The Trace Trilogy (Book 1): The Wretched

by R. James Faulkner

  Angela cried out as the pain came bleeding through the shock. She cried out as memories crashed against the inside of her skull. The void took her into its numbing embrace of silence within darkness. Angela heard a voice calling to her. It said “Behold” and she tried to open her eyes.

  45

  He ran until his feet touched soft grass under his soles. Exhausted, Frank fell to the ground beside a small tree. His lungs burned, breathing came in labored gasps. He wanted to run farther, to put miles between his body and that building. His mind was divided on whether to flee for his safety or stay to find her. He slapped his head in frustration and forced himself to decide.

  Would she do it for me? Was she already gone, getting her own self to safety?

  Frank looked into the bright dawn sky, the air was warm on his skin, and his eyes concentrated on the small white clouds above. He closed them and focused on what he should do.

  Stay or leave? Run or heel like a good puppy?

  When they opened again, he saw several buds at the ends of a tree branch. It was spring, the rebirth of the world. It was a fresh start.

  I’m not that man anymore.

  He stood up and looked for a weapon. A length of steel bar stuck from the ground and held a tattered plastic sign tethered. His arms worked it back and forth until it was free. He began his walk back to the place he had escaped. Frank shook his head and grumbled to himself of his own stupidity. He stepped back onto the concrete.

  The sounds of men in the distance echoed across the empty spaces between supports and old metal canisters. The fire spread across the gray-white building, smoke rose into the sky, and black ash drifted to the ground. It fell like a light snow to the sterile cement, coating everything with soot. He trotted to the end of the ramp and watched the flames puff from the boards he had slid underneath before. No others came behind him. They had chosen to let the fire have their bodies so that their painful existence would end.

  Frank walked to the north along the sidewalk and surveyed the windows for signs of Angela. He did not know if she was inside, or if she had already made it into the empty streets that surrounded him. Resolving to make a pass around the burning building, he decided if he did not see her soon he would head south.

  He marched forward with no hope of finding her but determined to try. He saw a man sitting on a metal bench, slumped against it. His head hung down as he cried in sorrow. Frank trod light steps past while the man’s back was turned to him until he noticed something the man possessed.

  “Nice boots.”

  Frank brought the metal rod down against the man’s turning head. The man fell from the bench, his body was limp when he came to rest on the cement walkway. Frank pulled his old boots from the man’s feet and shook them to free any trapped bits that may have been stuck inside. He slipped them on and felt the comfort of having something familiar. He pulled the gun from the dead man’s holster and checked it as he walked on. It felt good to be armed again.

  There were only distant fading voices. The engulfing flames had scattered them away from its heat. Frank felt he might be the last one anywhere near the old hospital, roaming it like a ghost. Unaware he should move on, but too stubborn to let it go. If he had to haunt forever the little spans of soil that lined the building to find her, then he was at peace with it.

  She was something to him, something that lacked definition, but something that was important to him. He wanted to help her, protect her, and he could not identify the reason why. She may have reminded him of his past, he was not sure, but he felt a draw to her presence. It had to be a deficiency in his brain, his mind rattled and affray. That was the conclusion he reached while he stepped over the body of a dead soldier. Still, he sought the damaged woman he hardly knew because he needed to find her. He needed her to be there with him when he found his place in the world, his place of silence.

  His pace became desperate, and he jogged the best he could on tired legs. He ran from concrete to dead grass and back to concrete, moving over broken refuse and weathered bones of unknown creatures. The smell of acrid smoke was in the gentle breeze.He could not see through the haze of lung burning fumes. His eyes watered from the sting of the infused air. With his hands before him, feeling along a ramped walkway, he came to be on a high platform. Stairs to his right and doors of blackened glass to his left, he had a choice to make. He almost considered going back inside, until the doors opened. And with them parting, the flames birthed the blackened remains of a wailing guard running outward.

  The man fell to the rough grit of the platform, his flesh blistered as he writhed in agony, and smeared pieces of his scorched skin on the concrete. He rolled over onto his back and Frank could see the exposed bone of his jaw split apart from the heat. The sound of the man’s anguish was silenced by the pull of a trigger. The last breath escaped from his unusable lungs with a long gurgling sigh. Frank lowered the gun and tucked it back into the waist of his pants. They had not shown him mercy. But he was not like them. The world might be different now, moving to the pull of unusual strings, and controlled by a strange new system. But he was Frank, and Frank was capable of compassion.

  He walked down the small flight of steps and saw the street that led south. It was time for him to accept the harsh truth she may already be in the next town. She may have escaped and without hesitating, fled to find her own safety. He could not blame her, he might have done the same thing if he were in her position. But he knew even if she were still inside, burned alive waiting for him to find her, he would never let his mind hold that. He would create a fantasy, one where she had escaped and found her way to her own private beachfront. In his mind, she would live out the rest of her days, unconcerned with what happened to him. Never once would she think back on him, the foolish man she tricked into helping her. His mental picture would have her sipping mixed drinks and laughing about how she bested them all. How she survived and found a place of peace, one of silence.

