By what exactly. By fucking what exactly.
Why was the world like this? What destroyed everything that he knew? Why couldn’t he remember? Why was he this?
For the first time, he let his anger boil, leaning over to savagely dig for the heart of the beast. “There’s a reason,” he declared, tearing through the sheets of red muscle and fat. “There has to be a reason.” He peeled through more layers of meat, finally revealing the heart. With an almost incredible strength, he tore it from the corpses, it slowly beating in his palm. “And I’m going to find out.”
One hunger may have been averted, but another still festered. A lone bear, no matter the size, couldn’t satisfy the craving for the truth. Just like this heart, he was going to rip the history of this mistake out of a corpse.
_
Graham made it back to the camp. He had washed a lot of the blood from his purpled flesh. What was left was only from the lacerations from his rot. For a couple of moments, he laid on his back looking up to the ceiling of the dark room. As much as he tried to convince himself he was tired—a concept that was harder said than done—his body refused to rest. The meal was sustainable, so he felt no need of the sleeping process.
Alas, he would have enjoyed the escape as opposed to the staying up doing nothing.
He closed his eyes again, trying to force himself asleep. Maybe it was the bed, last time he slept outside. That wouldn’t help right now. He sat up, rubbing the corners of his eyes. “Dammit, David. Should’ve gotten more sleep when you could.” As Corporal, he hardly even slept. Now, he wished that he had. Escaping from the dark, Private First Class R.J. Andres had called it.
Somehow no matter what he did or what he went through, R.J could sleep at night. Graham only remembered vaguely how the man did it. The words escaped him, lost in the core of his memories. I wish I knew, RJ.
A knocking of the door saved Graham from his endless pondering.
He got to his feet, successfully finding his boots this time, before answering the door.
Wood stood, sleepy-eyed and obviously somewhat irritable, in the door way. He scratched the green stubble on his chin. “Uncle wants you…” he muttered, yawning.
“For what exactly?”
“Planning…”
“Planning for what?”
Wood shrugged lazily. “Planning for planning. Damn if I know.” He gave another yawn. “He wants you there. I’ll drag you there if I have to. Missing valuable sleeping time.”
“You sleep damn near all day when Drifter’s protected.”
“You try transformin’ into an acid spitting monstrosity on a command…”
Graham couldn’t argue with that. “Lead on.”
The two men ventured crossed the camp not sharing a word. Though it was nighttime, the caravan was still too quiet. A few of the lights were on, dimly flickering through some of the steel shutters. Nearly everyone was up, Graham guessed. That’s unusual. Normally, despite everything, the caravan slept soundly with the guards patrolling—at least in his time here. The only thing that he could assume was that something was going down and something that the Drifter probably didn’t like.
Wood opened the door to him and his father figure’s RV without a knock. Graham followed, extending at least that courtesy with a rap of his knuckles on the open door.
“Graham,” the Drifter bellowed, “Come in, son. Come in. No need to be so….” He searched for a word.
“Civil,” Wood answered, plopping face down on the nearest couch.
“Civil! That’s a good word! Come, come in?”
Drawing a deep breath out of pure nerves, Graham entered, closing the door behind him.
Drifter, his long white hair ablaze with orange color from the candle, sat comfortably in a recliner. Beside him was Heron, dressed in her leather vest and equipped now with her sword and pistol. The Scottish brothers sat opposite of them, both with ale in hand; only Pub had a cigar dangling from the corner of his lips. Crisium and Tyrus stood in the back of the RV armed considerably well.
Graham took in the surroundings, and for fleeting seconds, he felt unsafe. What are you doing? His hand touched the gun in his holster. You’re on edge; you’re paranoid that this might be about you. Trust them. Only Heron and Drifter saw the motion. The former scoffed. The latter smiled, pushing back a laugh. “You should take a seat, trigger-finger…” Heron gave a cold look after speaking, glaring at the seat covered completely by the half-sleep Wood. Graham remained where he was.
