The Trace Trilogy (Book 1): The Wretched

by R. James Faulkner

  “Why?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse.

  “To help with the pain.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. He was cooking food by the fire. A bottle of whiskey went to his lips several times. She silently watched him. As time passed he drank more.

  “Why?” She asked him again, louder, but strained.

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “Why what?”

  “Why did you come back?” She paused, trying to swallow and clear her throat. “Why… after you left me?”

  “Had to get a pot to cook these,” he said.

  Frank turned holding a pot and stirred inside it with a spoon. He lifted the empty pack to read it.

  “Pasta noodles with chicken flavored sauce. And I also needed a spoon.”

  “That’s not what—”

  She became drowsy, and it made her movements slower. Her head felt heavy when she tried to shake it at what he said.

  “And some bowls, some small spoons, and forks. Needed some plates, they’re plastic, but what the hell.”

  He lifted each item as he named them off, avoiding her eyes. Frank put some of the noodles in a bowl. Holding the spoon in hand, he slid next to her, and lifted a spoonful to blow on it.

  “Be careful, they’re still hot.”

  He lifted the spoon toward her mouth and stared at her lips, waiting for them to open. She slowly parted them. The taste of food, real food, was luxurious. She chewed it as Frank waited, cooling the next bite. He placed it inside her mouth as gentle as before. When she had eaten half of the bowlful, he offered her a drink of water. She nodded and let him give her a sip.

  “You need to take some of these. I don’t know how many.”

  He held up the bottle of antibiotics.

  “Two.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t know.”

  He placed them on her tongue and poured water after them. Frank waited until she swallowed it down. He grabbed the bowl and spoon. It had cooled off enough so he could give her the spoonfuls without waiting. She chewed and stared at him. He evaded her eyes and watched the fire.

  “I think I’m full.”

  He put the bowl down. Using a small piece of cloth, he dabbed the sauce from the cuts on her lips. His eyes fell to the bloodstains on her shirt. Blue eyes met hazel eyes. The look of confusion was on his face. She wore sadness. He held her cheek as she cried, stroking her face with his thumb.

  Maybe the liquor, perhaps his conscience, he slid beside her and wrapped his arm around her back. She rested her head on his shoulder and wept. He rubbed her arm, unsure what to say. Her crying became softer, replaced by light sniffles. He reached for something to dry her nose.

  “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Why you’re helping me now.”

  He shook his head as he wiped her nose with a shirt. Frank did not want to answer her, he doubted if he even knew why. As he stood and stoked the fire, he drank more whiskey.

  “I found some coffee, it’s instant though. If you want some, I can make it up right quick. Even found cups.”

  He held up two mismatched mugs. She shook her head.

  “I’ll take some of that hard drink.”

  He lifted the bottle to her lips, letting her sip it. She pulled back and swallowed, grimacing as it went down.

  “Oh, that burns.”

  “Lightweight,” Frank said. He put the cap back on the bottle and sat it beside him.

  “No, my lips…” She tried to lift her arm, to wipe her mouth, but gave up and licked at the cuts.

  He added more sticks to the fire and watched the bright sparks leap into the black sky. His gaze fell on her several times. He did not know what to make of her, why he cared about her, or why he was helping her. His mind became clouded, and he drank more to help it further along its way.

  “Please?” she said. “Tell me.”

  He stood and stretched his back. “Tell you what?”

  “Why?”

  He swayed, his feet slid as he stepped. He stared down at her. Her eyes looked half-open, exhausted. Falling to his knees, he exhaled loudly and rubbed his face with his hands. When he lifted his head she was asleep. He laid her down on the blanket, pulling another one he found over her. He sat by the fire, chasing his demons until he fell backward. The brightening of the sky called him back from battle.

