by Jamie Ott
Bally put in a funny movie during which Jacko fell into hysterics. It felt strange to laugh, and it felt so good that he made himself laugh even harder than he needed. He forced it through his tears, through his fear, and through his sadness.
Why couldn’t he just escape his fate? Hide out there with his Uncle?
~~~
The next day, Jacko woke with a minor ache in his lower back. His bed was sunk so low in the middle that his rear touched the box springs.
In the living room, Uncle Bally was bent over, lacing up his boots with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
On the television, a woman was broadcasting the weather. “Clear, grey skies,” she said.
“Coffee,” he said with clenched teeth, “in the kitchen. Grab yourself a piece of fruit because we gotta go.”
Jacko wandered into the kitchen where a piece of linoleum, sticking up, nailed him in the ball of his foot.
Despite the dubious look of the old yellow coffee pot, which Jacko was sure his Uncle Bally probably never cleaned, he poured himself a cup and grabbed a banana.
Back in the living room, the anchor lady was talking about what an unusual week it had been.
“… Rain has stopped in most parts of the country, but the Earth, itself, will not rest…” then there were shots to places where people were trying to get about, but were having a hard time walking on the ever-trembling ground. “In other parts of the country, there is little sunlight, and though we’re pressing the government for answers, there is still no explanation as to why the skies remain unchanged, or where the clouds have gone. Activists blame man’s global warming, saying that if they’d reduced chemicals in the atmosphere sooner, than this wouldn’t have happen.”
His uncle turned off the television. “I don’t understand why they keep putting out that global warming crap! Something’s happening, alright, and it ain’t got nothing to do with us.”
“What do you suppose, then?” he asked around a mouthful of fruit.
“It’s God! ‘And the angel took the censer, filled it with fire from the altar, and threw it to the earth. And there were noises, thunderings, lightnings, and an earthquake. So the seven angels who had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound. The first angel sounded: And hail and fire followed, mingled with blood, and they were thrown to the earth. And a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up,’ revelations.”
Whoa, thought Jacko.
He was so off, yet so close.
“Put on your shoes; let’s go.”
“Why?”
“I started setting up a miniature green house down in the shelter. We need to gather seeds to try and grow down there; although I’m no green thumb. More like black touch of death, but we’ll try anyway. I got this book though.” He walked over to the mantle. “Maybe you can look it over later. Plants require gentle kind of caring, which I’m unable to provide. But first, we’re going hunting. Some pigs have been burrowing out by the river.”
“Hunting’s not my thing.”
“What do you mean, it’s not your ‘thing?’ What do you think we ate last night? What are you gonna eat when all the meat, in the grocery stores, spoils? Hunting is the ancient nobility. Now, come on, boy. You’re gonna stay here, you gotta contribute.”
He stubbed out his cigarette, grabbed a gun and a large net that lay on the floor and walked out.
Thirty minutes later, they were following a trail that seemed to be leading them to the river. He talked the whole way, telling Jacko the difference between mountain lion and dog tracks, deer and reindeer, and how to track boars or capture squirrels.
“You see them holes right there. Pigs digging up some tubers, I bet. They may even rest near here. We’re gonna track ‘em down that way --” he pointed to some faint tracks and chewed shrub. “Now if we can catch us some, great. Likely, they’ll run back here. Once we’ve chased them back around here, you’ll use this, here, net to catch one. I’d give you a gun, but I don’t trust you. I’ll shoot one and you’ll net one, and we’ll have enough meat to last six months.”
Jacko was intrigued by his uncle’s fervor. He wondered if that was the way the demons looked at him: like a pig running across country.
After walking through the forest, another twenty minutes or so, Jacko started to wish he was anywhere but there. The cold touched, easily, through his light parka and sweater. He longed for another hot cup of coffee that was still in the pot back at the house.
Some time passed when his uncle suddenly put out his arm like a bar to his chest. Shhh, he mimicked with his finger to his lips.
Gently, he raised the binoculars that hung around his neck to his eyes, and then motioned to Jacko to stay still.
He watch as Uncle Bally walked carefully to a small space between two trees whose limbs hung down, obscuring Jacko’s vision so he couldn’t quite see what Bally was looking at.
He put the gun up to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. Then there was the sound of many feet, running.
“See that, Jacko! That’s how they communicate: gruntin’ and squealin’! Let’s go!”
He walked, fast, past Jacko.
“These pigs have a real routine! Now I just shot the tree to scare them, but I know where they’re going. If we play our cards right, we could catch two of them.”
As quiet as they could, they back tracked, only veering off the trail just slightly. It didn’t take long for them to find several of them standing by a small stream of the river, drinking and lying about.
“Now, how we’re gonna do this is you’re gonna stand here, okay?” Uncle Bally whispered, mimicking positions with his hands. “I’m gonna go around and shoot one. Now they’ll get scared and, I’m bettin’, their gonna come right through here, right at you, because up that way is a dead end cliff. Pigs remember things like that. Also, don’t underestimate their strength. They’re shaped differently, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t heavy, fast or strong. Don’t break your neck, just try to catch one, and we’ll be set for quite a while.”
