As I reached the tree, my eye again caught movement on the side farthest from me. There was a man there with his back to me, short, thick, about mid twenties, with a tattoo on the side of his neck, just pulling up his pants and buttoning them. I froze at first, but quickly I realized that I couldn’t stay there because I was exposed to the searchers who were now in the meadow and still moving away. So I continued toward him not exactly sure what I was going to do.
At some point, maybe he heard me or possibly just sensed my presence because he looked over his shoulder and twisted his body in my direction. I raised my rifle and took two big steps to close the distance, just as he turned around to face me. That’s how we stood for maybe five seconds or so; him still buckling his belt and looking at my rifle pointed directly at his face, close enough that if I wanted to I could poke an eye out with it. I saw his attention shift to his left to the base of the tree. That’s the moment I snapped the butt of my rifle into the side of his jaw, and he went down as if someone pulled his plug.
The first thing I did was look back out to the meadow to see if the whole bunch of them were running my way. They weren’t. After that, I dragged him by his pants behind the tree where they couldn’t see him or me. That’s when I notice a little single shot .22 rifle leaning up against the trunk. It =tiflooked a hundred years old. I went through his pockets and found a handful of bullets for it, transferred them to mine, grabbed his rifle with my free hand and started off west again.
What happened next I haven’t yet put to rest. My mind is still working it over and probably will be for a long, long time, maybe forever. I don’t feel good about it. I don’t feel good about me either. And though I want to block it from my memory, deny it happened, excuse it away somehow, I’ll not do that here.
“… guilt will chase at your heels all the way to forgiveness.” Claire Huston June 2050
I got maybe twenty yards away, if that, and stopped. There was no running from this one. There also wasn’t anyone else to do the dirty work and later take the blame for it. I couldn’t leave him alive.
When he woke up, and he most surely would, he’d alert all the others, simple as that. After that, they’d be on us like a pack of wolves running an injured deer. We’d still be in the immediate area. They’d have a definite starting place for their search. They would know there were three of us, not just two. In other words, we’d be screwed. So I knew I had to go back and deal with it. How ironic is that, huh?
When I got back to him, he was still unconscious, but his eyes were moving back and forth beneath his lids in quick, jerky movements, so I assumed he was going to wake up soon. I couldn’t shoot him for obvious reasons. I didn’t have a knife big enough to stab him with and didn’t want to do it anyway for the same reason I didn’t want to pound his skull into mush with the stock of my rifle — too messy I guess. Listen to me. Is murder ever neat? So I stripped off his belt, wrapped it around his throat once, stood on the buckle with my boot, gripped the other end with both hands and pulled for all I was worth.
Ah man, I can’t begin to describe what I was feeling right about that moment. Just think about it for a second. There I was, standing over this guy, looking directly down at his face and killing him — actually killing him. It probably wouldn’t have been as bad if I’d been able to just shoot him. What, it takes about a nano-second to make the decision to pull the trigger and another for the bullet to hit its mark? Strangling a guy, though, was a whole different matter. It just went on and on and on. And with each tick of life came the decision to continue or stop, so I had to decide on this person’s fate not just once but essentially a thousand times until he was forever lifeless.
I hope he didn’t know what I was doing to him. I hope he was unconscious throughout the whole ordeal. But the truth is, I don’t think he was, unconscious that is. There was a second there, right after I started to yank on the belt, when his hands moved from his waist to his chest and kind of fluttered a bit before dropping to his side. I think he knew. Yeah, I’m sure he knew.
Getting back to it, after I was finished murdering another human being, I retraced my steps west and eventually back to camp where Anna was trying to build a fire. Timing is everything I guess. If she had started that fire five minutes earlier, well, you can imagine the rest. in both directionstif
They both must have read something unpleasant on my face because they stopped what they were doing and stared. Anna asked, “What, what happened?”
I simply said, “They’re close. We have to get out of here right now. Grab what you can and let’s go.”
I have to hand it to her and Gabriel both; they turned to it. We were out of there in less than five minutes. We had to leave the tarp behind, though. It was tied down and covered with tree limbs. I knew I was going to miss it, but I felt it was just that important to get moving. See, I had a plan on how to maybe turn the situation to our advantage. Maybe.
As I thought back on the last few minutes, several things came to mind. For one, none of the men I saw were carrying any equipment other than weapons. That told me that they probably weren’t going to continue north indefinitely. Since they weren’t prepared to stay overnight, eventually they’d turn around and start back. Since they were walking from south to north without any gear, their camp, where no doubt it was all stashed, was probably to the south of us. My guess was that it wasn’t too far away either because they probably started out just before sun-up. I also noticed that while all of them seemed well fed, not all of them were well armed, which meant we might have a chance even if we were spotted. And of course from the bit of conversation I overheard, they weren’t sure we were in the immediate area; another advantage, though fleeting.
The way I saw it, there were two possible courses of action. We couldn’t go south because their camp was somewhere in that direction. We couldn’t go north because the search party was somewhere in that direction. So we could go either east or west. West was definitely the safest choice. As far as we knew, there wasn’t anyone looking for us in that direction. Going east, on the other hand, would cause us to travel between the searchers on one side and their camp on the other, and their camp was sure to have some people in it. If we were spotted by either, the fight would be on.