  He boiled water and made coffee. The first he’d had since he left home. With the bitter taste of it, he drank it only for its warmth. He waited for her to wake. He gathered everything up and put it in the truck. The sun was higher in the sky. Frank waited and took sips of whiskey followed by coffee flavored water. She stirred under the thin blanket and moaned as she lifted her head. Frank stood and helped her prop her back up against the tree.

  “You want coffee?”

  She nodded her head. “Need another pill or two. The pain is worse.”

  He helped her take them. Bruises cover her from head to toe. He noticed the knot on her forehead had darkened. She looked around, trying to see where they were.

  “Where are we?”

  “About five miles from Kosciusko. Just off the Natchez Trace.”

  She nodded her head, pretending to understand. He fixed her a cup of coffee. She gave a wince as she took a sip. He nodded his head while he held the mug.

  “Couldn’t find sugar?” she said.

  “No.”

  He stared at the road for a long while, lost in thought. Angela cleared her throat, and he returned his focus to helping her drink the coffee. Frank let her take her time as she sipped on the hot liquid. His gaze returned to the road. He moved his jaw from side to side and frowned. She looked at his squinting steel blue eyes.

  “I’ve been down this highway before,” he said. “Years ago, we traveled it from the Tennessee state line down to Natchez to gamble on a riverboat casino. It was a good weekend…” His voice trailed off as he lowered his head to look at the ground in front of him.

  Several long minutes passed before he lifted his head. He tilted the mug toward her and she shook her head. Angela gave him a despondent look.

  “I have to pee.”

  He helped her up. Frank pointed to a private spot behind a large oak tree and returned to getting ready to leave. He did not see her as she stood, waiting for him to look her way.

  “Hey.”

  He turned to her voice. “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to need some help,” Angela said.

  She held up her arms to remind him of her injuries. He shook his head, scolding himself, as he followed her. He stood behind her and unzipped her pants, pushed them down with his thumbs. His hands held under her arms as he leaned forward and lowered her to a squat. When she had finished, he lifted her, pulled her pants up, and fastened them. There was not a word spoken between them during the whole affair.

  He helped her back to the fire. Frank put the shoes on her feet and led her to the truck. She climbed inside, and he relieved his own bladder on the rear bumper, letting his stream run over the license tag. He heard a crow far off in the distance. It cawed only once, its voice echoed from the open field across the road. The day was already getting away from him, he wanted to be closer to the sea.

  Frank drove with the windows down. He smelled the warm air that rushed in. Angela rested her head against the door. He turned on the radio and increased the volume.

  “I found this. I only know three or four songs on it.” He skipped tracks until he found one. “Guess that makes me old.”

  She nodded her head. Her body was sore, her mind frayed, she wanted to rest. Frank could tell her condition would take time. He wondered if he had it in him, if he could help her, or if he was only trying to remind himself he still had some humanity hiding inside him. He turned from the road to drive along an overgrown graveled driveway.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I found that stuff in a house just up here. Seems they left everything like it was. It’s pretty well stocked, that is if you like sweet peas.”

  Ang
ela tried to sit up and look from the truck. The trees were a blur passing outside the window. Greens and browns, they streamed by in a linear smear past her heavy eyes. Frank stopped in front of a small wood frame house. It had white siding board, painted and slick, with red shutters hung beside the windows. Angela noted to herself that she would like to live in a house like it one day. Frank helped her inside. The smell of hardwood and cinnamon greeted her. She sat at the kitchen table while Frank brought in the bandages.

  “I was going to bring you here yesterday. But you were so weak. Your wounds were…I didn’t know if…” His voice trailed off.

  He stood in the doorway, holding the bags as he watched her. She let the tears fall as she looked around the room decorated with pictures of strangers and various knickknacks of chickens. Angela closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. He slid a chair out and sat down at the table across from her.

  “You hungry?”

  Angela watched him fidget with the edge of the dark brown table. She said, “No, not yet.”

  “There’s a wood heater over there, got plenty of wood outside. I can heat you some water on the top. Get you cleaned up.” He pointed into the living room. “I figure we can stay here until you’re better.”

