by Brandon Dean
Hazel exhaled nervously and nodded.
“Hey, buddy. Keep your hands up,” I instructed.
“Okay, sure thing,” the man replied.
I walked up to him cautiously. I stood directly in front of him, scanning him up and down. His shoes were so muddy that it looked as if he had taken a detour through a sewer, and he smelled foul enough for it to be true. He had almost no teeth, and those that he did have looked more like coffee beans than actual teeth.
“You got a name?” I asked.
“Willard. My name is Willard,” he said.
“Okay, Willard, we’re going to get you taken care of. And then you hit the road. That’s it. End of story. Got it?” I asked.
“Yes. Yes, that’s all I need,” he replied eagerly.
“Good. Get to walking,” I said, pointing the way to home, walking backward to maintain eye contact with him.
After a few minutes, I stopped to let Hazel catch up to me, falling behind Willard but still close enough to keep an eye on him, and we began talking quietly so he couldn’t hear us.
“Think this guy can be trusted?” I asked her.
“I sure hope so. But you’re right: we can’t just leave him out here,” Hazel replied reluctantly.
Willard must have heard us talking. He turned to look back at us.
“Hey! Were we talking to you?” Hazel shouted. “We don’t want to waste a bullet, so don’t give us a reason!”
“That’s twice you’ve threatened him,” I said quietly.
“Gotta play it tough, wise guy.”
“He looks pretty tired. What if he needs a place to sleep for the night?” I asked.
“Oh, Clint, that’s a great idea!” she replied, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Sure! We can invite Jack the Ripper here into our home and show him everything, especially where we all sleep! That’s not dangerous at all!”
I laughed aloud. “Reminds me of my folks, us going back and forth like cats and dogs,” I said.
“Well, I’m the dog,” she replied.
“Why’s that?” I asked, knowing I’d get some kind of smart- aleck response.
“Because you’re obviously no match for a dog.”
“I guess I walked into that one, huh?” I asked.
“You walk into a lot of things—like, you know, tree branches.”
“Ha ha,” I said with a grin, remembering the run-in I’d had with a tree that had knocked me out cold.
Hazel smirked back.
“I don’t know what we’re going to tell my mom and Beverly.”
“We tell them we were looking for your stuff,” she replied.
“Okay, so we left the house to find my stuff, and we came back with a strange man we found lurking in the woods. Got it,” I replied.
By now I could just see a glimpse of the house through the foliage and vegetation as we walked out from the woods.
“Stop here, Willard,” I instructed him.
Willard stood still as I approached him.
“If it’s not given to you, don’t touch it. If it’s not offered to you, don’t ask for it.”
Willard nodded. “That’s fair,” he said.
“Good.”
“So, is it just you two here?” he asked.
Something about the question unsettled me. Why did he care if we were alone? “What’s it to you?” I asked.
“Oh, no reason. Just making conversation, is all,” he replied.
“Well, we’re not here to get chatty. You’re going to get warm and eat a meal, and then you’re outta here. Now, go to the house,” I ordered, staying where I was to speak with Hazel as Willard began to walk toward the house.
“Did you hear what he said?” I asked her.
“Yeah. I don’t like it,” she replied, staring pointedly at Willard’s back as he walked farther away from us.
“Me, neither. Keep your eye on him; I’ll do the same.”
We ascended the steps and joined Willard at the front door; then I opened it and led our trio inside.
“Make a left at the door. Sit down at the table,” I instructed Willard, my voice firm. “Mom! Beverly! We’re home!” I shouted.
“Oh, well, it’s about time,” I heard Mom say as she walked through the kitchen doorway. Her jaw nearly hit the floor when she saw Willard with us. “And . . . who do we have here?” she asked, confused.
“This is Willard. We left to go search for the campsite, and we found him there,” I said.
“Yeah, crazy how things happen, isn’t it?” Hazel said in a tight voice.
“It is,” Mom replied, still clearly flustered. “Please sit down, Willard. It’s nice to meet you.”
When Beverly came in, she set the table with a basket full of biscuits and a pot of hot tea. Hazel, Mom, Beverly, and I exchanged nervous glances as Willard scarfed down biscuit after biscuit, shoving them into his mouth with his filthy, grit-covered hands as though he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“I’m sorry . . . Where are my manners?” he said, belching quietly as he observed the disgusted faces around him. The only one of us that didn’t look offended was Violet, who slept soundly in Mom’s arms. “Were you all wanting any more?”
“No. But thank you for asking,” I said in distaste.
Mom looked at me sternly, obviously displeased that I hadn’t been more polite.
Willard licked his fingers clean after finishing the last biscuit, smacking his lips like a caveman. “So, is it just you who live here?” Willard asked, his eyes focused on Beverly.
I opened my mouth to answer, but Beverly said, “My husband and grandson live here, too. We’re just waiting on them to come back home before we head to Cincinnati.”
Willard rumbled with laughter. “When’s the last time you saw ’em?” he asked, his voice almost amused. “Let me guess—before the bombs, right?”
