watched as the better part of a hundred animals ran from the store. One dog came up to him, tail wagging, and allowed him to stroke its smooth fur before it trotted away. Most of the animals looked weak and underfed. He shook his head and went back to the store to continue his search.

  Always a crazy animal hoarder in every town.

  Frank found a personal shopping cart with large wheels, stuffed to capacity with torn apart phone books. It sat beside a smashed in soda machine. He took his time to gather food and water. There was no medicine left and all the alcohol was gone. The former was a disappointment the latter crushed him. He found a working flashlight and extra batteries. With his new torch in hand, he walked into the storage area at the rear to search for whiskey.

  The foul smell of animal waste hit him, a strong ammonia stench, and the unmistakable scent of cat shit. He checked the door. It was held shut by a chain that trapped the woman’s captives inside the prison. Frank grabbed the chain and tossed it out the doorway, he damn sure did not want to be locked in by the men who chased him. He did not trust their vacancy. Frank went into the back room and stepped over thick layers of feces as he held his sleeve to his mouth. He turned around to get to a lungful of fresh air, and the light shone across a large sculpture made from animal bones. It resembled a horse reared on its back legs. Pictures, posters, paintings of horses covered the walls. Shelves overflowed with toys and stuffed animals, all of them of horses. Tied to the wall with a length of electrical wire was a small spotted dog. It sat on the floor and wagged its tail. Frank lifted it up in his arms, removed the wire from its neck, and carried it from the room.

  “Guess she really wanted a horse, huh?”

  He set the dog down near the checkout line and watched it bolt out the front of the store. It raced across the parking lot and disappeared from sight. Frank wheeled his buggy out of the doorway and into the street. He sipped on a cola he found. The sweetness of it was good, it was nice to have a change. He looked behind to see if they were there and could not detect a single sign of them.

  They are tricky. More clever than they appear.

  He followed the road until he made a turn at the intersection. He went right again and followed it along until he left the major part of the town and headed for the rural outskirts. Soon he came to a stretch of road lined with several scarecrows. Some stood, arms outstretched, and others were behind mule shaped scarecrows holding onto pl
ows. He noticed a white church on a small hill ahead of him. There were hundreds of scarecrows surrounding it, all lined up in neat rows.

  He pushed his cart toward the church and snacked on a beef stick. When he arrived in front of the small house of worship, he saw the doors wide open, and the pulpit stood inside the threshold. A scarecrow in a black suit leaned over it, its skeletal hand raised and pointing over the silent congregation. The sack head wore a bright red circle mouth painted on it beneath two large black circles for eyes. Frank got the meaning it represented, a fire and brimstone sermon to the wicked sinners.

  Condemn ‘em to hell preacher.

  He left the driveway and walked the gravel path between the musty rot smelling scarecrows to stand at the base of the steps. Across the front and along the path leading behind the church sat countless whiskey and wine bottles lined side by side. Each one had a candle stuck to it with melted wax. Frank browsed over them, selected a few bottles, and stuffed them into his cart. He lifted one with sun-faded red wax on it. The wax crumbled away as he opened it. Frank tipped his head to the scarecrow preacher.

  “I thank you, preacher,” he said. “Many blessings. I loved the sermon. It scared me onto the right path. Really made me shit myself.”

  He looked at the fabricated hand. The small bones of the fingers caught his attention. Frank climbed to the top of the wooden stairs. He examined the way its finger pointed outward, intrigued by the strangeness of how realistic it was. Frank snatched the white sack face from the head of the scarecrow preacher, and it all became apparent. He saw the shriveled flesh pulled tight on the skull and turned his head from the pungent smell. It was a full human skeleton, positioned, and decorated. The dead man’s form was made stationary with strands of stiff wire and reinforcement bar.

  He stumbled down the steps and pulled several sack heads from the scarecrow people and scarecrow mules nearby. Each one had a skeleton head attached to a full skeleton body, all impelled on wooden spikes standing from the ground. He gazed out over the corpses of hundreds of humans and dozens of mules that surrounded the small church. It made him feel unsettled. Shutting his mind to the thought of it, to the idea of what transpired, he forced himself to count off the steps of his rapid pace as he headed back to the road. He rushed along the highway, trying to put distance between himself and the church. Night would find him soon. He needed a large fire going to keep them all away.

  17

  Ben dropped the bike and pulled the revolver from its holster. They were ambushing him. He had not let the women get far enough ahead. He saw them coming on the road as he ran back to the van and knelt beside it. This was his first time rushed by someone, he was nervous. He leaned past the edge of the van to see where they were. The one in front wore a red shirt and brown jacket, and he knew it was not right. It was then he realized the women chased someone else.

  They were coming right for the van. It left him with no other choice, and he lifted the revolver up to eye level. He fired a shot, striking the first white dressed woman in the top of the head by pure luck. Ben took a deep breath and held his hands rigid in front of him, he shot and missed the woman who was the closest. Afraid to waste all the revolver ammo, he dropped the rifle strap from his shoulder and lifted it up to aim at the woman. Ben squeezed the trigger once and did not see the woman fall. Nerves buzzed and his heart pounded, he pulled the trigger three more times before a bullet struck the woman in the chest. The third white dressed woman turned and ran from the road, stumbling around with her arms held out in front of her body.

