by Ray Wench
“I don’t like that look, Artie. Shoot one of them. Shoot the guy. We don’t want to waste the girl … yet.”
Becca shivered with revulsion. She looked past the men to the two small crosses stuck in the ground in front of the trees that lined the back of the property. Her shiver turned ice cold. A painful dread clutched at her heart.
“Oh no, Bobby!” She stood, entranced. Her body swayed. Her vision clouded. For a moment she felt faint. Without a thought, Becca dropped her gun and walked in a zombie-like path toward the graves.
Bobby followed Becca’s gaze and saw the crosses. His shoulders sagged. There was only one purpose for the crosses to be in their yard. Blurred vision registered Becca’s movement.
“Hey, you stop right there,” the skinny man said. His body twitched with nervous energy. “What’s she looking at?”
“Don’t look, it’s a ploy to distract us.” He backed up a step and shot a quick glance behind him. “There’s no one there, but there could be someone in the trees.”
“Artie, I think the old guy is in the trees.”
Artie turned and pointed his weapon at the trees. Becca kept advancing toward the graves.
“Stop or I’ll shoot you.” Artie’s voice crept up an octave.
Intentional or not, Becca’s path had crossed the line of sight between Bobby and skinny man. With Artie’s attention drawn to the trees, Bobby made his move. Dropping to one knee, he scooped up his handgun. As soon as Becca passed the nervous man, Bobby fired.
Becca never flinched at the sound of the shot, but Artie did. He jumped and turned as his partner fell to the ground. Two rounds flew from Artie’s gun, striking the house to Bobby’s right.
In a flash, Becca brought up her knife. In one large step and a wild animalistic howl that froze Bobby in his steps, his sister ripped an upward slice through Artie’s gut, ending near his left shoulder. The gun discharged again, into the ground, before falling from his grip. Becca grabbed the man by his shoulder, pulling him in close as she thrust the blade deep into his flesh.
She screamed again, a long eerie wail. Bobby watched in horror. Her arm was like a piston, firing time after time into the bloody body. Her eyes never left the two crosses. Artie died long before Becca was through plunging the knife. She kept his body upright until she could move her knife no more.
Bobby stepped cautiously to his sister’s side and put a gentle hand on her knife arm. It took a moment for her to break her stare with the graves. She turned her head to him. There was pain in her eyes, but something more, too – an emptiness, like a deep black void Her green eyes watered, yet looked dead.
He had to look away. The pain of losing his parents was one thing. He had been preparing himself for this moment. But the anguish his sister now endured overwhelmed him beyond his preparation. His hands fell to his side. The gun hung from limp fingers, as if refusing to let go.
Ten
“Oh, Bobby, no,” she cried and released the body.
Stepping on and over the corpse, Becca dropped to her knees between the two crosses. Bobby followed. Through teary eyes he could make out the words etched into the crossbars.
In loving memory, Ben.
In loving memory, Sandra.
Down the shaft of each cross was the phrase, In my heart forever.
These were the graves of their mother and youngest brother.
Becca tore at the long grass, threw her head back, and keened at the setting sun. For the first time, the end of the world felt like the end of the world. His grief too complete to allow thought, he walked past his sister to the nearest tree and clutched it to keep from collapsing.
Unaware of how much time had passed, Bobby didn’t even know how long his sister’s screeching had failed to fill the dusk sky. He turned at the grunt. Despite everything that had happened to them over the past few weeks, he was still shocked to see his sister straddling Artie’s body and tearing into him with her knife.
Whatever was left of his sister was now long gone. Blood drenching her like some nightmare vision, he half expected her to sink her teeth into the body and drink his blood. Becca had gone over the edge. She was more monster now, than human.
He looked at the gun still in his hand, hanging at his side. A strange calm descended over him. He looked to his sister in her crazed grief-stricken rage and thought of her as a wounded animal. Tears fell anew and he advanced on his sister.