Beverly looked disturbed. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“Might as well forget about them coming back,” Willard said.
“Excuse me?” Hazel demanded. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here and saying things like that!”
Willard leaned back in his chair. “You’ll have to forgive me. Got carried away. I may have a lot of nerve, but I do know one thing for certain.”
“And what is that?” I asked angrily.
“The world is screwed,” he said. “Everyone and everything you once knew is dead.” Willard leaned toward me, his foul, warm breath assaulting my nose. “Only two choices, boy: go too far right, where nothing’s left, or go too far left, where nothing’s right. One leads to seeing another day, and one leads to rotting in a gutter. Choice is yours.”
“And what choice is the correct one, Willard?” I asked, my patience running thin.
“I’ll let you decide. I know what I’m going with,” he said, following his words with a horrendous smile. Willard and I locked eyes, each trying to intimidate the other into backing down. His eyes were empty, though, like those of someone overtaken by insanity.
“Okay, settle down now,” Mom said firmly, trying to defuse the situation.
Hazel grabbed me by the shoulder and gently pulled me away from Willard. “Take it easy,” she whispered.
I stood from the table. “Come with me, Willard,” I said.
“Whatever you say. You’re the boss,” Willard replied sarcastically.
“Where are you going?” Mom asked nervously.
Hazel rose from the table to follow us.
“No, Hazel. It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll be back soon. I’m just going to show Willard something out back.”
We walked through the back door, neither of us speaking. I kept my focus on the speed of Willard’s footsteps the whole way. We walked to the gazebo, and I turned around to face him. “Who the hell do you think you are?” I asked.
&n
bsp; “What? It’s okay for you to threaten me with a gun, but I can’t say what’s the truth?” he asked.
“We did you a favor, dumbass. We didn’t have to bring you here or give you anything to eat,” I said.
“So why do it?” he asked. “Why help me at all?”
“I did it for myself. For a little bit of peace, knowing I didn’t leave a man out there to die,” I said.
“Leaving a man to die isn’t so bad. You get used to it, the killing, especially when it means you’re alive. Too far left, that’s the only way,” he said confidently. Crazily.
“No, you don’t get used to it,” I argued.
“You don’t? Tell me what you know about killing, boy,” Willard said.
“I’ve killed someone before. It isn’t something I want to do again, something I can forgive myself for. So take your ‘too far left’ bullshit somewhere else. It isn’t going to justify a thing.”
“Why’d you do it, then, if it’s so unacceptable?” Willard asked.
“Two guys in a pharmacy. That’s all I’m saying about it. They had it coming,” I said.
“So you kill ’em, and then you become a goody-goody, is that it?” Willard sneered.
“Go find your kids, like you were trying to do when we found you. Leave us be,” I said, getting in Willard’s face.
“Kids?” Willard scoffed. “They ain’t no kids. Hell, they got about ten years on you.” Willard paused to give me a condescending look. “And that stupid Cincinnati plan? If that ain’t the cutest thing. Those Germans turned half our country into dust overnight; what the hell makes you think Cincinnati’s going to stick?”
“The war isn’t over. Now leave,” I growled, pointing in the direction of the driveway.
“Ain’t over?” Willard asked. “How so? They already won. Fightin’ a losing battle is all that’s happening now. Only matter of time before they find you, too.”
“Are you deaf or something, old man?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the curtains in one of the windows move; someone in there must have felt nosy.
“Who are those women in there to you?” Willard asked. “The old one—she your grandma? How about the other? Your mom? And I’d bet that young little thing is your girlfriend. Am I right?”
“Choose your next words carefully!” I warned.
“That’s who they may be to you, but to the Germans, they’re targets. And don’t think for a second they won’t have their way with that pretty little piece of ass you got in there.”
I grabbed Willard by the shirtfront and pushed him against the side of the gazebo, keeping a firm grip. “She’s got a name! And you will not talk about her again—or so help me, I’ll rip you apart!”
Willard laughed. “That’s it! That’s what you gotta do! Feels good, huh? Just go a little further left, and you know what? I’m done, that’s it, ain’t gotta put up with me anymore!”
“No,” I replied through gritted teeth.
“No? I knew it. You and all the others in there. Just a bunch of pussies!”
Beverly stepped outside to hear what was going on, using the guise of hanging the leather jacket on the clothesline to let it dry—not that it mattered; it had likely been ruined from the weather. She was just looking for an excuse to be outside where she could overhear.
I let go of Willard’s shirt. “Leave this place, and never come back,” I said.
Willard ignored me, his focus on the clothesline.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said go!” I boomed.
Willard began walking over to where the jacket hung as Beverly scurried back inside.
“Look, old man! I’m not going to tell you again!”
Willard turned to fix me in a cold stare. “Shut the hell up, boy. I leave when I say I leave.” He picked up his pace, almost to a run, as he made his way to the clothesline.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I asked, chasing after him until we both came to a stop at the clothesline. “What? The jacket? You want it? Take it! Just get the hell out of here.”