  Above all odds, he saw her walk from behind a sidewall. She was naked and dragging a dirty white gown in her hand. He ran to her and called her name repeatedly, but she could not hear him. He got closer to her and saw her damaged body riddled with the cuts and dark bruising. She moved forward with slow exhausted steps from the sooty ashes that poured from the sky. Her head teetered from side to side as she walked. He called out her name louder, he shouted for her to see him. He screamed it so she could find him.

  She saw him with weeping eyes. Her bloody contorted mouth tried to speak when she saw him. Her arms reached and he came to her, and held her to him. He could never understand what she had to endure, what physical manipulations they made on her body. But she was with him again, and he would help her once more. She fell limp into his chest, her strength was gone, and he lifted her into his arms. He carried her from that place, putting step after step between them and it. He did not look back. There was no need to. What he left behind in those dark hallways could stay there. He did not need it any longer and never wanted it again. Frank walked southward.

  46

  She opened her eyes to see vivid yellow rays of light coming through a large window. Small grains of dust floated in drifting specks of brightness. It reminded her of her childhood home in a way she could not explain. A small mason jar, full of yellow daffodils, sat on a table beneath the window. Her hands slid along the clean white sheets and the soft blanket. Angela saw the room decorated with pictures of mountains and waterfalls. She rubbed her good eye to clear it of sleep.

  “You’re awake. I was beginning to worry.”

  Frank carried a small tray with various foods on it. He sat it on the bedside table and pointed out the items.

  “Fig bars, dried fruit mix, and chocolate.”

  Angela tried to sit up and winced from the pain. She felt his hand on her shoulder.

  “No,” he said. “Just rest. I have pain medicine here, and you need to get started on some antibiotics.”

  He placed two small bottles on the bedside table. She l
ooked at his bruised face and let out a long sigh. He nodded his head. They both sat in silence, lost in thought of what happened to them. Angela looked at her hands and saw the cuts scabbed over.

  She said, “How long have—”

  “Three days,” he said. “I found a truck that would crank and loaded you inside. It took two days to get here. I had to find gas, and it wasn’t easy. We made it here three days ago.”

  Frank looked at her and put his right hand on the bruised ribs of his left side. She shook her head, and the flowers caught her eye again. Angela focused on the delicate yellow petals as he talked.

  “We had to go around the blockade on the interstate. There were so many vehicles. Most of them were burned or crushed by the ones behind them. I got turned around on some of the country roads and was lost for half a day. There was a woman and her little girls…she…I had to…”

  Frank put his hand to his eyes and pressed hard at his closed eyelids. Angela watched as he wiped tears from his cheeks. She did not try to stop or console him. It was better to let the shame out, she thought, it makes it easier to live with the sin. Frank stood and went to the window. He pulled a flower from the clear glass jar and ran his finger over the green stem.

  “It’s spring,” he said. “The weather will be getting warmer now.”

  “Where are we?”

  “North of the beach,” he said. “This is the safest looking house I could find. Luck would have it, this place has a large stock of food in the basement. There’s enough to last for a long time.”

  She pushed herself upright on the bed despite the pain and folded her hands over her sore abdomen. Frank joined her on the bed and sat on the edge beside her. He placed the flower into her hand. She lifted it and smelled the fresh cut scent as she looked out the window.

  “Somebody stockpiled it?” Angela said. She twirled the flower under her nose, and let the petals brush her lip. “I wonder what happened to them.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. He rubbed his forehead as he leaned forward. “I think it was the owner I found out in the backyard wearing a dog collar and chained to a tree.”

  “Is he still alive, or did you have to kill him?”

  “No,” he said. “He was dead for a long time before I found him.”

  “Do you think there are others like us here?”

  Frank shook his head and lowered his gaze to the floor. He said, “No one’s around this area. It’s just us.”

  “You see anyone else make it out?”

  “No,” he said. Frank rubbed his temples with his fingers. “I didn’t see any.”

  “What about that girl and her family?”

  “I didn’t see any of them again.”

  She glanced down at the clean bandages on her wrists, squeezed her hands into fists, and opened them again. The wounds still felt tender, but she was far better than she had been. Frank took the gauze off her right wrist so she could see how she was healing. He picked up a small tube of ointment from the table and gently held her wrist. She watched as he dabbed some on the red spot in the center of the wound. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

  “Those are looking better.” He looked into her eyes and let out a sigh. “At least that crazy son of a bitch took care of them.”

  Angela grabbed his hand as he started to pull away from her. He saw the look on her face and nodded his head.

  “If I had known it would happen,” she said. “If I had known…”

  “You couldn’t have.”

  Frank stood and walked from the room. He came back with a small glass and a jug of drinking water. She held the glass while he filled it for her. Angela drank several glassfuls before her thirst was satisfied. They sat in silence and watched the sun sink lower on the horizon. Frank left her again and returned an hour later with a few candles and a box of matches. He stood beside a dresser on the opposite side of the room.

