I tried to help people whenever I could, within reason. But I was only fourteen, a ward-of-the-state runaway living with some meth heads, so I was careful. I tried to stay below the radar and wanted to keep it that way, otherwise that shoplifting stuff might catch up with me.
It was chilly, damp, and this poor old guy looked like a rumpled gray paper shopping bag. I thought he might be the homeless guy people around town called Mumbles, but I wasn’t sure. Never got that close to him before. This guy smelled awful, like the wet pine needles of the earthy woods mixed with piss, body odor, fear, and the stale stench of days ago beer. There was also quite a lot of blood.
That brisk October evening in New Hampshire was the first time I had ever witnessed that much blood, in all its forms. First, the caked blood: dirty dark dried blood above his dingy sneakers where the bear trap took a hungry bite of his calf, just above the ankle. Then the blood on his arms, sleeves, and hands where he clearly tried to free himself from this deathtrap. And there was sticky reddish blood directly around the wound that looked like a messy finger painting.
I knew I had a better angle than he ever would, so I tried to pry the powerful trap open. I pulled and strained and let the metal dig into my palms as I pulled.
It’s so much harder to open than I imagined.
“Sorry, dude. That thing’s a beast.”
Nope, not going to happen.
Tried to get the spike out of the ground but couldn’t do that either.
He was out there in the hidden Manchester woods, and likely going to die there. He knew the risks.
Being alone, being homeless, being invisible: nobody notices, nobody cares, nobody comes for you.
This accident was the embodiment of what it says on those New Hampshire license plates: Live free or die.
“I’m trying to help you because I’m it. Without me, you’re done.”
I could barely hear his light, strained breath of unconsciousness. But in that moment I imagined that he gave me full approval to do whatever I could to save him.
“Gotcha.”
So I made a choice.
I’ll help him, somehow.
A choice I would both regret and revel in for the next four years, and one that would set my entire world on a path I had never seen ahead of me.
When I looked down at him again, feeling helpless to free him but powerful enough to save him, I knew I had to find him some help, find a house, a person. The trees in those shrouded afternoon woods proved to be pretty isolated. I ran to the closest house, a small single cottage which was quite far away, and after taking a brief moment to reconsider, pounded on the front door. I needed someone to help me get this guy out of this bear trap before he died of exposure, thirst, starvation, loss of blood, or shock. All the vultures were stalking Mumbles that day.
I pounded the faded old door again with the bottom part of both my fists. “Hello!” I called out a couple times. “Anybody home? I need some help out here.”
Nothing.
The homeless guy probably called out for a while too when he first got bit by the deadly steel shark in the woods.
I need to get home soon.
That’s when I imagined some crazy old Live-Free-or-Die hunter who lived behind that weathered door was probably responsible for putting that nasty trap in the woods in the first place. And I bet he even died a few winters ago and nobody knew or cared about what he did either.
I guess that ornery old bird gets to take another one with him to the afterlife.
“You caught Mumbles, dude,” I said to the door with a serious amount of venom, feeling protective now of the poor old rabbit caught in the snare.
I should go get the guy some water, or food, and probably go all the way into town and call the cops. Well, that’s problematic. I’d have to ditch the stuff I swiped and they’d want to see ID, and I’d have to lead them back here. Too complicated. Should I go get one of the meth heads?
The house where I stayed was pretty far from there, so going home and coming back would be tricky—and a big pain—once it got really dark. No street lights out here. Not sure I could even find that poor stinky dude again if I had left. And what if there’s another trap out there in those woods.
Don’t want to end up stuck in the dead man’s spider web, too.
Then I considered all my options again.
If I could just get him out of the woods, I could maybe drag his butt down to the main road and hope a passerby in a car takes care of the rest with their fancy smartphones and whatnot.
Near the old cottage, I saw that Live-Free-or-Die bear trapper had a shed.
Nobody helped me, but I still help people, that’s my problem.
It had a small padlock on the front, but I could almost pull it open enough to reach in because that sun-wind-rain-and-snow-beaten gray wood barely secured the front. The padlock was solid, but the door and door frame weren’t. I tried to peek in to see if there was a shovel in there. Maybe I could find a way to dig up the whole trap.
With a palm-sized rock, I pummeled the bracket around the lock and weakened the wood within a dozen, vigorous blows. I paused for a moment to listen for anything, noticing my own breath dance in the cool evening air.
“This thing’s fighting back,” I said under my breath.
Not a sound, except some crickets and night critters preparing for another cool one.
I found a second stone, flatter than the first, and wedged it under the galvanized steel bracket and then struck it several times more. When it fell to the dirt, I noticed the shed door’s rotted lower corner. I thought I might be able to use my size to yank the door and maybe force the bracket or the door’s hinges to let me in.
Nope.
It took at least another fifteen minutes to get enough leverage to crack and splinter the old door, and then a little more time to break the bracket away. It was getting later, and starting to get dark. I was mad because I knew that I’d lose my chance at a good corner to crash in my house by being so late.
That sucks.
