Consequence

by C R Langille

  Toby found a nearby log and sat down. He scanned his surroundings again. The landscape seemed to pitch and roll, and he fell forward but stopped the fall with an outstretched hand. It took a moment to realize it was his vision spinning and not the valley.

  Dave screamed again. He flinched at the high pitch of the radio transmission. He scrambled for the radio at his belt.

  “Dave? Are you there?”

  “Toby?” Dave responded.

  “Yeah, where are you? You okay?”

  Dave said something in reply, but it came in broken and covered in static.

  Toby looked at the radio’s screen. The battery indicator showed low and blinked. Regardless of low power, the transmission should have been clear. The radios could communicate over a mile away from each other. They tested them the day before with no problems.

  “Say again, you’re coming in broken,” Toby said.

  “It’s coming!” Dave yelled. The man said more, but Toby couldn’t understand anything.

  “Dave?”

  The hollow report of a gunshot echoed across the mountainside. Toby whipped around and tried to pinpoint the location of the shooter. A wave of nausea rolled through his body, and he fought to keep from throwing up. Then it dawned on him.

  The campsite.

  A lazy cloud of black smoke billowed from their camp. Too much smoke for a campfire.

  Maybe they were all back there, waiting for him. Perhaps they made it out okay and were kicking back with cold brews. Yeah, and maybe he was the king of fucking Canada.

  “Dave, come in, are you okay?”

  The radio died.

  “Damn it.”

  He grabbed his muzzleloader and brushed off the dirt. Toby used the gun to support his weight and got to his feet. After another wave of vertigo, the world righted itself, and he could stand on his own. He finished reloading his gun and gathered the rest of his things. Before he headed toward camp, he faced the valley and cupped his hands.

  “Chuck! Brock! Hello!”

  His voice rolled across the countryside. The coppery taste of blood caked his mouth, and he spit to try and clear it. He tried calling for his friends a couple more times and then started toward the camp.

  A small stream, which cut through a patch of pine trees, separated him from the camp. The copse of trees was not overly wide, but it was thick. The sunlight tried to break through the trees to reach the forest floor, yet it failed and only managed to create an ever-present shadow throughout. The overcast sky blocked the sun and cast an even deeper gloom in the woods. The soft trickle of water helped him navigate, and it wasn’t difficult to find the stream. He stopped in his tracks at the edge of the water.

  The elk he shot at lay eviscerated in the middle of the small creek. It was definitely the same animal. He recognized the antlers. Its intestines drifted lazily from its body and floated on the current like a jellyfish. The fetid smell of offal wafted through the air. Flies gathered around the open wound and created a haze of buzzing stench.

  Toby searched for cougar or bear tracks. He looked for any indication of what killed the animal. The last thing he needed was a pissed off cougar on his ass.

  He couldn’t find anything in the immediate vicinity. Toby crept up to it and crouched down to examine the wound. A set of four claw marks raked the side of the elk. The slashes were clean, almost surgical. Sliced bits of flesh, fur, and muscle decorated the elk’s neck and exposed a ripped windpipe as well as the animal’s spinal column. Whatever killed it hadn’t stopped to eat any of the meat.

  Toby got the distinct feeling something watched him from the dark. The woods were murky enough he couldn’t see more than a few dozen yards in any direction.

  He took a couple of jogging steps, but a small voice in the back of his head screamed for him to slow down. Don’t become the prey. The headache returned in full force, and his ears started to ring. He fought his natural instincts and picked his route carefully. Toby slowed down, took a few steps, and stopped to listen before he moved any farther.

  His S.E.R.E. instructor at Air Force survival school taught him to watch his movements, keep his head on a swivel, and stay quiet. The training kicked in, and he made his way through the gloom and trees. He neared the end of the tree line when a low growl rumbled from within the forest behind him.

  Toby stopped and crouched. He pulled the hammer back on his weapon and placed a percussion cap on the muzzleloader. For several minutes, he stayed hunkered down. The muscles in his arm burned, and he lowered the gun. He couldn’t wait here all day. His friends needed him, and he needed them. Toby stood from the crouch as some twigs snapped behind a large pine tree not more than ten feet away.