But I felt that if we could go east without being seen, any tracks we left might be confused for theirs, at least for a while anyway. East was also the way we had been going and the closest to roads. That would help us put some serious distance between them and us as long as we were able to get out ahead and willing to take the chance. If they found our camp, which was likely, they might just figure that we were headed west, away from them. That would give us more time, and time is what we needed right then — time and food.
We walked east as quickly and quietly as we could, staying among the trees to better conceal our movements. There was no conversation between us for the first mile or so, either. We were too busy listening and looking.
After about an hour of this, Anna came up beside me and asked, “Where’d you get the rifle?”
Her question caught me unprepared. I had decided that I wasn’t going to tell them about the man I killed. You can read what you want into that — coward, hypocrite, whatever — but I just didn’t want to talk to the the Author
On the spot, I thought about lying to her, but I really didn’t want to do that either. So I said, “A guy back there. I took it from him.” The way I wrote the last sentences out makes it seem like I was straight forward about it, but it really wasn’t that way. The words struggled out of my mouth. I think it was the tone of my voice and the cadence of my words that told the truth, rather than the words themselves.
It was the perfect opportunity for her to make something out of it, given my obvious disapproval of her shooting the pilot. To tell you the truth, I thought that’s exactly what she was going to do. But instead, she lightly placed her hand on my forearm and the saddest, most compassionate look you can ever imagine passed over her face. I’m ashamed to say I
almost cried right then and there. Maybe she sensed that, too, because she didn’t say or ask any more. She just dropped back behind me, and we continued walking in silence.
Once away from where I encountered the search party, we picked up the pace as much as we could. But as you can imagine, as the adrenalin surge wore off, the drag of no food wore on. Our thoughts of pursuit stoked us up and pushed us, though. We were running on pure fear at that point.
About our direction of travel; I knew which way was east by a few landmarks that were on my maps and by the position of the sun, but I didn’t know with any precision exactly where we were. This didn’t worry me, however, because somewhere up ahead was Highway 97, which ran north and south. So even if we were oriented slightly northeast or slightly southeast we would still intersect it, and I‘d know our location with much more accuracy. In fact, since many highway signs were still in place and readable, I might be able to know our position with great precision.
Just before dark, we topped a rise in thick forest and found a spot well concealed by a rocky outcropping on one side and pine on the others. That’s where we decided to stop for the night. This time Gabriel and I scouted for firewood while Anna went through what had become our nightly routine of constructing a pine bough mattress.
Gabriel had fallen into silence throughout much of the afternoon. I took this as just another sign of fatigue and thought nothing more of it. But when we were alone, and I wasn’t so caught up in my own self-depreciating contemplations, I could plainly see trouble on his face. Eventually he got around to asking me if there was any doubt that the men I saw were looking for us. I told him that I was close enough to overhear some conversation, and there was no doubt to be had.
He was quiet for a time, in the way that a person is when he has something on his mind, and soon grabbed a hold of my sleeve and made me face him. Looking directly in my eyes he said, “If they find us, you can’t let them take my mother. They will hurt her again, worse than before, and then they’ll kill her. She’s been hurt enough.”
I stared at him for a few seconds and turned away without answer the Author
He wanted me to kill Anna, his own mother, if it was inevitable she was going to be taken again. How could I even consider such a thing? I was repulsed by my act of murder earlier that morning, and that person, victim, was my enemy. How could I possibly kill Anna under any circumstance?
We stood in the manner I’ve described for several seconds, with not a word more passing between us. His eyes were fast on my face, mine on his. I lied then. I gave him a single, slow nod of my head. After that, he just turned back to picking up sticks, and no more was said about it. I don’t think I can do it. I can’t imagine what desperation would give me the strength.
Our camp was concealed well enough that I felt we could chance a fire for heat. The trees and rocks would hide the flame and the leaves and branches overhead would disperse the smoke. This would be the first full day of no food, so a fire might in some small way make up for that discomfort. It also gave me enough light to catch up on these words I have written.
April 8, 2054 -
I woke this morning on my back with Anna curled to my side and with my arm wrapped-up by hers and pulled to her breast. I know it was an unconscious act on her part and nothing should be read into it, but I have to acknowledge I liked the feeling. Maybe that’s really all the thought I need give it. I liked the feeling.
I tried as gently as possible to untangle us without waking her, but she stirred and opened her eyes briefly before turning away from me, freeing my arm. I could be wrong, I truly could, but I got the feeling that when she rolled over she was just pretending to be still asleep, maybe to avoid any embarrassment for the way she was holding me.
I arose and went about my personal business, afterwards gathering a few pieces of wood for a morning fire. While doing this, I took notice of the fact that my stomach didn’t seem to be objecting as much as it was yesterday to its lack of food. My headache wasn’t as persistent either. I still noticed the lack of energy, though.
We used the last of the instant coffee, scraping every single crystal from the bottom of the jar, a pitiful breakfast to be sure. After, we repacked our few belongings and started out again, going east.