Willard ran his filthy hand across the leather. “This was custom made, you know. I was a tailor before all of this happened,” he said. “I made one exactly like it, for my oldest son.”
“Great, it’ll be like a souvenir of your time here. Take it,” I said, knowing what his words implied.
Willard reached into his back pocket as I prepared to defend myself against an attack. Instead, he pulled out an old, weathered wallet, opening it to reveal a photograph. “You know these boys?” he asked. I reached out to take the photograph from his hand.
My heart sank as I looked at it. It was the two men from the pharmacy. Despite the lack of filth and injuries, I knew it was them. And standing between them was a much more kempt version of Willard.
“Why don’t you tell me a little more about the men you killed, boy,” he said angrily before reaching into his pocket a second time to pull out a butterfly knife.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insisted.
“Bullshit!” Willard spat.
I took a step back to gain distance from him. “Take it easy. Nobody needs to get hurt here,” I said gently.
“I got a good feeling it might help. An eye for an eye, boy,” Willard replied, the crazed look back in his eyes.
We circled each other in sidesteps.
“I’m sorry. I really am sorry,” I said sincerely.
“Sorry ain’t gonna cut it. Not for that,” Willard said.
The door behind Willard was eased open as Hazel crept out of the house with something in her hand. Beverly tried to pull her back inside, but Hazel wriggled from her grip.
“Stop! Please!” Mom screamed.
Willard waved his knife in the air, never looking away from me. “Shut your mouth, you stupid bitch!” he yelled over his shoulder. “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll all stay inside!”
As Hazel inched her way toward us, I could see what she was holding: a heavy cast-iron skillet. I knew what she was planning, but I had to occupy Willard just a while longer to keep him from turning around.
“How many?” I asked Willard.
“What? How many have I killed?” he replied. “Too many to count anymore. After the first few, you quit keeping tally.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Can’t barter anymore, not in this world. You see something you want, something you can use, you take it. Any way possible.”
“That’s what got your sons killed,” I said.
Willard’s face scrunched tightly in anger. “If you would’ve done what they said, this wouldn’t be happening right now.”
“They made it perfectly clear, they planned on killing us and taking what they wanted,” I said.
“That’s the way things work in this world, kid,” Willard sneered. “But now I get my turn with you, and you’re gonna pay for murdering my boys!”
“I had no choice, old man! My father is gone because of your trigger-happy kid,” I replied.
Hazel was closing in on us, creeping closer and closer, now just a few feet from Willard, using both hands to grip the handle of the skillet like it was a baseball bat. Mom and Beverly watched anxiously from the porch, knowing that intervening could cause an even bigger problem. Violet was still asleep in Mom’s arms, oblivious to everything around her.
“When I’m done with you,” Willard said, “I’m going to kill every last one of those women, too.”
“You’d kill a baby? An innocent child?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Willard said with a menacing look.
Suddenly, Hazel swung the skillet across her body, smacking Willard on the back of the head. He dropped, and his body hit the ground with a heavy thud. “Oh, Lord! Oh, my goodness, I killed him!” Hazel panicked, throwing the pan to the ground and cov
ering her mouth in shock.
I looked down at Willard, who—though unconscious—was still breathing normally. “Calm down, Hazel! You didn’t kill him,” I assured her.
“Are you sure?” Hazel asked, not quite taking me at my word.
“He isn’t dead, but we have to figure out what to do with him before he wakes up.”
Hazel breathed deeply to calm herself down and nodded. “You got any ideas?” she asked.
I focused on a toolshed in the distance. “Anything in there?” I asked, pointing to the shed.
“Not that I know of,” Hazel replied.
“Well, that’s where he goes for now. It’ll give us some time to decide what to do.”
“Clint! Hazel!” Mom hollered as she hurried to us from the porch. “Are you okay?”
“We are. He might not be, though,” I said, glaring down at Willard.
“What were you thinking, bringing that man here in the first place? Why would you bring home a stranger?”
I smiled at her gently. “Once upon a time, we were strangers.”
Mom was taken aback, realizing the reason I had helped Willard in the first place was out of the hope that he was worth helping. “What’s next?” she asked. “Do you have a plan for him?”
I shook my head. “Not right now, but I know what we’re going to do until we have one.”
Chapter 12
I don’t know if I can hold this guy up for much longer,” Hazel grunted through her teeth.
“We’re almost there,” I said, pausing mid-sentence to take a breath.
Hazel was holding Willard’s legs up between her arms and rib cage, supporting his lower thighs with her hands. I was on the opposite side, walking backward, doing the same with his upper half.
“Okay, gently now,” I said to Hazel as we approached the door of the toolshed. I laid Willard’s top half down slowly. Hazel followed my example but forewent any degree of gentleness, carelessly dropping his lower half on the ground.
“Phew! That was tiring!” she grunted, bending over and breathing heavily, her hands resting on her knees.
I opened the door of the toolshed and was greeted by a thick network of cobwebs. Inside, the shed itself was no more than a cramped, empty space, with nothing but a small amount of junk on a single shelf and an even smaller amount of sunlight peeking in through the wooden boards.