Jacko looked at the pigs that barely reached past his knees and thought they couldn’t be that hard to catch.
Poised, net at the ready, he waited for Bally to come around.
It happened quicker than Jacko expected.
Uncle Bally stood out along the side of the clearing. The pigs had yet to notice. He took aim and shot the largest one. Jacko was relieved, but he didn’t have long to linger on that feeling because the four other pigs came charging toward the only clear spot, which was right where he stood.
They ran like miniature charging bulls. He didn’t know they could be so agile!
Jacko’s heart pounded.
The first two approached.
He swung the net, but the pigs ran around and between his legs while the other two ran off the trail and into the bush.
“Well, don’t just stand there, boy! Get one!”
He turned and ran. It took every ounce of strength to catch up to the fast little blighters. His net was raised skyward.
Suddenly, the two pigs that went into the bush appeared, nearly knocking Jacko over. He didn’t hesitate. He flung the net at once, holding the pole as hard as he could.
It landed over the smallest one, entirely, but instead of stopping, it yanked on the net with such force that Jacko slammed flat onto his front, and then it dragged him for a couple of yards before he was able to dig his feet into the ground and heel himself up.
The pig, which didn’t stop trying to escape, further entangled himself in the net until it was lying on its side.
His uncle walked up behind, “We-e-ell, looks like the pig took you on a trip!”
He laughed hysterically at his clever pun.
Jacko looked down his muddy front.
“Boy, you need a bath,” he laughed jovially. “Good job.”
“He’s such a little guy, though. Maybe we should let him go.”
Looking
over at the pig, he concurred. “Yeah, you may be right.” He tugged the cord and shook the net, and the pig ran off, honking.
“Well, come on, boy. I’m gonna show you a thing or two about cleaning a kill.”
They walked over to the water where the dead pig lay. He heaved it onto his shoulder, and then Jacko followed him back to the house.
When he’d set the pig on his cutting table, he said, “First thing you need to remember is to give thanks to the lord. You just killed a living thing; it gave up its life for you. Second, you never cut any of the organs if you don’t want disease and pea and poo runnin’ all over your food. Water is the universal solvent but it doesn’t work on all bacteria and virus’.”
He, then, took his foot long machete-like knife and made a cut from the bottom up, baring all the animal’s organs.
“Next, you cut here and here. Normally you can skin an animal’s hide real easy, but this one we’re gonna save most of. Don’t know if you’ve ever had pigskin, but it sure is good: too good to waste. We’re gonna keep the head, which has ample meat on it. In other countries, it would be wasteful to throw it away. Some like to keep the eyes and eat those too, but I don’t care for them.”
“Why are you saving the guts again?” he asked, looking at the mound he’d placed in foil.
“To lure other animals; for fishing and to set traps,” he replied incredulously, rolling his eyes. “Man, you city kids get things too easy, I tell you what. It makes you dumb is what it does.”
He threw the newly gutted body of the pig over his shoulder, and disappeared into the house.
The rest of the day, Jacko spent reading about planting while Bally worked on his irrigation system down in the green house.
Later, they sat down in the living room and watched the news over dinner. For the most part, the world was unchanged, except for sunlight that broke out at the North Pole for a few hours.
The next morning, Uncle Bally took Jacko out into the forest to track a deer. Earlier, he’d seen some half eaten leaves and scat lying about. This time, he wanted Jacko to lead the way and kill one.
“See, you’re gonna find the most activity if you can get up and look around at sunrise or before. You know, that’s when animals get going. Somehow, it’s like they know they’re less likely to meet people, which is exactly why a hunter gets up earlier. Besides, some animals rest when it’s hottest, which is afternoon and you don’t want to be out here at that time, neither.
Only problem is sometimes tracks and scat aren’t reliable. Dew might make scat look moist, or other predators might have tracked the animal first. Despite all the external factors, when you see activity, you see the patterns; then you know where to hunt.” Bally, slapped him on shoulder, “See, look over there,” he pointed.
“Don’t you think you’ve got enough meat for now?”
“That’s a really good question, kid. We’ve been really lucky in catching lots of meat because no one else is around, right now. Normally, it’s just good ethics not to over fish or over hunt, but with the atmosphere like this, it won’t be long before they start eating each other, and it won’t be long before the animals that don’t convert to meat eating, will die. I especially mean the deer and cows, and maybe even some squirrels. Better we get them before that happens. That way we have that much extra supply, and that much extra time to plan for future resources.”
He motioned that Jacko should take the lead, following the trail; telling Bally where he thought they should go.
By lunch, Jacko had his own deer to skin. As he worked on it, he wondered if the demons would skin him, if they got their their blackened claws on him.
No, he said to himself, they’d likely just take his head and put it on a totem, like an Amazonian.
All nobility and wars aside, Jacko found that he liked being an outdoors man. The simple nature of working with his hands was instantly gratifying. Everyday, he had a job to do, and when he’d accomplished his goals, his conscience was rewarded with just the simple knowledge that he was capable.
Unlike life at school or with his father in which problems always persisted, and at the end of the days, he’d lie in bed, worrying, out there, when the day was done so were his worries. As such, he never slept so peacefully, not ever as long as he could remember.