For the first half of the day, we climbed what I would estimate was 1,000 feet in mostly forest. However, our energy level was so depleted, we took breaks just about every hour. One of these stops was next to a small stream, and I took a moment to refill 4 2 2 2 2 2 4;} @font-face {font-family:s , but at our water bottles and wash my face and hair.
As I cupped the water, I naturally took notice of my hands and fingers that, not so long ago, had nimbly plied my trade in Reno. They were now a far cry from the soft, pale, well manicured things they had once been. My skin was thick, swollen, and stiff when flexed. Cracks had formed in several places along the sides of my index fingers and knuckles. These fissures had bled, healed and bled again until thick calluses had formed, and the cracks filled with dirt, as had my fingernails. As hard as I tried, bent over the stream like that, I was unable to wash the black out.
The dirt, of course, went far beyond my hands. The sleeves of my coat were filthy, and at the cuffs it had been ground-in to such an extent that it took on a greasy looking sheen. The knees of my pant legs and their fronts were similarly soiled, and I could see small tears had formed here and there.
I threw water onto my face and rubbed it over my head. After several seconds of vigorous scrubbing, little seemed accomplished. My hair and beard left my hands greasy and, I’m sure, my appearance no more improved. I could only imagine what I smelled like.
After we were back on our way again, I noticed my headache had returned, making travel all that more miserable. However, our progress was steady, even if slow. About mid-afternoon, I encountered a one-lane dirt road that was more potholes and loose rock than a smooth, hard packed thoroughfare. We were considerably strung out by then, and I waited for Gabriel and Anna to catch up.
For the last couple of days, I had pretty much made the decisions on which way to go and when to go, but now I had no mental energy for it. So this time, we as a group considered our alternatives. The choices were: do we take the road and cover distance faster but with more risk; or do we stay off the road and move slower but safer. Apparently Gabriel and Anna had little enthusiasm for decision making either and were so beat down that they didn’t care about the risk, so we all just sort of shrugged our shoulders and took the road. I think now, it is times like those when fatal mistakes are often made.
We stayed on the road for most of the afternoon until it turned decidedly north. At that point we struck out east across county again. The terrain was starting to change about then. First and best, we were going downhill most of the time. It was only a slight decline, but my legs noticed it immediately and were grateful for the change. Secondly, the trees were thinning out considerably, and we were merging onto a brushy landscape of green with great outcroppings of rock, some rising nearly a hundred feet. In fact, several times we had to detour around these geological obstructions because our physical condition was so tenuous that either we risked injury, or we risked failure to negotiate the obstacle by climbing over it.
During one such detour, my eye picked up movement off in the distance. Upon a closer look, it was a trio of coyotes circling an area of heavy brush near the edge of a growth of pine trees. They seemed to have focused on a single spot and were pawing and sniffing at the earth. I waited for Gabriel and Anna to catch up and told them that I wanted to check out what it was the coyotes were interested in and asked them to stay behind. Wit to warn wothout a word, they dropped to the ground. Anna propped herself, hunched over, against a rock. Gabriel lay full out on his back. I walked off.
My energy was almost fully depleted by then, or so it felt. I was aware of each step taken. My back and legs ached something fierce. My feet felt leaden. I wanted to sit, and rest, and sleep the day. As far as my mental processes were concerne
d, they skirted the edge of desperation.
During the last several yards of my approach, I whistled, sang, shouted, stomped my feet, and generally made my presence known. The coyotes were clearly not happy to see me and to give up their find but nonetheless surrendered ground. Still, they circled like ghosts, nosed the air and darted in and out quick like, yipping and baring teeth, trying to spook me away.
It was a dead mule deer, a big one, half buried. And in the earth surrounding the animal’s carcass there were definite bear tracks, large ones. My guess was that the deer had been killed by a bear, dined upon and, as is their inclination, buried for later feeding. The thought that a bear was anywhere nearby made me nervous, but I was so hungry I’d fight him for his kill with nothing more than spit and rocks if I had to.
All I had for cutting was a pocketknife with a three-inch blade, but still I went to work. It took a considerable amount of pulling and slicing, but in the end I was able to trim about a fifteen or twenty pound filet off its upside flank; skin, dirt, debris, and all. I jammed my rifle into my pack and started back. I think if anyone had been watching me, they would have thought me drunk, or touched in the head, or both because I staggered, yelled, and held the meat up high.
Anna built a fire in a grouping of nearby rocks while Gabriel and I used water from one of our bottles to wash off as much dirt as possible.
A long time ago, I used to have this little black and white Boston Terrier. Actually, it’s debatable if I had him or he had me, if you know what I mean. I called him Ivan after Ivan the Terrible because he was such a terror. Anyway, he would always shake all over and let out these little whinny squeaks whenever I prepared his meals. As strange as it sounds, I thought about him for a second there while all this was going on. That’s because my own hands were shaking, my heart was racing, and my mouth was watering the entire time we were preparing the venison to cook. I was so hungry that even though that meat smelled something terrible, it was all I could do to keep from biting off a piece and eating it raw.
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