Tribulations

by Richard Thomas

  He takes a step toward me and I pull the pistols and fire.

  He laughs.

  Looking down, my fists are held in front of me, my index fingers pointed out in his direction, thumbs cocked up.

  Empty.

  “No, my friend,” he says. “Not what I was looking for, I’m afraid.”

  And in the distance there is a single gunshot, a crack, loud and clear, and the boy looks down the hill toward where the shack must still stand, his face tightening and flushing red. I take a breath, and a second shot startles the air, a colony of bats escaping from two large, grey boulders to our right, from a deep slash in the earth, running off into the sky, as raindrops pelt the top of the forest.

  I stare at this boy, my hands open now, out in front of me, as if holding him back by sheer will.

  He walks closer and I cannot move, the boy up close, reaching into his dingy pants, pulling out a pocket knife, flipping it open, running the blade over the palm of his left hand. And then again, completing an “x.” He reaches up and I find myself bending over, while inside I scream no and run and godinheaven, but I cannot refuse him. He places his spread hand on my forehead, leaving a sticky red handprint, and then he steps away.

  “You may pass,” he says, exhaling.

  And for a moment I am a child again, scratching at my shaved head, the lice captured in a comb, their little legs scurrying about, the sink filled with hair, a trickle of blood, one nick of my head, the boy some distant echo, rippling out in time, a mirror image of what I once was. Turning back a single time, eyes squinting, he slips into the woods again, the crashing of bushes flattened, the creak and groan of a massive oak tipping down the hill, snapping off branches, and slamming to the earth.

  And then quiet.

  What lies on the other side of the mountain?

  I fear there is nothing left at all, just empty wishes and dirt.

  ****

  I spend the rest of the day in a hot daze working my way to the top of the mountain, pushing on, eager to make the top, so I can rest for a moment and gather my thoughts. Along the way, there are many signs that life and death have both come this way.

  After leaving the boy, I find an old, dead scrub oak, with nothing but empty branches, a long dark scar running down one side, as if struck by lightning, the grass around it burnt and flat. In the dry branches are pairs of shoes, tied together—swinging in the breeze. There are tiny white baby booties, small tennis shoes, hiking boots, anything with laces, suspended in the air, dark fruit that will never blossom. At the base of the tree are dozens of cowboy boots, sandals and anything without a lace—without the ability to hang. Perhaps not all made an offering here, these shoes remnants of their previous lives, their bones scattered up and down the hill, altars made from their empty skulls; perhaps some made it over this hill.

  I move on.

  An hour later I stumble across a small pit just off the path to the left, and for a moment I think it is filled with writhing snakes. But as the sun glints through the leaves, and the branches sway, the hole is illuminated in flashes of light, something sparkling in it, a hint of metal, and then I realize what it is. At the bottom of this hole are hundreds of belts, the metal catching light now and then, intertwined black and brown, woven hemp, not moving at all, just a trick upon my eyes.

  I keep moving.

  Finally, I reach the top of the mountain, the open space covered in rock and shale, a few scraggly pines and low bushes, the sky clear for miles in every direction. I can see the train tracks running north and south, but no sign of the great metal beast. I can see the tiny shack where Ben shared a meal with me, and the sterile desert to the south. And to the north, I can see open land, green grass and widespread growth, a whisper of smoke drifting up into the sky, and what looks to be a settlement of sorts, a few small buildings, too far to see any movement, but a sign of life, at least.

  There is hope.

  I take a moment to chew on the last of the jerky, to drink my water, and to prepare myself for what lies in wait. I had come to expect nothing, just the dust and dirt, a few remnants perhaps, ready to find only an echo of what had been before. Some must have made it over, a few at least, or perhaps they were from the other side, not making the journey south, aware of what lurks in the hills.

  I head down.

  The day slips past, hours unfolding one after the other, sweat coating my body, the sun dipping down over the horizon, and before it disappears, I emerge from the woods, making it to the flat lands, the path continuing on, right up to a few dilapidated buildings.

  Tents, teepees, and lean-tos are scattered around a few small cabins, most of them much like Ben’s, barely standing, cut from the woods around us, built by hand many years ago, faded and worn, but still upright. One larger structure looks as if it has been built in the past year, new wood, the cuts still fresh, the chimney spilling smoke into the air. In the middle of the grounds is a large fire pit, ringed with grey and white rocks, black ash filling the center, a boy and girl snapping branches, filling up the circle with dry wood, heading back and forth to the woods. The girl turns to me, drops the wood and lets out a scream.