Even mealtimes were different. Food sustained his soul as well as his body. It made him wonder if the life he lived, at the moment, was the way it was supposed to be for mankind.
As usual, they were up at the crack of dawn the next day.
Jacko sat on the couch eating an apple while Bally stocked up an igloo with ice and animal guts. He went into the kitchen where he filled two thermoses with coffee.
He handed one to Jacko and said, “Get them fishing poles, boy. I’ll carry the chest and a rifle.”
Twenty minutes later, they trekked up the hill to the lake. Fog from the mountain tried to weigh them down, chilling them to the bone, and making it appear as if it were eleven ‘o’ clock at night, instead of six in the morning.
When the ground leveled off, they walked on for another ten miles before they reached the lake. Tethered to the dock were a couple boats.
His uncle got in the largest one and said, “Hand me the stuff and get in carefully.”
Jacko did as he said, and then clambered into the shaking boat.
Looking down into the water was quite eerie. It mirrored the sky, only it looked nearly black. Fog hugged the surface, making it hard to see around them. He just hoped the boat didn’t accidentally tip. Something about the idea of falling in and not being able to see the surface of the water as he swam up was frightening.
Uncle Bally immediately got to work, showing Jacko how to line and bait the hooks.
Showing Jacko how to bait was the most exciting part of fishing. After that, they sat, motionless and speechless, for the next couple of hours. Finally, the coffee half way finished, and the sky having lightened a bit, Bally said, “Let’s try another spot”
They reeled in their lines and then Bally paddled the boat to other side of the lake.
Several hours passed in stone cold, quiet. Several times, Bally smacked or shook him. “Hey, you’re gonna scare all the fish away with snoring.”
Jacko slept a couple hours with his chin on his chest. Then about noon, the line tugged. Bally reached over him and grabbed the pole from his hand.
Jacko jumped. “Sorry, but you were sleeping. You almost lost the pole.”
He rotated the lever a few dozen times, and pulled up a large perch.
“Not bad. The perch might be headed in this direction.” He handed the pole back to him. “Try to stay awake, now.”
Uncle Bally was right. Over the next couple of hours, they managed to fish a dozen perch out. Then just as they were about to call it a day, they wrangled out a twelve pound catfish.
Things went on like this for a few weeks. Jacko thoroughly enjoyed his time. Time and time again, he did think about his family who were stuck on the summit of the gods, and that they might want to go home, but he just didn’t know what to do. That was the thing about the gods. They kept telling him he needed to end the war but never told him how. Either way, they were safe on the summit. Until Jacko found out what his part was to be, he felt better knowing that his family was tucked out of harm’s way.
But a few weeks later, as Jacko and Uncle Bally sat watching the news and eating their slow cooked squirrels and rice, he got worried. The news lady talked about the increase of storm patterns, and heaps of sulfur rains. As he sat there, fork frozen mid air, he realized that, sooner rather than later, he was gonna have to leave the comfort of his uncle’s fortress.
It pained him to think about leaving, for he’d become fond of even the dank cigarette smoke that hung in the air, the soggy, back breaking but warmth of his bed; the moldy but hot heat from the generator. It was comfort he’d never known. He was snuggled in his own little world.
A blanket of guilt fell over him as the anc
hor spoke of a new wave of deaths in northern Europe. Towards the circle poles, people witnessed a strange phenomenon that Jacko knew too well about: fiery snow the size of baseballs, pummeling the ground and buildings, catching fire to all they touched, and burning out in the snow, leaving blackened ashes behind. Scientists suggested it was bits of asteroid, raining down from space.
Jacko knew better; it was the gods warring and smiting with their rods, spears and tridents. They were just as powerful as the elements, as they fired lightning bolts, laser beams and antimatter, obliterating whatever they came into contact with.
He sighed.
Can’t Hide Forever
Chapter 4
The next morning, Bally proposed they’d get more work done if they separated.
Jacko didn’t mind because he, sometimes, got tired of working with him. He could talk nonstop for hours.
By noon, he’d managed to track another deer.
After a bit of lunch and a cup of coffee, he put on the thick boots his uncle lent him, as his shoes were no good when hiking the more strenuous trails. He looked for wild edible plants he could dig up and take back to his uncle’s green house.
For miles, he went into a particularly thick part of the forest when, up in the tree, he saw several squirrels running with nuts in their mouths.
He was thinking he should have brought his rifle. Then something fast and dark whizzed past both sides of his head.
Jacko spun around thinking they couldn’t have been wasps or June bugs; they were too fast. When he didn’t see anything, he turned his attention back to the trail.
Onward, he went until he spotted a weakened wild patch of strawberries. Puny and nearly dead in the nasty cold, hard soil, its shriveled fruit hung low to the ground.
As he stooped to carefully examine the roots, something whizzed past both sides of his head again. The air whooshed through his hair and ears, which he swatted with both hands.
He stood up.
“Show yourselves, now!”
He walked in the direction the black things seemed to fly. It didn’t take long to spot them. There, with wings beating fast, keeping them suspended in the air, were two bat babies.