  He shouldered the gun and bore down on the tree. Sweat poured down his head and into one of his eyes. He used his shoulder to try and wipe it away, but the salty sting remained with him. A low mewl of pain radiated from where the twigs snapped.

  You reap what you sow, Tobias.

  It reminded him of the time when he was a kid and shot a cat with his BB gun. He’d wanted to have some fun, Toby didn’t think past the moment, but the BB hit the cat in the head. The cat started to wail and moan and hid in his father’s workshop.

  When Toby’s father came home and found the cat crying in his shop, he brought Toby out. The cat sat in a cage with blood caked all over its fur, one of its eyes missing. It lay on its side and let out a low, gurgled mew. Toby wanted to look away, he didn’t want to see it anymore, but he couldn’t.

  “You reap what you sow, Tobias. It’s your kill, now finish it.”

  His father’s tone held a strained passiveness; Toby knew the tone well, and knew it brought consequences when questioned.

  A large crash boomed from farther back in the woods and pulled Toby back into the moment. He moved his aim to the new threat and caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. A deep bellow thundered from the forest, followed by the sharp cracks and snaps of small pines and aspens. It sounded like a mix of a bear’s growl, an elk’s trumpet, and a human’s scream of pain. Birds took flight and cawed their annoyance and fear at whatever barreled through their homes. Toby followed their lead and left the trees.

  The subdued sunlight was warm against his skin, and for some reason reassured him. He was safer out of the trees than inside. He walked backward for a few steps and kept his gaze locked to the woods, then turned back toward camp. The thing bellowed again, this time louder, as if it were angry. After a moment, it moved further into the trees until the snapping and cracking receded into the distance.

  The campsite sat within view of the tree line, but it wasn’t a pretty spectacle. The view of the wreckage punched Toby in the gut, and he could only stare at it in disbelief. The storm had decimated everything. Chuck’s blue Dodge lay upside down and looked like a group of punk kids used it for batting practice. A fallen pine now called Dave’s truck home; the cab lay smashed under the heavy weight of the wood. Yet, Toby’s truck took the worst of it.

  His F-150 burned. Black scorch marks scarred the sides of each quarter panel. The fire consumed the engine and left nothing more than a shell. The vehicle smoldered, and smoke drifted into the air. As he scanned the scene, he finally caught sight of someone who sat in a folding chair near the truck.

  Toby ran toward the camp. The quick movement sent another wave of dizziness through his system, but he shrugged it off.

  “Dave!”

  Dave’s short form slumped in the chair. It looked like he was taking an afternoon nap, nestled up to the burning truck as if it was a bonfire to keep him warm. The closer Toby got, the more Dave didn’t look right. His arms hung limp, and the man’s head angled too far to the side.

  “Dave?”

  Toby slowed to a walk when he neared. He didn’t have to get any closer to know the truth. Dave was dead.

  Blood pooled beneath the chair and dri
pped from Dave’s body in a steady plop-plop-plop. Toby circled until he could see Dave’s face. Except Dave’s face was gone.

  “Jesus,” Toby whispered.

  Something had ripped Dave’s eyes out and left him with dark crimson chasms. Whatever took his eyes, stole his lips and the flesh around his mouth. He looked like a macabre rag doll, happy to see his friend.

  Toby fought back tears as well the bile, which made a slow crawl for freedom. He slammed his fist down on his truck repeatedly until it hurt. The pain helped center him. His body shook with rage, and thoughts of killing the person responsible filled his mind. A tickle ran up his spine, almost a caress. He shuddered in response, but deep down, it felt good. The rage gave him focus. He needed to gather supplies and start his hunt again. He needed to kill the bastard responsible.

  Toby salvaged a blanket from Chuck’s wrecked truck and threw it over Dave’s body. He checked Dave’s pockets and grabbed the radio. Its battery still had life left.