  She nodded her head, sniffling as she stared at the floor. He sat and listened to her. Time passed while they sat in silence, the ticking of a clock on the wall counted off the minutes they spent hesitating. Frank stood and walked to the sink. He opened the cabinets, sorting through the goods. Can after can of sweet peas, stacked from bottom to top. He pulled a few out and set them on the counter.

  Strange things the sick people do.

  “I’m going to get some water from the cistern out at the back corner. Holler if you need me.”

  Frank disappeared outside, the sound of his steps on the hardwood of the porch was like a hammer striking. Angela wished she could plug her ears. The sound recalled memories she wanted to forget. She stood and walked into each room of the house. It was a museum to the way things were before, showing a simple life, a peaceful life. She walked into the small bathroom, the white and bright yellow colors were pleasing.

  Sunlight flooded in through the window, and the small sun catchers hung in the head of the frame produced patterns across the room. She watched the prism rainbows as they moved along the walls. A reflection came to her, purple and blue, dried blood, and split skin. She cried until it was a scream. When she could scream no more, she cried. Frank stood at the corner of the house and listened to her. The type of anguish she had was familiar to him. He felt the same from time to time.

  He warmed water in large boilers on the wood heater. Frank made trips to empty them into the bathtub and trips back outside to gather more. With quiet detachment, Angela sat silently on the toilet. Her eyes did not see him pour the water. Her ears did not register the sound. The steam rose into the air, creating a thin haze that distorted the prism rainbows. When he filled the tub, he removed her shoes and helped her to stand. He spoke to her with a gentle tone.

  “I need you to help me,” he said.

  He watched as she blinked and came back to the present. She raised her arms as he lifted the blood spotted shirt. She looked to see a blood-soaked square of bandage taped to each breast. Her eyes hunted for his as he carefully pulled them free. With a small pair of silvery scissors, he cut the saturated bandages from her wrists. He helped her to remove her pants. Frank lifted her up and lowered her into the water. The fresh scent of soap, the feeling of warm water over her body, it made her sigh and close her eyes. He wiped the grime from her arms and used fresh water from a pot to wash her wounds.

  Frank stood up from beside the tub when he had cleaned her. She looked at him as he held a glass of whiskey to her lips. She drank it all. The warmth was inside and out. He added more warm water and washed her hair. She relaxed as he poured her a second drink. With the fire of the liquor coursing through her body, she sighed as he rinsed her hair. The feeling of warm water pouring over her head was something she had missed. She smiled at him as his hand ran over her head, smoothing her hair from her face. His touch was deliberate but tender. He got from his knees and stood by the door.

  “What is your name?” she said.

  “Frank.”

  “I’m Angela.”

  “Hello, Angela.” He nodded to her.

  “Hello, Frank.” She smiled, casting a drowsy look up at him.

  “I’ll let you relax for a while. I’m going to cook us something to eat.”

  “Thank you, Frank.”

  She dozed off, his hand on her shoulder woke her from a strange dream. Out from the tub and dried off, she sat wrapped in a towel. He tended to her wounds and all of her cuts. His eyes lingered on the dark holes in her nipples after he had applied ointment delicately to them. She watched his puzzled eyes stare at them. He lifted his gaze to lock with hers.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he said.

  She cried in his embrace, he let her. Later he pulled a mattress in front of the heater and helped her lie down on it. He reappeared later with new clothes and a clean face. His appearance was night and day different. When she asked him to lay beside her, to keep her company, he obliged, and they both chased their demons through the night. He woke before she did. Coffee and breakfast of cookies awaited her. He lifted the cup and offered it to her to drink. She leaned her head forward and took a sip.

  “Who’s Clara?” Angela said.

  Frank’s body froze and his expression changed. He glanced at her eyes and back to the coffee cup. Long silent seconds passed as he held the cup in front of her face. The longer he stayed in the position, the more nervous she became. She thought to apologize to him, but he moved the cup closer to her mouth.