It was so dark in the shed I had to wait a moment for my eyes to adjust, but I could immediately smell the stale shed’s purpose. The trapped scent of old dried grass, oil, and gasoline made me realize that this was mainly the small home of a push mower. There was no shovel here, no crow bar.
Useless crap.
Lots of old paint cans were stacked on a dusty white aluminum, cobweb-covered shelf that had clearly been demoted from someone’s bathroom many years ago.
I reached in the corner behind the shelf thinking some dowels and an old baseball bat might be a shovel handle and received a handful of cobweb goodies for my trouble.
Even the spiders are long since dead here.
A folded green tarp fell down behind the dingy white shelf. I could almost smell the old toilet that wasn’t even there. On a back ledge, next to a couple rusty rakes, a solution arrived. I had to bring it out into the light to fully appreciate the scope of what I had found.
It was my only hope. My singular plan. My only salvation.
And his.
Mr. Mumbles could be free. I could finally go home. He could hitch-hike his way to a hospital and I could get the heck out of there.
An old rusty hacksaw.
Not an elegant solution by any means, but an answer to my needs.
With its wooden handle and curved top, it appeared, to me, up to the task.
It had small white shavings of plastic in the jagged teeth of its old blade. Upon reflection later, I realized that these were likely the trimmings from a PVC pipe somewhere on his property.
Not only did Live-Free-or-Die try to catch black bears, he also must’ve considered himself something of an amateur plumber. This was all his fault.
The feeling of progress at that point was refreshing, and also knowing I was finished in the filthy shed was a relief.
But I also had a plan.
If my parents stayed around long enough, they would have been proud to know that I came up wit
h it all on my own. Maybe if they’re living in their swanky Beacon Hill condo and they read about my heroics in the Globe, they’ll finally come back for me.
Proud as the day I was born, they’ll say.
So I decided I had to do it. I couldn’t let this guy die. I saw the flag patch on his coat and realized that while he fought for his country, not sure if anyone—until now—had ever truly fought for him. But I would.
No more time to waste. He could die of thirst. Or this cold snap I feel coming might do him in.
“Onward and upward, Mumbles. We hit rock bottom, but both our lives will start getting on track after tonight, believe you me,” I said when I returned to him.
I knelt down, took a deep breath and tried to sound like I thought a surgeon might in that moment.
“Oh yeah. Seen this many times. You’re in good hands. I’ll get you back up collecting cans in no time, sir.”
I started the half-raw, half-precision task of cutting through his leg, just above the trap. I had already taken my belt off and was ready to stop the bleeding once he was free, but once I really got into it, I knew it was going to be more work than I thought.
More blood.
He was conscious now. He was pretty delirious and aggressive: screaming, howling, and punching me, and blood was everywhere. I told him to lie still and he would be free. I kept pointing at the bear trap because I assumed he had forgotten what happened.
“Stay still!”
We tussled more and I had to sit on him to finish, but it was quite a red mess, even in the near darkness. Can’t remember if there was a moon that cold night, but the crisp, twinkling stars were telling me that I had made the right choice.
You’re helping him, I thought.
Mumbles started to convulse a little, but I told him that the most intense pain was almost over and that my belt would hold him together while we get him on towards a hospital.
I was careful to promise that I wouldn’t be the one taking him there. No need to lie to the guy.
“It looks messy now, but we’ll get you cleaned up, just work with me!”
He was out again. Probably from the pain, delusions, or just the shock of seeing some teenager—good-sized for his age—hacking off his lower leg as he woke up.
But I knew I was being heroic.
Like a long-ago doctor before there were medical schools, or a war-time medic making a tough call in the field of battle. Maybe I was a medicine man in a past life in some tribe that my parents’ ancestors belonged to.
They’ll tell me I’m from smart, brave, warrior people, son of kings and royalty, destined to be chief someday, or something like that, when they come to take me home.
• • •
Since it took so long to get him free, I decided any road would do at this point. Even if it took until morning to be discovered, he’d be far better off than pinned down in the leaves and underbrush. And what if an eastern coyote started feasting on that pinched leg held firm in that vise. I know I saved him from so many horrors.
Anything is better than that, and I’m sure someone will come down this road.
He was heavy, so pulling him under the arms was my plan for a while, but I planned ahead and had already rolled him onto the green tarp from the old shed and dragged him across the long gloomy back yard.
“That’s where I found it. It was in there, in the back. And I almost didn’t see it,” I said proudly to my unconscious patient with his makeshift tourniquet.
Around the house, I found a long dirt-road driveway ahead of me and within another half-mile or so, I thought we’d be out onto a small road in the tiny neighborhood.
Unlikely to be found way out here, but maybe.
I adjusted his position several times because I didn’t want the rare passerby to miss seeing him, but didn’t really want my rescued friend to get run over.
“Are you okay?” I asked him several times, but he was totally out. “Probably going to leave you around here somewhere and then you watch for headlights, okay?”
I even told him that he could get a prosthetic, use a cane, or likely get one of those cool tech implants if he went back to the vets hospital. “They give those cool robotic legs and hand implants to Army vets, right?” I asked. He said nothing.