  “Chuck? Brock? Guys?”

  Nothing.

  “Guys? Dave’s dead,” Toby said.

  He waited a couple minutes and listened for any response. Toby clipped the radio to his belt as something hit the outside of Chuck’s truck.

  He brought the gun up to his shoulder. The truck’s driver’s side door was open. He tried to remember if the door had been open before when a branch snapped behind him.

  Toby spun and dropped to one knee. Brock stopped his advance. The man’s own gun sat snug on his back, but he held his handmade tomahawk and long knife. Blood covered both weapons.

  “Toby, what’s going on? You okay?” Brock asked.

  “Dave’s dead,” Toby replied. He stood up and rested his gun in the crook of his arm.

  Brock looked to the ground and then back up at Toby. Brock snapped the tomahawk back and sent it flying forward toward Toby in a fluid motion. There wasn’t enough time for Toby to react.

  Chapter Two

  Toby’s father, Tobias Evard Warner I, stared at the scattering of fallen leaves on the ground. Evard lived in a cozy, established community in Draper, Utah. Small houses made of brick lined each side of the street. It gave the neighborhood character, not like those cookie-cutter homes that went up quicker than he could keep track. Those communities were nothing but extensions of corporate America. Buy our homes, work our jobs, enjoy our television. No thank you. Evard liked brick houses. They were sturdy, sturdier than those newer houses made of plywood. It didn’t matter what people said to argue; he didn’t care. Brick would last through the apocalypse.

  His yard featured large mature trees. As beautiful as the trees were, they always dumped a blanket of leaves. He took a drag on a big Dominican cigar and contemplated raking them up. It was a daunting task, and he hated the busy work, but nothing else was on the schedule. Plus, if he left it, Kelly would give him an earful later. She hated it when the yard was a mess.

  As he let the smoke free, Evard rubbed at his temples. He prayed another migraine wasn’t on its way.

  The temperature fell and caused a slight tremor to bounce up his spine. A single drop of rain hit the back of his neck. It slammed into him like a falling rock from the heavens. The charged water drove him to his knees, and a surge of electric power coursed through his veins.

  Something darker slipped its way through the power as if a slug crawled through his body and left a trail of corruption behind it. He hadn’t felt anything like this before, yet somehow, it was familiar. The thought caused his knees to tremble.

  Above him, a mass of clouds roiled in anger. They twisted and rolled as if they were a snake and mongoose locked in battle. This wasn’t a typical fall storm. It was something more. The buzz in his core told him as much.

  The clouds split open and spilled rain to the earth below. Each drop of the corrupted water stung a little less than the previous. Evard wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not. The bubble in his head threatened to burst, and the pressure almost brought tears to his eyes. He needed to get inside.

  Evard got to his feet and stumbled into his house. He pushed the door open and kicked his way through a sea of empty beer cans and microwave meal wrappings. Nausea rippled through his guts, and Evard dry heaved his way to the sink.

  “Kelly?”

  His deep voice detonated through the house. Nothing but silence greeted him.

  “Kelly, where are you?”

  Silence again.

  Damn it all to hell, he didn’t have time for the games. Some dark shit was about to hit the fan, and they needed to leave.

  He stormed through the kitchen and down the hallway. Evard stumbled and shoulder-checked a stack of old pizza boxes. They tumbled to the floor and splayed out across the aged linoleum in a modern mosaic. The clatter of cardboard ignited the fire in his skull, and he growled in frustration.

  “Kelly!”

  Evard stopped in front of the sewing room door. He hammered his fist on the cheap wood until the panel cracked under his onslaught.

  Privacy be damned. He growled and turned the knob.

  “Damn it, Kelly, something’s happening, and I nee—”

  An empty room stood before him. Kelly’s sewing area sat in contrast to the rest of the house. Everything was in order. All of her fabrics, yarn, thread, and measuring implements had remained untouched for the last five years.

  Evard’s head hurt.