  “You better drink this before it gets cold.”

  Angela did not bring it up again.

  On the seventh day, he told her his intentions. She liked the idea of the warm coast. He promised to take her if she wanted to join him. Another week went by as they waited for her to feel like traveling again. Her wounds were not healing well. She feared what would happen if they did not. They sorted through the clothes in the closets, picking out some for her to wear. Frank brushed the knots from her hair while she read from a magazine. Later that day he packed the truck with their supplies and checked under the hood. They spent the last night at the house in silence. His decision to leave was final.

  “We could stay here. Make us a home.” She spoke as he helped her into the truck.

  “We could.” Frank pointed to the distant wall of smoke rising from the trees. “They may not want us to. I’m sure they’d be glad to burn us up.”

  She nodded her head. It was a fantasy, coming to her in the late hours as he slept. He drove from the house. The road passed under the tires, miles traveled with a relaxed calmness. They had a soundtrack. The music played for them until the end of the line. Frank stopped and leaned over the steering wheel. She looked at him, then at the signs. There were large white ones, with red letters, standing above the road. He stepped from the truck, climbed onto the cab, and looked ahead. Frank saw the highway outlined with miles of vehicles, rusted and flame gutted.

  He pulled his map out and ran his finger over it. He cranked the truck and they drove between the rows of metal. Angela tried to turn the radio off. Her uncontrollable fingers pushed buttons at random. A robotic voice filled the cab.

  “…the CDC, FEMA location in Jackson. Monthly transmission. Help is offered. A vaccine exists…”

  Frank pushed the button, and the voice disappeared. His fingers tapped the wheel, irritated. Angela looked at him, waiting for him to speak. He met with her eyes, a frown was on his face.

  “What do we do?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “We avoid it. There is no one left to vaccinate.”

  She shook her head in confusion, his response was insane to her.

  “What?” she said. “There are plenty of sick people—”

  “Yes, sick p
eople,” he said. Frank took a drink of whiskey. Pointed to her, and then poked his chest. “We’re immune to it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The only people left in this world are the sick and the immune. If we were going to get it, we would have already. It went airborne. Remember?”

  She sat in disbelief, her mouth agape. The thought of it all, after considering the harsh reality, and the memories of the brutal past. It made sense. She had to give him that. There was something else, unspoken, prominent and consuming. Angela held up her hands and showed the bloody patches on the white bandages. She turned to him, her eyes wide, hopeful.

  “What if they have a doctor?” she said.

  He stopped the truck and killed the engine. Moments passed as he focused on the instrument panel with his stare. After he heaved a loud sigh and slammed his hands on the steering wheel. Frank’s face of despair turned to meet hers of hope. He looked deep into her eyes.

  “Is that where you want to go?”

  Angela nodded. She said, “Yes.”

  He started the truck, pulled it into gear, and stomped on the accelerator. She slid beside him on the seat and rested her head against his shoulder. He put his arm around her. Trees and cars, they all went by his tired eyes. His mind drifted to the thought of sand, the grains under his bare feet.

  She noticed it first and sat up abruptly. He stopped and let the engine idle. Frank wiped his tired face with his hand and took another gulp of the brown liquor. A strange vision was ahead of them, he did not get out of the truck. He sat beside her and they both stared at it.

  What in the hell now?

  22

  Ben sat on a folding chair. Hours passed while he waited for Evan to wake. The potent smell of mildew hung in the air. He looked at the pale man’s face. Written in his sunken eyes was sickness. There were deep worry lines on his forehead, Ben’s father had them as well. He hoped one day he would have them also.

  Ben continued to watch and wait. His mind gnawed at an unshakable thought. He looked at Jessica and Amy, observing the way they acted. He mulled over it, that singular thought. The man cracked open his eyelids, weak at first, and then they opened wider. A smile spread across his lips.