Haggis gulped down his ale. “What? Ya don’t trust us, after all we been through. Breaks my heart, I tell ya.”
“Don’t wound ‘em, brother? He’s just defensive—aye, Drift?”
Drifter jerked his head back, eyes still looking directly ahead. Graham hadn’t seen that face from the man. The old man peered over his glasses. Graham didn’t flinch. Inside his stomach bubbled. Whether it was from the food or the sudden insecurity, he didn’t’ know.
“Trust—that didn’t stop you from joining us, what has changed, I wonder?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course, you don’t. Let me give you a lesson. Trust isn’t bad or good. It’s a concept, an idea. It only changes when something’s added to the mix or taken away. What have you added? What did you take away? What’re you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
Drifter pulled off his broken glasses. “But you are and I wonder what that is, Mr. Graham.” He cleaned the bronze rim of his glasses with his dirt covered tank top. “Little white feather,” Heron nodded, “Would you mind…fetch me my meal?”
Despite watching Heron disappear into the kitchen area, Graham felt the meaning of the statement. He knew. Somehow, someway, he had figured out what he needed to eat. Mind games were far from his expertise. Yet he knew he just lost one. Drifter just smiled in his victory. “Oooh. You’re horrible at this game. Alas, that’s not why you are here.”
The rest of the room seemed to take in a large exhale at the same time. Heron came back with bread, dried meat, and a mug of water on a small tray, sitting it in Drifter’s lap. “I called you here for something different—“Drifter grabbed his cane, knocking Wood on the head. “Other people are allowed to sit, my boy.”
With a few grumbles, Wood forced himself upright, entire body curled up within the chair. Heron took her place beside him. Graham followed suit albeit stiffly.
“What I called you here for is something completely different?” Drifter sipped his water. “A scout of mine was killed the other day.”
Crisium shifted from her post. “Was it Stella?”
Tyrus eyed Crisium from the corner of his eyes. “You seem way too happy if it was.”
“I should’ve killed her when I had the chance, Ty.”
Drifter stroked his beard. “But she had her uses, even now. They say she was killed in a fire.”
“Remind me how that helps again?” Pub asked, blowing a ring of smoke.
Drifter said nothing. Like a good showman, he took the chance to instill some suspense. Dinner kept his attention. He completed small bites of his bread, and chewed slowly on his deer meat. After he finished those, he drained his cup dry, licking his lips. “I gotta hunch she was killed by the demon that’s trailing us.”
“Or she flipped her candle over with her fat?” Haggis sipped his ale, suppressing the laugh from his own joke. His brother gave no such respect, almost choking on his cigar from his laughter.
Heron rolled her eyes. “Can you two please allow Drifter to explain before you continue your horrid jokes?”
The brothers looked at each other, as to continue their joke in private with their eyes. “Yes ma’am!”
Always jokers amongst the group. It was a reassuring thought. Without them, the world would have gone mad long before all of this happened. Graham balled his fist. It was silly not to trust them enough with this...condition. But like Drifter said, trust was a concept. It chang
ed often. So it was better to be cautious than not. “Back to the topic, why do you think that she was killed by a demon?”
Drifter helped himself to the rest of his bread, passing the rest of the meal to his nephew. “She was far too cowardly to die in fire. Besides, the way my watchers tell me about the body—or lack thereof—I can safely say that we have a demon trailing us or ahead of us.”
“It’s River.”
“River?” Graham scanned the crowd, looking for an answer. He found none. Finally, he turned to the speaker, who snapped off a piece of jerky into his mouth.
“River Valentine,” Wood repeated. Graham had never seen a grin so wide from the man. “We have some unsettled business.”
Drifter cackled. “We do, don’t we?”
No one else seemed to jump into the joy of it all.
This woman or girl was dangerous. Graham could tell by the way everyone was breathing. “So she’s priority if we have to fight her.”
“I’ve seen her before. Crazy girl, no older than 17 or 18. Are you willin’ to kill someone like that?” Haggis asked. It wasn’t a question of could, more than would he if the choice arose.