Becca seemed unaware of his approach, not that she would have cared at this point had she known his intent. To be put out of her tortured misery would certainly be a blessing. There was little left of the body below her to recognize it as human, but then there was little of the gore-covered, blood-soaked body of his sister to suggest she was human. Wherever Becca’s mind had gone, she no longer existed in this body.
Bobby raised his gun as he walked between the graves of his mother and brother. His eyes blurred with the tears. Turning his head, he wiped his eyes clear and saw the etching on the back of the crosses. Comprehension took a moment. Wait! What? In the dusk the engraving was difficult to decipher. He bent to take a closer look, and then dropped to the ground. “He’s alive. Becca, he’s alive.” Becca stopped and looked over her shoulder to where Bobby knelt. He motioned to her.
“Becca, can you hear me?”
She looked at him, but Bobby wasn’t sure if she could actually see him. His hand traced the crosses. She wiped at her blood-streaked face, but only managed to cover her face more completely.
“Sis, Dad’s still alive.”
“Wh-what?”
“Dad. He’s still alive. Who do you think dug these graves? It had to be Dad. And come here. Look.” He motioned with an excited hand gesture. “Come on, Sis, please.”
Becca looked at the destroyed body, at the knife embedded in the neck. She pulled it free and studied the blade.
“Sis, you can’t kill him any more than he is. Please, come here and look at what Dad wrote.”
Becca pushed herself slowly to her feet and spat on the corpse. She took a staggered route to Bobby. He pushed to his feet and backed up to allow his sister to see. She turned her back on him and bent to look.
“There, on the cross pieces. Read from one to the other.”
She looked closer.
As she did, Bobby once more became aware of the gun in his hand and thought about what he had been about to do. Had the discovery he made altered anything? He made up his mind then that the face that turned around and looked at him would determine whether he pulled the trigger.
Becca traced each letter as she read aloud.
B and B, come find me. She moved to her brother’s grave. I’m close. 5m. 6/14. Five miles, June fourteenth. From deep inside her chest, convulsions grew. She collapsed to the ground, her body racked by full body sobs. Moments later, she lay exhausted. “Daddy’s alive,” she whispered to Ben’s grave. A sudden unnatural chill ran down her spine, causing her to stiffen in alarm. Unsure of the source, she listened with hard intent. The only sound was the forced staccato breathing from Bobby. The icy chill bit in deeper. Her hair stood on end.
Still on her knees, she straightened her torso erect. Bobby emitted a nervous sound. He was crying.
“Do you fear me, brother? Or do I need to be put down like some rabid dog? I might not be myself, but I would never hurt you.” Her voice was detached and matter of fact.
She stood suddenly, as if daring him to shoot. He gasped and stepped back.
“At least wait until we find Dad. If we find he is dead too, I will welcome death and the relief it brings.”
She turned her head and caught Bobby’s eyes. “Is that okay with you, Bobo?”
He smiled and lowered his gun. She expected her old nickname for him to work. She smiled, hoping the expression would appear as false and sickeningly sweet as intended. Before he could react, Becca was on him. The glare in her eyes pierced him deeper than the knife ever could.
“You’re my brother, Bobby, and I love you. But don’t ever point
a gun at me again … at least not until it’s time.” She winked at him and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Okay, Bobo?”
She stepped away as quickly as she had arrived and turned back to the graves. There she knelt, pruning away the long grass and humming softly.
Bobby fought to control his body shakes. He touched his throat. One small drop of blood dotted his fingertip. He looked down at the gun in his hand and swallowed. Sliding the gun into his holster took several attempts. When he was calm enough, he walked past his sister and retrieved the bags.
He turned. Becca was watching him. Bobby handed her a bag and they stood looking at each other.
“Don’t give up on me yet, Bobby. I’m not completely gone.”
“I’m worried about you, Sis. I hate seeing you like this. I don’t want you to suffer.”