  “When it gets dark I’ll close the curtains,” he said. “It’s better not to advertise that we are here.”

  “Do you think any of them survived and could find us?”

  “You mean the other captives or those sons of bitches?”

  Angela lifted the glass and held it close to her mouth. She said, “Those sons of bitches.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll ever have to worry about them again.”

  “I hope that evil bastard died inside that place,” she said. Angela pressed the rim of the glass to her chin.

  “The doctor?”

  Angela nodded her head. To speak his name, to acknowledge him by profession, was too revolting to her. She chose not to honor him by saying it again.

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “He did.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Frank leaned against the far wall and lowered his head. After a long pause, he shifted his weight to his right leg and held his damaged ribs. He looked her in the eyes. An image came to his mind, and he shuddered. Frank turned his head to face the window.

  “Because I killed him before the fire started,” he said. “I crushed his fucking throat with my bare hands.”

  She nodded her head again and let out a long cleansing breath.

  “I hope you made him suffer.”

  “I did,” Frank said. “But no amount of suffering would ever be enough. No amount of pain would make up for what he did. So we’ll just have to accept the fact he is dead. The best thing we can do is forget he ever existed.”

  Angela agreed with him and leaned her head back to rest on the pillow. Frank drew the curtains shut and lit the candles. He placed them around the room. The soft yellow light gave the bedroom a peaceful atmosphere. She asked him to sit with her for a while. He sat at the foot of the bed with his back to her.

  “How did you get out?”

  “There was a loose board in the place they held us,” Frank said. “I was able to push it out of the way when the fire started. How did you?”

  Angela stared at the cobwebs hanging from the textured ceiling. She said, “I did what I had to do.”

  Frank did not speak as he moved his head in agreement. She tried to lift the water jug and pour more into the glass, but she lacked the strength. Frank noticed and took the jug from her and filled her glass. He sat back down on the bed closer to her and brushed the hair from her eyes. There was more he could say to her about the ordeal but he did not want to continue the conversation. He looked at the purple dots on the inside of her elbows, and the sight made him uneasy.

  Angela appeared absent, and her gaze seemed focused a thousand miles away. She could tell by the way his eyes studied hers that he knew something was wrong. She reached out, took his hand in hers, and patted it as she worked out what she needed to say. For several minutes she held onto his warm fingers, stroking the veins on the back of his hand with her fingertip. She waited until her mind was clear on the choice of words and prepared to respond to any answer he gave.

  “Where did you get the pain medicine?”

  “At a drug store,” he said. “Down the street from here.”

  “Do you think you could get something from there for me?”

  “Like what?”

  He focused on her somber face. She knew he understood when she rubbed her lower abdomen. She tried to hold back the tears, not wanting to make it feel worse than it did at that moment. He stared at her hand, and his face told that he knew what it was she wanted. He shook his head and stepped back from her. She tried to stop him, but he slipped from her grip on his hand.

  Frank turned to walk from the room and stopped at the doorway. He became still and lowered his head. The air became still as well. Nothing moved until he took a long deep breath and without facing her, told her his answer.

  “No,” he said. “I will not be part of that. I’m sorry.”

  He slipped past the doorway and into the darkness of the hall. Angela shouted at him as he walked away.

  “I can’t do this,” she said. “You can’t make me. I won’t. Not like this. Not aft
er…”

  She cried aloud, cursed him, and shouted threats. He did not return to the room that night. The candles burned until the wicks were gone. One by one, they went out, and she saw the room slowly dim until she was in the dark. After a time, she fell asleep and dreamt of the pale woman. Angela woke, and the room was still dark. She reached down, touched the part of the blanket that was between her thighs, and relaxed when she felt nothing other than the soft material of the blanket. Angela lie back on the bed and cried silent tears as she wrapped her arms around her chest. She knew then what dreams would haunt her and what fears the dark would produce.

  What have I become?

  ─•••─

  Frank went to the largest room on the lower floor. He grabbed a wooden chair from under the small breakfast table and sat it in front of a sliding glass door. With an unopened bottle of rum in his hand, he stared out into the moonlit night beyond the large window. It was a hard decision for him to make. He had been without any form of alcohol for several weeks, and he was not sure if he wanted to start again.

  He rotated the thick glass bottle in his hand with a slow methodic speed. The heft of it, the sound of the liquid moving inside, they were as familiar to him as the sound of his own breathing. He placed the bottle on the floor in front of his feet and stared at the white metal cap. Frank told himself a dozen reasons why he should drink it, but he had only one for why he did not need to.

  After debating it for a long while, he lifted the bottle off the floor and twisted the cap free. He could smell the liquor even before he lifted it closer to his nose. Frank took a deep breath and placed the mouth of the bottle to his lips. As he tilted the bottom up, his eye caught the shape of something at the edge of the overgrown backyard. He lowered the bottle, stood up, and went to the glass door.