In that moment, he doesn’t care if there might be other Tainted ones nearby, he just wants the voice of his father to go away and never return. He wants to go about his life, however long that might be, on his own.
Chris staggers back from the ruined mess before him and sits heavily on ground. After a few heaving breaths, he lies on his back and stares up through the trees. His head rocks side to side as he croaks a barely audible plea, “It’s time for you to go, Dad.”
For a time, all is quiet in his head. He counts himself lucky there are no more Tainted ones around. With as much noise as he’s just made, they would have probably fallen on him by now, welcoming him to their feast with shattered teeth, bony, prodding fingers, and poisoned tongues intent on tasting his flesh.
* * *
He pushes himself from the ground and ponders the mass of flesh he’s just hacked to pieces. The only thing recognizable is a hand, severed from the wrist. The fingers still twitch spastically, as if holding on to life and trying without success to reach him—just like his father, holding on to that one thread of existence. He’s certain that his dad is still there, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he remains quiet—possibly trying to get a grasp on his son's violent, screaming outburst of rage.
As he thinks back on the last several minutes, Chris’s actions surprise even himself. This has never happened before. He’s always been afraid of his dad, and that included the constant, incessant, disembodied voice. In some ways, the voice in his head was worse than having his dad physically riding his coat-tails day in and day out. Yes, the instruction and survival skills were a necessity, but for some reason, Chris always suspected his father was hiding something from him. Like the names carved in the beam in the hut—why put them there if he wasn’t going to teach him to read? He’s certain the etching in the beam and the similar markings on the back of the photographs are names. What he doesn’t know is which name goes with which person.
One the ground, the severed hand’s twitching fingers finally cease moving. Around him, the forest, quiet and still until this moment, seems to awaken with new life. It is as if everything living in the forest went into hiding with the Tainted’s appearance, and has now decided to crawl back out of hiding.
He’ll have to move this trap to another location because, like its namesake, the Tainted’s remains have spoiled the ground. No other living creature will venture within ten feet of here and by this time next year, the poisoned flesh will have killed much of the vegetation. He turns away from the pile of flesh on the ground and makes his way back to the trail. It’s time to check the other traps and snares for food. He hopes he will have more meat to add to what he’s already stored.
Chapter Four
Just like in years past, the rain comes with Autumn—but this year is different. The rainy season usually brings gentle showers two or three times a week, with the occasional brief thunderstorm thrown in for variety. But this year brings days upon days of torrential downpours and ground-shaking storms that keep him holed up inside the little hut. The heavy rains penetrate the tree bark roof as if it weren’t there at all. Outside, the charcoal gray clouds boil across the sky and last so long that he begins to wonder if the sun still exists.
The storms are so bad that he can’t perform his daily ritual and check the traps. Only when his store of rations begins to dwindle to nothing does he force himself out into the rain-soaked forest.
On each trip, mud cakes his boots and pulls at his feet with every step. In some places, it is so thick, he is afraid he’s found a patch of quicksand and it will suck him down, down, down until he never again has to worry about his father’s haunting voice or from where his next meal will come.
But no, it is not to be. The voice is still there no matter how bad he wants it gone. On some nights, he lies awake listening to the rolling thunder and his thoughts turn to the knife—the same knife he used to put his father out of his misery. Could he use that knife on himself? He searches the dim interior and there it is, sticking out of the makeshift wood table in the corner. All he has to do is stand up, walk across the room, take the knife in his hand, point it at his heart, and let his body fall forward. It would be all over then. No struggling to survive, no fighting the elements or the Tainted, and especially, no voices in his head. If this is it, if this is all there is… just him living a lowly existence alone, then why live at all?
“What’s the point?” he asks the darkened hut. The sound of his voice startles him. It’s deeper than he remembers—and more unnerving—it sounds like his dad’s voice and that frightens him.
His eyes flick to the knife again.
Outside, the rain stops suddenly and his heart begins to flutter with excitement. He’d be happy just to have a few hours of sun—just long enough to dry his clothes. He steps outside. Beside the door is a small wooden barrel used to collect rainwater. He should boil it before he drinks, but the rain extinguished his fire days ago and he’s thirsty. He cups water in his palms and brings it to his lips to drink. In the distance, more thunder rumbles, promising more rain. As the thunder diminishes, another sound replaces it—a sound he’s been hearing for days but which, because of its consistency, has faded from thought. However, now that the rain has stopped (if only temporarily), the roaring noise comes back to full focus.
The river.
A new panic tightens his chest. He rushes out and, slip-sliding away from the hut, heads to the cliff to get a view of the flood plain. As he approaches, he’s shocked to see that the entire eastern horizon is a sea of water. He’s seen the river outside its banks before, but never like this.
He approaches the edge of the cliff but quickly stops. There’s something different here and he struggles momentarily to identify what it is. Then he sees what it is—where there was once a wide swath of open ground between the cliff and the tree line, the force of water against the cliff has eaten away several feet.