“So you wanted to ease my pain? That’s nice, Dr. Death. But I’ll be all right.”
They stood in an awkward silence.
Bobby broke the silence. “He was here a little more than two weeks ago.”
“Yeah. What’s your guess as to where he might be?”
Bobby looked in several directions. “West. He wouldn’t have gone toward the city.”
The silence fell again as they stared at the graves.
“I hope it was the disease that got them,” Becca said. “And not,” she motioned toward the bodies, “you know.”
“Yeah.” Bobby’s throat constricted and he wiped tears from his eyes.
Tears fell on Becca’s blood-streaked cheeks. “Are we good?” she asked.
“Yeah, we’re good.”
“Then let’s go find Dad.”
“Absolutely.”
They hoisted their gear and walked off side-by-side around the burned shell of their childhood home.
“By the way, welcome back, Sis.”
“I love you, Bobby.”
“Love you too, Becca.”
The last sliver of sunlight descended over the trees behind them. They tossed their belongings in the back and sat inside the SUV.
“So, Boy Wonder, any idea where we’re going?”
“Other than west, not a clue, Wonder Woman.”
“Huh, typical male.”
“Hey, it’s not like there’s a gas station for me to stop and ask directions.”
“Maybe Boy Blunder is a more fitting name.”
“Yeah, well you’re still Wonder Woman to me.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet.”
“No, I meant, I wonder if you’re really a woman.”
“Oh.”
He started the engine.
“Prick.”
“Bitch.”
They laughed.
Part Two
Eleven
The bowstring was taut next to his face. The prey he’d stalked had stopped. The deer must have sensed something was wrong. Its head turned to the left. The doe would make a good meal, a good many meals. The hunter’s hands began to shake. He relaxed his breath and the string, lowering the bow. He justified not shooting by telling himself he had no way of storing that much meat or anywhere to keep it. His fear of killing a living thing had nothing to do with the decision. The hunter would not sacrifice the life of the deer and waste the meat. Since the world had gone primitive, he had submerged his thoughts and actions in his Indian ancestry. They would have frowned on a wasted kill.
He stood up, and the doe buckled its knees, ready to bolt.
“Go, my sister. Be safe.”
The deer darted off. There might come a day when he could not afford to allow the deer to live, but for now, food was still easily found. He turned his back and went to find another smaller target.
Myron Golden had taken advantage of recent events to live out his childhood fantasy. His mother had told him they were descendants of a Sioux chief, but he was forbidden to ever talk about his heritage because of his father, a wealthy politician, who wanted nothing to tarnish his image. He supported the two of them, but was no longer married to his mother, though he came around when he wanted a screw.
Strange, but only a month before the plague hit, his parents had been together. Now they were both dead.
He stalked through the woods in search of dinner. He was patient. Something would come up; it always did. But usually in the form of canned or packaged food he found in a house. Myron enjoyed his new freedom. He smiled as a rabbit scampered from its hiding spot. He crouched and attempted to follow, his bow and arrow ready.
Myron had fantasies as a boy about being a mighty Sioux warrior. Now he was living that fantasy. He referred to himself as Golden Feather. His father’s name had been Golden. When Myron found a lone somewhat golden feather from an unknown bird, he wore it hanging from a small braid in his hair.
Two days prior, Myron had broken into a Western outfitter store. There he found the leather britches he now wore, as well as the moccasins. He added the expensive wooden longbow, a quiver, and hunting arrows at a sporting goods store. Taking a backpack, he filled it with survival items, which included the long knife he wore in a leather sheath strapped to his leg.
Since discovering his parents dead, Myron had been alone. Trekking to the big city looking for help or anyone else alive, he was sickened at the death toll. Shots in the distance dissuaded him from going farther. Myron retreated to his house, gathered what belongings he might need, and fled to the wooded areas west of the city.