  “Daddy!” she yells, and I drop my sack, my eyes beginning to water, as she flies to me, my Allie, dirty and smudged, a small red handprint on her forehead. I kneel in the dirt as she crashes into me, and I hold her, crying now, a great weight fluttering off into the sky.

  “How did you get over?” she asks, pulling back, looking at me, as my eyes run over her. She looks healthy, happy even, tears running down her dusty face.

  “I imagine much like you all did,” I said.

  “I knew you’d come, I knew you’d make it,” she says.

  I take a deep, uncertain breath.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Where’s your mother?” I ask, and her eyes go dark, her head dipping.

  Out of the structures, the main house, and the woods, more children emerge. They are all ages, all races, much like Allie—slightly dirty and dusty, some cuts and scratches, but not sickly, not dying, their arms filled with wood, or jugs of water, some carrying baskets with potatoes, carrots, and onions. They all wander over, their eyes wide, smiles slipping across their faces. On each of their foreheads is a singular, red blotch, some faded, some fresher, but all still remaining, not washed away, not erased. These handprints that were left in blood, the tributes have not been forgotten.

  A boy and girl emerge from the main house, older, but not much more than eighteen. They look tired, the girl holding an infant in her arms, the boy grasping her arm as they approach. They must be in charge.

  “This is my father,” Allie says, walking toward them.

  I hold out my hand, and the boy shakes it, the girl smiling, whispering to her baby, as she bounces it up and down.

  “Is this it?” I ask. “Where’s your mother, Allie, the other parents?”

  I look around at the children, the red marks on their foreheads, and I understand.

  “She’s not here, Daddy,” Allie says, walking back to me, grasping my hand. “There was a price to pay, the offering on the hill.”

  The boy nods his head and speaks up. “There were choices to be made,” he says, “And our parents made them. The way of the old world is gone, destroyed,” he says. “This is a new beginning, a second chance.”

  I take a breath, and hold my daughter’s hand. I look into the faces of the children, the way they stand close to one another, the wood, the water, the food—united in their efforts, the echo of their parents’ sacrifice branded on their skin.

  “Do you have room for one more?” I ask.

  The boy looks at my forehead, the red stamp, down at my daughter, and laughs.

  “Of course we have room,” he says. “We’re working on the fire right now,” he says. “Gets cold around here at night,” he chuckles, “as I’m sure you know. Not as bad as the other side, but still—pretty frigid. Come rest by the ring, catch up with your daught
er, we have water, food—come, sit. It’ll be dark soon.”

  Allie leads me by the hand toward the bonfire, and the children follow us, laughing and asking questions, their hands on me, just a little touch here and there, making sure I’m real, something new, something familiar, and then they disperse into the woods, back to work. I am an exciting part of their day, but they know what comes at night, and to survive, there must be fire, there must be heat. We sit and talk, unable to release each other, holding hands, her climbing into my lap. Beyond the houses crops grow, the dead desert south of us gone, the fertile soil here ripe for growth, no nuclear winter, no death and disease, the mountain, perhaps, separating the living from the dead. I don’t think too hard about it—I simply hold my daughter, and breathe.

  About the Author

  Richard Thomas is the author of six books—Disintegration and Breaker (Random House Alibi), Transubstantiate (Otherworld Publications), and two short story collections, Herniated Roots (Snubnose Press) and Staring Into the Abyss (Kraken Press), as well as one novella in The Soul Standard (Dzanc Books). With over 100 stories published, his credits include Cemetery Dance, PANK, Gargoyle, Weird Fiction Review, Midwestern Gothic, Arcadia, storySouth, Qualia Nous, Chiral Mad 2 & 3, Gutted and Shivers VI. He has won contests at ChiZine and One Buck Horror, and has received five Pushcart Prize nominations to date. He is also the editor of four anthologies: The New Black and Exigencies (Dark House Press), The Lineup: 20 Provocative Women Writers (Black Lawrence Press) and Burnt Tongues (Medallion Press) with Chuck Palahniuk and Dennis Widmyer. In his spare time he is a columnist and teacher at LitReactor, an instructor at the University of Iowa Summer Writing Festival, and Editor-in-Chief at Dark House Press. His agent is Paula Munier at Talcott Notch. For more information visit www.whatdoesnotkillme.com.

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