His eyes turn to the north and up to the pines lining the northern portion of Homestead. While he watches, one of the tallest trees begins to lean away until it’s finally gone from view. It strikes the river with a tremendous slap. He turns back to the river and watches as the freshly uprooted tree slides by on the water’s surface.
If the river’s eaten away so much of this cliff…there’s no telling what’s happening on the northern face.
Chris nods in agreement. He might be sick of hearing his father’s voice—but sometimes, he knows how to hit the nail right on the head.
He knows the danger, the instability of the northern portion of his little plot of land, but he has to go see. Afterward, since the rain has stopped, he decides it might be best to trudge out and check the traps. He grabs the machete and heads down the trail toward the Guardians. As he enters the strip of cleared land, he stops in mild shock. The river has eaten away so much land that two more Guardians are gone—sucked into the hungry river’s swirling vortex.
“Oh, man,” he says aloud. As if in answer, thunder rumbles in the distance.
He approaches the gate and the Guardians hiss and growl as he passes through. He barely gives them a second glance.
You know you’re going to have to replace them soon. They don’t last forever.
Chris glances back. His dad is right—every one of the Guardians is beginning to deteriorate beyond their usefulness. The two females have lost the majority of their hair and, with the exception of their sagging, gravity-stretched breasts hidden by torn clothing, look just like their male counterparts. There is usually a horrid smell to accompany them, but it seems all the rain has washed the majority of rot and putrefaction away from them because as far as he can tell, they smell no worse than he does.
He turns to the trail ahead and the traps beyond while behind him another section of cliff slides away, devoured by the rushing river.
* * *
Something his father warned him about tumbles through his mind. He hasn’t thought about it in some time now, but the rising river water reminds hi
m. Don’t go in the water, his father had said. That and, don’t eat the fish.
Why, dad? Why did you tell me that? What did you not tell me? He wonders if he should consider moving away now, just pack everything he can carry and leave. But where would he go? Not east of course—at least, not without finding a way across the river. If his dad’s warning held any weight, then that could be a bad idea. How it could be bad? Chris doesn’t know.
He passes the first trap, barely giving it a second glance. It’s empty. He continues down the trail toward the second one. More thunder rumbles in the distance but as of this moment, the rain hasn’t restarted.
The second trap is also empty and he begins to second-guess the decision not to bring his bow with him. If the traps are empty and he happens to see a deer, a hog, or even a squirrel, the machete won’t do him any good.
However, the remaining traps don’t matter—neither does the fact that he didn’t bring his bow. As more thunder rolls from the distance, another noise mixes with it and sends a chill up Chris’s spine.
Somewhere to the south, someone is screaming.
Chapter Five
Chris doesn’t question—doesn’t even think about who is screaming—he holds the machete out to the side, away from his body, and sprints through the forest as fast as the muddy ground will allow. Branches slap him in the face and snap against his thin clothing. The scream tapers off suddenly and he’s afraid he might be too late.
He slides to a halt and quickly scans through the trees in search of the source. The shriek was loud, so he doesn’t think the owner could have been very far ahead of him, but as of yet, there’s no sign of anyone. He trudges forward a few more yards and pauses again to scan the forest.
A movement to his left catches his eye. He ducks down and spins behind a clump of thick bushes.
I don’t think they saw you, says his dad.
Chris’s heart pounds. In that quick glance, he saw at least three of the Tainted corpses. All were in advanced stages of decomposition and crept slowly through the underbrush. Carefully, slowly, he adjusts his position so he can see them.
There’s not three of them.
There’s not six either.
There’s at least a dozen of them and they are all trudging directly toward him.
That’s when he hears another noise. It’s not a grunt or groan like the Tainted make—but a sound like only a bird could make—a low whistle. The whistle comes again and is immediately followed by a soft voice, “Up here, shit-head.”
Chris raises his eyes to the trees. A large tree stands to his left, thick vines drape down like a curtain of snakes. A flash of color draws his gaze, and peeking between two thick limbs are a pair of dark eyes hovering above a thin body wrapped in a tattered, faded pink dress. Strings of matted hair lay across her face, plastered to her skin with wetness from either the recent rain or sweat.
“Get down,” he whispers harshly. “They’ll surround you…” He lets his voice fade, afraid his own voice will attract them. If she stays where she is, she’s as good as dead. They’ll surround the tree and never leave. If that happens, he’ll be unable to help—there’s just too many of them. He doesn’t even know the woman, but he can’t very well leave her there. He could never forgive himself if he didn’t even try to save her.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the ground. “I have a place that’s safe.”
His father laughs at that and Chris has to agree—safe is a relative term. By his estimation, nowhere is safe. The laughter suddenly abates and his father’s tone changes to stern consternation. Leave her, son. She’s going to get you killed.
Chris takes another glance over his shoulder, trying to find a clear line of sight through the hedge. The rotting, walking corpses wander through the trees as if in search of something—something they’ve forgotten or lost, but can’t quite remember what it was. One passes painfully close to Chris and he holds his breath as it moves away. He’s thankful for the rain—he’s also thankful that he hasn’t tried to bathe in a while. His father always told him they had trouble seeing—and that they might rely either on hearing or on smell to track their prey. However, the more Chris interacts with them, the more he’s beginning to believe that all their senses still work, just diluted.