  The fog muddled his thoughts again, and he rubbed his forehead. He tried to clear the haze, but it stuck to the insides of his mind like plastic wrap.

  “Kelly?” The words came out softly, almost a whisper. He opened his mouth to call out again, but deep down, he knew there wouldn’t be answer. The realization hurt more than the bulldozer in his brain.

  The memories flooded back as they always did. Kelly died of cancer. He remembered the funeral. Evard also remembered getting rid of all her things shortly after she passed. The sight of her clothes and her smell always brought tears to his eyes. Too many times, he broke down sobbing, so he got rid of it all—except the sewing room. It served as the last bastion, the rampart he wouldn’t—couldn’t—break through.

  He stood in the doorway and stared. Memories waded through the murky water of his mind, memories he didn’t like.

  Evard left the room and shut the door. For the moment, he forgot the strange storm. He grabbed a dirty glass from the counter and ran tepid tap water through it once. A bottle of vodka sat in the cupboard waiting for him, and he didn’t want to keep it waiting forever. That would be rude.

  The warm liquid hit his throat and burned the whole way down. It helped bring clarity to his thoughts and took the edge off the headache. Evard pulled a worn notebook from his back pocket. The front and back cover sported duct tape patch jobs that kept it together.

  Evard pushed cans and trash out of the way and cleared a spot on the couch. He took another shot of the vodka and opened the notebook. His hand shook slightly as he grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote.

  Forgot again today. I miss her so much. Was going to warn her about the storm.

  Evard stopped.

  The storm.

  Thunder cracked in the distance, as if in answer to his acknowledgement. He picked up the phone and dialed. It rang a couple of times, and then Linda answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Where’s Tobias?” Evard asked. There wasn’t time for pleasantries, or time to tiptoe through the tulips of awkwardness. Shit needed to get done.

  She didn’t reply, and Evard imagined the look on her face. Eyes narrowed into daggers and lips pursed into a frown. Linda’s sigh shot through the receiver.

  “You know you aren’t supposed to call anymore.”

  Evard squeezed his eyes shut and used his thumb and forefinger to rub at them. He needed another drink. The pain in his skull was about to blossom again.

 
“Something bad is going to happen, I can feel it. I need to talk to Tobias.”

  Tobias needed to know what was coming. Evard kicked himself in the metaphorical ass for not preparing his boy earlier, but he’d be damned if he was about to let him fly blind into the tempest.

  She sighed again, and her breath buzzed through the phone. When she spoke, her voice was distant. Evard concentrated and tried to understand what she said.

  “No, it’s not your dad, go play in the other room. I’m on the phone.”

  “How’s Sebastian doing?” Evard asked automatically.

  “He’s fine,” she answered. Her voice came across sharp and tight.

  “Where’s Tobias?”

  “Look, I will let him know you called when he gets back. But please don’t call here anymore,” Linda said.

  He tightened his grip on the receiver and counted backward from ten.

  “Linda, it’s important. Something bad is going to happen. I don’t know what, but you need to get out of the area. Take Sebastian and get out.” He tried to keep the tremble from his voice, but it found a way to creep through the false bravado.

  Linda’s tone softened, “Evard, are you seeing Kelly again?”

  Evard slammed his fist on the counter. The line crackled with interference and the lights in his house flared before going dim again. It was already happening. The storm fed his energy.

  “Damn it! Are you listening to me? This isn’t a joke.”

  Linda stayed silent. Evard took another lungful of air and a drink of vodka. The alcohol smoldered in his stomach and anchored him in the moment.

  “You’re drinking, aren’t you?”

  “Please, just get out of town. Get hold of Tobias and leave. Linda, I’m begging you.”

  “Please don’t call anymore.”

  Linda hung up. Evard dropped the phone and took another drink. He searched a drawer next to the fridge and looked for a stack of notes. Pencils, scissors, and other useless office supplies sat in jumble. He fished around the drawer for a moment and then found it. Nestled inside a small stack of sticky notes was Tobias’ cell phone number.