Golden Feather crouched low, drawing the bowstring back midway. He froze and listened, his gaze never leaving the spot where he had last seen his prey. He didn’t move at all, other than to draw in slow breaths. The rabbit had either escaped or had as much patience as Golden Feather had.
In truth, he had never even shot at an animal, let alone killed one. He wasn’t sure he could kill. Soon he might have to find out. He wouldn’t be able to find food in houses forever.
Ever so slowly, Myron bent. Holding the arrow with his left finger wrapped around it and the bow, he released the string and let his fingers scrape across the ground until he found a pine cone. He arced the cone just beyond where he believed the rabbit to be, quickly grabbed the string, and drew back before the cone landed.
The rabbit bolted straight toward him. Myron lined up the shot.
“Stop!” A voice yelled from beyond the trees.
Myron dropped to the ground, his heart pounding. The rabbit scampered to safety while Myron looked for his own. Panic set in. Was the voice calling to him?
“Stop! Don’t make me shoot.”
Fear gripped Myron. He turned his head in a slow arc. With his senses heightened, he crawled toward the voice. An engine raced somewhere in front of him. He crept to the edge of the tree line and lay flat.
Before him a man and woman, both young, sprinted across an open field for the trees. Forty yards behind them on the road was an Army jeep with a mounted machine gun. A man stood behind the gun dressed in military garb. The driver and another man standing in the front seat were dressed the same way. Flanking the couple, two more uniformed men ran. They carried rifles and wore camo. To Myron’s eye, the pursuers would overtake the couple before they reached the trees.
The fleeing man turned and fired a handgun in the direction of the jeep. A futile effort at that distance, let alone while running. However, the two chasers dropped to the ground, giving the couple a little more lead. The couple was still ten yards from the trees. They would enter the woods about five yards to Myron’s left. His mind raced as he tried to decide what to do. He wanted to help the man and woman escape, but feared exposing his presence and location to the armed men.
The soldiers in the jeep were talking to each other. The two men giving chase gained ground but more cautiously. They would overcome the man and woman in the woods and would have them in a crossfire. What would my ancestors do? Steeling his nerves, Myron rose to one knee. Drawing back the string, he lined up a shot at the pursuer on the right.
Five yards from the woods, the escapee turned, firing two shots at each
man on foot. Myron flinched at the gunshots. A distant voice shouted, “Down!” Almost before the two chasers hit the ground, the machine gun opened up. The gunner walked the rounds through the field until they climbed the couple’s backs, tearing them apart. Their destroyed bodies fell into the woods.
Twelve
Myron dived for cover as the bullets began to fly, his cry of anguish lost in the explosive chattering of the gun. He covered his ears and curled into a ball, tears rolling freely. The noise stopped, and for seconds, the quiet was as complete as death.
“Are they dead?” the voice shouted.
Someone close to Myron let out a harsh laugh. “I sure as shit hope so after that.”
Myron covered his mouth to keep from screaming.
“Well, check to make sure. You know the general’s gonna ask.”
Myron froze. He feared his pounding heart was loud enough to be heard by the soldiers. Any movement would give away his presence and seal his fate. His head throbbed. Warmth spread between his legs. He didn’t want to be brave anymore. He wanted to run home and hide like he used to when the neighborhood kids chased him after school.
In spite of the fear paralyzing him, he turned to see what was happening. He picked up movement in his peripheral field. The two soldiers were ripping clothes and stripping the bodies of anything useful.
“Man, what the hell are you doing?” the second soldier said. “You ain’t gonna have sex with a corpse are you? You can’t be that desperate.”
“Shut up, fool. Look.” He pointed at the half-naked body.
The other man stood and approached. He stopped suddenly. “Ah, shit!”
“Yeah, she was pregnant. I felt the roundness of her belly when I was searching her. From the looks of her she was seven to nine months.”
“That’s a shame, man. Dude’s gotta stop being so trigger-happy.”
The two men looked back at the jeep.