He glances at the woman in the tree and mouths the words, “Is it gone?”
She holds up a finger and adjusts her line of sight so she can see. Her eyes widen in fright. She begins to scurry backward along the limb. Her eyes flit toward him and in just that one look, Chris knows he’s in trouble. His hand squeezes the machete handle and he slowly lifts the blade, ready to strike out. Again, he finds a break in the bushes—what he sees turns his spine to ice.
He lowers the blade, it won’t do him any good now. A few minutes ago, there might have been a dozen shuffling, rotting bodies—now there are ten times that many. They move through the trees with mindless abandon; a swaying mass of shuffling, stumbling, rotting bodies with only one desire—to eat.
He ducks back down, heart hammering faster than ever before—a heavy pounding that threatens to burst his chest open from the inside out.
The woman creeps down the tree, using the vines to help her to the ground while the bulk of the tree’s trunk hides her from view from the Tainted. However, Chris can see her—and he doesn’t like the menacing look on her face. Once on the ground, she presses against the tree, hands poised in front of her, palms flat against the rough bark. Her lips purse into a fierce line and her eyes narrow at him, causing the creases of skin between her eyes to deepen.
The muscles in her arms tense like cords of rope, displaying a hidden strength that he would have never guessed she had. In that moment, a realization strikes him. He knows what she’s about to do and he silently uses his eyes to plead with her. It’s no use, she pushes away from the tree and dances away with surprising agility across the slick ground. In a split second, she’s a blur of pink, streaking through the forest.
Chris watches with stunned surprise as she runs away, barely slipping, as if she’s floating across the ground. Behind him, on the other side of the thick hedge, is a collective groan. At the sound, everything else grows quiet, as if that one horrid noise draws all life from the forest.
To his right, a heavy footfall slaps the ground, so close that mud spurts from beneath it and splatters onto Chris’s leg.
Go, Chris!
As much as he’s grown to hate the incessant voice in his head, it’s times like this where he’s thankful for it because it gets him moving. He doesn’t hesitate. He leaps upward and in the same motion, swings the machete up and behind him. It catches the living corpse just beneath the chin and slices effortlessly through the soft, spongy skull.
Chris turns and runs, following the woman. She has a head start, but she’s not too far ahead of him—he can just see her tattered pink dress moving from tree to tree. He’s tempted to look over his shoulder, but resists. The moment he does, he’ll lose his balance, trip over a downed tree limb, or slip in the mud—in either case, the Tainted will be on him before he can recover his footing.
When the woman first took off through the trees he thought she was incredibly fast, however, he seems to be having no trouble at all closing the distance. Believing he must be far enough away from the troop of corpses to risk a look, he reaches out and grabs a small tree to help slow his progress—swinging around it so he’s facing the direction he’d come.
While the forest is thick with trees, the dense canopy of leaves overhead keeps the ground relatively clear of thick brush and undergrowth. Only the hardiest of underbrush thrives here—and thankfully, he was able to conceal himself behind one just a few minutes ago. However, where he stands now, all he can see are tree trunks, a brown, leaf-carpeted ground, and hundreds of sluggish, moving bodies in various degrees of decay.
It’s a migration, his dad says, voice low even though there’s no way anyone but Chris can hear him. He glances left and right. More lumbering bodies close in
from those directions too. Luckily, the way out leads to the trail and Homestead. He just hopes the Guardians can do their job with such a mob.
He and his dad have had near misses in the past, but nothing on this scale. On one such occasion, they were hunting along the river to the north and stumbled upon ten of the Tainted. These were less decomposed and upon first glance, he and his dad both thought they had stumbled upon a small band of survivors. It wasn’t until they had almost gotten right on top of them that they noticed the grimacing mouths lined with yellow teeth and black, oozing gums. As if they were a collective consciousness, they turned on father and son with such speed and aggression that Chris almost died when one of them closed a hand around his thin arm.
One swipe of his dad’s machete cleaved the hand from the thing’s arm and the two of them turned and ran as fast as they could back toward the Guardians. They made it through the gate and concealed themselves behind the fence. The ten corpses burst from the forest and into the clearing—they moved with such knowing determination, Chris just knew they were going to be captured and eaten.
That didn’t happen, however, and the ten paused just long enough to give the Guardians a passing glance. Recognizing them as their own, they trudged on, following the Snake River south.
That had been ten—now there are hundreds. Even if those in the lead recognize the Guardians as non-food, those in the rear will keep piling in and press those in the lead against the fence. The Picket Fence is sturdy, and the pikes pointing outward will impale a great many of them, but it won’t hold for long—not with this many of them.
Chris turns and begins to run. In another minute, he catches sight of the woman again. He thinks the trail home should be close by now and hopes that he hasn’t already run past it in his haste to escape.
Tainted Page 3