Graham pondered it for a while. “She’s dangerous. Do I have a choice?”
Wood chewed his food. “Yeah, you have a choice. Kill her. If not, I’m sure as hell that you won’t like the one that’s left.”
_
The blood smelled like honey in his nose. Ragnar chose not to steal it from the “bees” that produced it right now.
Ragnar was dressing wounds. It wasn’t an unheard of concept. As the Cannibal Pack-King, yes, it may have been foreign. The man behind it all was not unaccustomed to touching blood as well. Mostly he stopped it. He was a doctor, a trauma surgeon to be exact. He was skilled, one of the best that ever touched the profession in many people’s eyes. The best part, he was happy, truly happy. The sweetness of a good day’s work wasn’t enough to save him anymore.
There were times where he would regress. No, probably progress back to his better self. It usually happened when he saw certain people hurt. Anyone that looked like an old patient or an old family member sparked it. His mind would automatically assess what’s wrong. Before he knew it, he was pushing people out of the way, treating the wounds with anything that he had on him. It was a painful instinct at times. A man once lived in this flesh, that man believed in something better.
But he wasn’t that man. “He” wouldn’t eat these people to survive the next day.
“It shouldn’t hurt any more, just don’t scratch it.”
The little girl looked at the bandage for a moment, already resisting the urge to itch. Fearfully, she nodded. Was this a kind face that she was used to? No. A bearded axe murderer was the last thing she wanted to see. But, on the same breath, she wasn’t going to have an infection tonight. The same small infection that killed so many people in this sticks and mud town, he thought.
“Run along now,” Ragnar edged on.
She ran away, auburn locks in the wind behind her. He gave a sigh, shifting himself on the ground, mud covering his shredded pants.
“Raggy still has a soft spot for playing doctor!”
Ragnar frowned, as he cleaned his bloody hands; the blood seeped into the colorless water of a bucket. He gave a large grunt, licking the rest clean that he couldn’t wash. “I wasn’t playing “doctor” River. I am a doctor. That didn’t precipitously change overnight.” Though a lot of other things did.
River smiled, twirling into Ragnar’s sight. The two of them wore cloaks to the village, in case someone saw them. She had no qualms in burning the city down if someone was stupid enough to try and kill them. Ragnar, however, thought it would be a better idea. For a man who could slip easily into rage and murder, he was soft at times. “Weakness is cute, you know. That’s the only real thing it’s good for.” She cocked her head to see the man’s face under the mottled hood.
He looked to her with a dark glare. “A little weakness breeds a lot of strength. But you wouldn’t know about that, little girl.” Ragnar gritted his yellow teeth like a bear. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
River ran her fingers through the mess of Ragnar’s beard, looking at him—or rather through him. “I did what I came to do, of course.” She paused for a second, processing the previous statement. “But, Raggy,” she whispered, void of tendrils of her jubilant tone, “I know about weaknesses. I watched mine die.” She traced his face with her index finger down his cheekbone.
A sting followed the movement of her fingers, slowly burning where her skin touched his. “You are very lucky that I enjoy your company.”
River felt the cold touch of a knife—or rather a scalpel—at her throat. “You are lucky that I need yours.”
The stalemate lasted a few long seconds, each feeling each other out in case of any changes in plans. None could work without the other. So, they broke away staring at each other with contempt. River was the first to change her expression, adopting her smile again. She brushed her hair from her face. “Not yet, Raggy! We have better things to do! We have a party to set up, silly. What kind of host would we be if we weren’t there first?”
Ragnar opened his mouth to speak.
“A bad host! That’s what kind of host we would be. Who would come to River Valentine’s parties if I have a bad host reputation!”
“Everyone knows to avoid your parties…”
“Stop being a party pooper.” River slapped him on a head, as though they were the best of friends. “The Boneyard is already a few miles away, and I’ve set a trap for the Drifter. It should allow my—“she giggled for a moment, “My—“she tapped her chin. “My buddy to meet with his side of the bargain. We can’t exactly attack a well-armed caravan on our own…can we?”