I also made sure that he was on his side a bit because I know from the addicts that throwing up is a pretty awful way to go and if this guy wakes up puking, all this gross sawing will have been for nothing. As I was trying to adjust his arms, and shoulders for a good position and one that put no pressure on my strangely effective belt tourniquet, I thought I heard a noise.
It sounded like a car, maybe a couple streets over. Yes, I heard something. Between the crickets, cicada and night bugs and frogs and owls or whatever, I could hear someone driving around.
I also noticed that Mumbles was still oozing a lot of blood. I tried to use the lower piece of his pant leg under the belt to hold it all in place, but my belt probably wasn’t tight enough now. I had no real idea how to make a tourniquet, just knew stopping the blood was a good idea. His pulse was weak the one time I tested it.
I’m not a surgeon, so it probably was a little sloppy.
I decided to wipe more of the blood off my hands and check his status one more time before I ran over to see if I could flag down that car.
I know the pulse is easiest to get at the neck or his wrists, but I couldn’t find it.
Zizzzzzzzz, zap.
That’s when I first sensed a new surge of strength course through me, like a wall-socket jolt given to me just as he died. The pain immediately made my eyes water and my head throb and it felt as if my entire brain was on fire. A strange shiver flew down my back and my fingertips tingled with numbness. My vision went foggy and my mind started showing me a wild assortment of hallucinations. I witnessed far off rice fields, gun battles, black bears, and all manner of lights, colors, and madness.
The car had found us on that road, and as it approached, the bright headlights were almost blinding. Then a spotlight from the driver’s side, and the quiet intensity of blue lights filled the scene.
Only then could I see just how bloody we both were and how dark it had really become.
That New Hampshire cop, with his sidearm drawn, had no idea what he had stumbled on, but assumed the worst.
“Get down on the ground. Hands above your head, now,” he shouted from behind his patrol car door, and then called for back up before he approached me. All I heard him say was “10-36, 10-27, ambulance needed, my location.”
• • •
I was tired, thirsty, and light-headed, not just from my exertions over the past few hours, but also this rush of new power that was channeling its way into my nervous system. I sensed memories and did all I could to put those feelings on hold.
I wanted to just go home.
As the officer approached, he kept directing me to stay put, and that I was under arrest.
“What happened here? What did you do?”
My mind was distracted by strange thoughts about far off places, echoes of thoughts and experiences that were not my own, and even the visions of the deaths of countless other souls. This is what was delivered to me that night as the homeless man died.
What happened next is a blur.
I do remember feeling quite surprised that this officer would treat a good samaritan like me as if I was a common criminal. He should be thanking me for coming to this man’s aid, especially when no others were around. We were kindred spirits and brothers now, this police officer and I, because technically I was this poor homeless guy’s first responder.
I’ll probably get a key to the city when they figure out what happened here.
“He’s dead,” he said taking the old veteran’s pulse, “What happened? Are you alone here? Do you have any weapons?”
He was nervous, but so was I. One small part of my mind was concerned with the items I stole at the pharmacy.
He’ll find them in my pants pockets if he search
es me.
“I said do you currently have any weapons on your person?” he bellowed louder. Before I knew it he started cuffing my wrists and I couldn’t let that happen. I don’t know why I imagined that resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer while I’m completely bloody would be a better choice than explaining what had happened and just accepting the shoplifting charges.
But that’s how I got sentenced to spend the next three and a half years in youth detention, the state’s Juvenile Corrections.
I did everything I could to never help anyone ever again.
That’s also when the world stopped calling me Vincent, and everyone started calling me Hacksaw. My woods story became folklore in juvie, and I allowed it because I was so busy thinking about my real transformation. This new power was inside me and growing, and it came with strange memories of missions in what I assume were Vietnam or Laos. It was only by some stroke of luck that I didn’t use all my strength when I resisted arrest.
I’d be serving adult time in a Class A felony, maybe even a death sentence, if I had really hurt that officer.
I chose to study my new powers and be very, very patient.
• • •
Over a year later, I got another unexpected infusion of power when a fellow corrections resident came after me. This aggressive loudmouth—a wiry, seventeen-year old punk everyone called Coop—announced that he would fight the biggest guys in Sunuhu. Why? This stunt was to prove to everyone he was tough and deserved some degree of respect.
I was still only fifteen, but I was first on his list. Life out here in the hardship of northern woods New England had been hard on Coop, and he showed it in the burn mark near his left ear, the self-inflicted scars on his wrists, and his dead, narrow eyes desperately demanding that people pay attention to him.
“Hey, Hacksaw! I heard you think you’re the real deal. Some kind of serial killer, chopping people up,” he said.
“Leave me out of this, Coop,” I said, scowling at him. “I tried to save that guy.”
“Yeah, right. That’s why they say you were covered in his blood,” Coop said with a wicked grin on his face. “We’ve all heard the stories. But me? I’m not afraid of you at all.”
Ha!Ha!Ha! Page 19