  He dropped his backpack to the blacktop, holstered his father’s gun, and chambered another round into the rifle. Ben stepped past the sobbing woman sitting on the road and searched for the last woman in white. He saw her in a pitiful condition, working at her eyeless sockets, sympathy motivated him to shoot her. An odd feeling of guilt came over him. He could have left her to die on her own.

  But what kind of cruelty would that be? Did she deserve to die like that, probably starving to death? No. It’s better this way.

  He turned and stepped back t the road, intending to get his bike. He noticed the crying woman was holding a small child. Both were scared, he could see the way they shook and clutched at each other. He decided he would give them some water before he left them. Ben stood several feet away as he looked them over to see if they were armed.

  “Are you okay, anyone hurt?” he said.

  “No. She’s just scared.” The young woman said between sniffles.

  He noticed her striking dark brown eyes. She wiped tears from her face while rocking the little girl back and forth. He nodded his head and walked past her. Amy whispered into Maggie’s ear, trying to quiet her. She kissed her sister’s cheek as she spoke.

  “Here’s some water,” Ben said. “I don’t have much.”

  Ben dropped a bottle of water to the road in front of Amy. He did not know what to do, he should be scared of them. They could be contagious and make him sick. However, he felt uncertain about the young woman and wanted to make sure she was okay. Perhaps it was he found her pretty. She was the first person he had seen in over a month that did not threaten him. He could hear his father’s words inside his head, warning him.

  Avoid people, all people.

  Ben pushed the kickstand of the bike down, let out a long sigh, and sat down on the yellow lines of the highway. He looked at the two dead women sprawled on the road. He could think of nothing to say. His eyes met Amy’s gaze, the color of them made it impossible to see her pupils. She gave a quick fading smile. He stared at her pink lips for a long time.

  “Where are you heading?”

  She sat silent, waiting for Maggie to stop clutching her in fear. Ben stood up, pulled his backpack on, and lengthened the rifle strap so he could wear it over his pack. He noticed the woman’s watchful eyes at what he was doing. He knew she was as unsure of him as he was about her. Ben used the toe of his boot to scoot the bottle closer to her.

  “Drink.”

  She turned her head upward to see him, squinted from the sun, and looked down at the bottle. A blank expression remained on her face as if she did not know what lay in front of her. Ben felt insulted and foolish for wasting his time.

  “Good luck with where you’re headed.”

  He stomped back to the bike and got on it. Before he could move, she shouted to him.

  “Jackson,” she said.

  He stopped and looked back at her, studying her face to see if she were lying. Long seconds passed as he pressed his chin into his shoulder, waiting for her to speak again.

  “We’re going to Jackson,” Amy said. “To the camp that’s there.” She grabbed the bottle from the road. “They say they can help, if we can just get there.”

  Ben got off the bike. He walked in front of her and waited for her to finish.

  “We have been traveling for so long now.” She wept as she told him. “Lost some of our family on the way here.”

  He nodded his head and watched her delicate fingers as she wiped her tears away. Ben dropped the rifle from his shoulder and sat back down on the yellow lines. Sitting there, listening to her talk seemed to be what she needed most.

  “Daddy is hurt now. His leg is cut real bad. And it’s infected.” She tried to fight back the renewed tears. “And…and we…we ain’t got any medicine. So now he’ll probably die before we can get there.”

  Ben watched as she let out a long sigh. He focused on her lips when she blew the air out from her mouth. She continued to rock her sister in her arms.

  “I’m heading to Jackson too.”

  “Just you, by yourself?”

  Ben looked south. “Me and my family were headed that way.”

  “What happened to them?” Amy asked.

  She tried to get Maggie to drink the water. Ben did not respond to her. He kept looking south. The sun was lower in the sky. He would have to find a place to sleep soon.

  “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.” Amy reached out with her hand to s
how she was sincere.

  Ben stood up, not making eye contact. He said, “No, it’s all right. My older brother is ahead of me.”

  “Is he waiting for you?”

  “No.”

  He grabbed the bike and leaned against it. Amy got Maggie to her feet. They both stood and watched him as he stared down the road.

  “Where is your family?” he said.

  “Just down the highway a piece.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Amy pushed Maggie behind her, she reached into her pocket to get her small folding knife. Ben looked over his shoulder at her. The look on his face was not of evil intention, but rather concern.

  “Mama sent us back here to get the camping stove from the van. We are almost out of water—”

  “Got to boil some.” He finished her thought.

  “Yeah,” she said. “We were going to get the jugs we left behind. Fill them at the creek.”

  Ben stepped toward the van, pointing at the hood. He said, “Is this yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Amy shrugged her shoulders. She said, “Out of gas.”

  Ben rubbed his chin as he looked back to the north. Amy held Maggie closer as she watched him. After a few minutes, he lifted his arm and pointed down the road.

  “There’s a gas station, still standing, back there about a mile or so.”

  “We didn’t see any.”

  “It’s just off this road, at an angle. I only saw it because I was going slow. Do you have a gas can?”

  Amy nodded her head. She said. “We have two. And Daddy’s got a siphon hose.”

  “Show it to me.”

  Amy pulled Maggie to the van, opened the back doors, and set the two plastic containers out on the road. Her eyes lingered on the one her uncle filled before he was killed. She removed the long coiled siphoning hose and explained how it worked if he found an underground tank that held any gasoline.

  “How am I going to do that?”

  “There’s a check plug used to measure how much is left in the tank, just open it and drop the hose in. The worst part is pumping it out. It takes forever.”