“I had some men.”
“And they died! Imagine that!”
Foam fumed from the corners of Ragnar’s lips. He knew that. A lot of men, maybe not the best men, died that day. Drifter and his new undead toy had killed them. Men that he had known for years were dead at that soldier’s hands. And Drifter, well…he had started the crack in Ragnar’s mind, the crack the killed Dr. Scott Owen. Working with River was means to an end. It was fleeting until he accomplished his goal, then she would be dead. Alliances didn’t need to be long.
When one side got what they wanted, the bonds keeping them together would crumble. He would wait, take on her games and her jokes. That would be until he saw the chain that kept them together at his feet. Ragnar reeled in the fury in his heart. “Joke all you wish. I’m going to get what I want…”
“And I’m going to get what I want!” She danced around him, moving like water. “But will you...” River ran her fingers down to Ragnar’s stomach. “What you wanted sat at the bottom of your tummy. Did that little girl remind you of her? How did your wife and unborn daughter taste?”
By reflexes alone, River managed to dodge the arch of the battleaxe raining down towards her head. The heavy weapon slammed into the ground, ripping through the thick mud as though it was butter. “Don’t ever talk about them…”
“Blame Drifter all you want. You’re the one that killed her. Hehehe.” River backed away. “Maybe I pushed too many buttons. Have a nice day, Raggy!”
Ragnar clutched the axe, watching the young girl skip away once again. One day, she wouldn’t be skipping away. That day she would look down at her broken legs, begging for every mercy to every god she could fathom. None of them would listen to her prayers. They would just smile, watching as one of the other riders to hell sent her there early. That would be a good day. That would be the best.
9
Mangroves and Pine Straw
“A distant memory set off a film of colors in his head. Tangled roots curling underneath still water, the spicy smell of the pine trees and moss, it reminded him of home. Gears in his mind began to churn
Preparation and fear knew each other fairly well, Graham wagered. The
news of River spread from ear to ear. Younger members panicked at the thought of such a person. Older people kept their cool, but were still frighten as they held their children’s hands and told them it was going to be okay. The “Messenger” they had called her. When she came, problems arose. They were going to have to deal with these problems.
That’s why this marksmen training felt today.
The caravan themselves were only a few miles away from the village of Rootgrove, a small settlement on the border of what was Georgia and Florida. Rootgrove sat on St. Mary’s River, nearing the Okenokee Swamp. Through there was the only real entrance into the safe haven in the radioactive hotspot of the Boneyard. Whoever was pursing or setting a trap for them would undoubtedly be at the village or at the entrance of the treacherous death grounds.
So, his little group would need to be ready.
Marksmen training had been going rather smoothly, in comparison to physical training. The state of the world had taught everyone one thing, how to use a gun. If you didn’t know, the men with more skill or “unique” gifts would get to you first. However, this wasn’t just learning how to shoot. Anyone can point a gun and fire. A true master needed to learn how to shoot: when, where, and how. Fingers needed to be primed, eyesight keen, all the while having their breath held or regulated. They weren’t learning how to shoot, they were mastering it.
Drifter had provided them with several guns for practice. They had carried them away to the deeper parts of the mangroves, trudging through water and mud to get here. Weapon training was required, but they could risk being heard in the openness of the land. Here, amongst the trees and the canopy of thousands of leaves, only the animals could hear. If they became a threat, then Graham would handle them.
Graham chose to let them all master one weapon, the M16, first before progressing into a suitable main and secondary weapon of their choosing. The choice between that and the M4 weighed in Graham’s mind as he talked to Raleigh before this. M16 won out a bit more, due to his fondness of it and the natural learning curve of the weapon. He guided them through the proper techniques; handling, operation, maintenance, and shooting. His words held meticulous detail, each topic with the care that his instructors had taught him.
Dusk Territories: Always Burning Page 12
