The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  Heskill's bunch had stolen her supplies, including her snare-setting materials, so she knew she'd have to make due with shoelaces.

  To make a dent, she would need to set at least five traps, but she only had enough laces for one, and they were thick laces at that. To make an effective snare, Emma needed something thin like fishing line or wire. To find the best spot, she distanced herself from the road, and searched for at least an hour, when she came upon a few droppings and half of a tunnel-like game trail curving around some brush and a tree. Investigating further, Emma found that the droppings belonged to a rabbit.

  A hearty meal flashed before her eyes, a meal Emma desired so much that it caused her mouth to water. Don't get ahead of yourself, Emma, she told herself. First you have to catch the animal.

  Knotting the ends of the laces together, Emma positioned the snare at the height of her prey's head and tied off the other end close to the base of the tree. She secured two small stakes to the ground and hooked them to the noose. When the animal was snagged and continued to move, the rope would tighten around its neck. Then Emma staged the scene. Camouflaging the stakes and rope, she sporadically scattered leaves and sticks to accomplish the illusion that all was well.

  Distancing herself from the trap, Emma walked deeper into the woods to search for fresh water. Once she came upon the nearest stream, she freshened up. Unclasping her overalls, Emma removed her plaid shirt and soaked it in the water. Lightly ringing it out, she wiped the dried blood from her face and the filth from her upper body.

  Emma was disgusted by her reflection in the stream. Her face was scratched and bruised, but more than anything, she was disappointed in herself. If Emma made it back home at all, this visage was what she would be showing her loved ones: the face of someone who'd been beaten. Two days ago, Emma had been so sure of herself. Now look at me, she thought.

  Clasping her overalls, Emma hung her shirt from a limb to dry. After depressing herself enough for one day, she decided to set up camp for the night. By dusk, she had gathered plenty of twigs to build a small fire. Since she had distanced herself miles away from the road, she felt it safe enough to do so. Luckily, she'd found a bird's nest in the same tree she'd hung her shirt from. The tinder would help coax the sparks into a flame.

  Using the spear tip, Emma cut the lining from the bottoms of her pant legs to make a bow drill. The way Emma'd been taught was not the simplest, but it was the most effective when supplies were limited. To construct the drill, she needed two sturdy sticks—one for the spindle, and Emma would use the other as the drill, which ideally would be longer than the spindle and slightly curved. Luckily, she was able to find a suitable firestone to keep the bow drill steady. The small dent on the surface of the stone would help prevent the stick from jerking around, blessing Emma with the control she needed.

  The most difficult piece to find was the fireboard. The best results came from using a smooth, flat surface. Finding a two-by-four lying in the middle of the woods proved to be difficult as she came up on the second hour of searching.

  Frustration began to get the better of her as Emma nearly tripped over a log camouflaged by leaves. Stomping her foot, she then picked up the perfect specimen to use as a fireboard. It was an old branch that had fallen from its tree long ago. The roots lying beneath its home were thick and protruding from the bottom of the tree's trunk. The various roots worked together to act as a protective wedge. Half of the branch was smoothed out, the other half rounded. Later, Emma would take advantage of the placement of the roots by using Nature herself to hold the branch in place as she ground the spindle upon the smooth surface. The roots took over as the second pair of hands that Emma could have used. God is good, she kept telling herself. God. Is. Good.

  Along with the bird's nest, Emma brought over the pile of twigs, leaves, and larger branches she'd collected so she would be prepared for when she sparked a flame. From then, she stayed busy constructing the bow drill by tying the ends of the cloth to the larger, curved stick. She looped the drill around the middle of the cloth, and Emma placed the stone on top of the stick to help keep it in place.

  Vigorously, she sawed back and forth, attempting to create enough friction to accomplish this difficult and, more often than not, heartbreaking task. Maintaining the speed and pressure was more tiring and painful than what she'd remembered. Thinking back, she recalled that it had always been Doolie who'd done this part.

  Sweat steadily trickled down Emma's face and sunk into the crevices of her lips. Tasting the saltiness, she motivated herself: You can do it. Don't give up.

  Every now and then, smoke would rise from the thumb-size socket, but nothing more. This only made her saw harder and fight against the pains in her arms and shoulders. Through the agony, Emma found herself singing, "Food, food, cook me food. Food, food, in my belly. Fire, fire, burn, burn my food, food so it can be in my belly, belly."

  It wasn't until she sang the last verse that she caught a glimpse of a spark. Putting the spark she'd conjured to use, Emma blew on it, quite literally breathing life into it, and the bird's nest became engulfed in a flame. Enthusiastically, she began feeding it sticks and leaves to keep the flame alive.

  As the fire reached the height of her knees, Emma was filled to the top with excited jitters and thankfulness, as she heard the shrieking of a rabbit caught in her trap. Kicking the unlaced boots from her feet, she sprinted in the helpless animal's direction.

  Along the way, Emma snatched her shirt from the limb and situated it over her shoulders. Fully clothed and out of breath, she reached her destination. Spear tip in hand and revolver by her side, Emma experienced the disheartening realization that the noose had been detached from the stakes. Gazing upon the laces hanging lonesome brought discouraged tears to her eyes.

  "Why am I so useless when I'm hungry?"

  The rabbit had escaped Emma's plan of domination. Sitting there, defeated, she imagined him running off to his rabbit buddies and laughing at the redheaded chick with her shoelaces, and she thought, Screw you, rabbit!

  Night was coming soon, so sulking wasn't an option. Standing up, Emma reminded herself, Count your blessings. At least you don't have to sleep in the dark.

  ***

  When Emma reached her campsite, she was elated to find the fire still burning. After feeding the flames, she prepared herself for the long night ahead. She leaned against the tree, and brought her knees to her chest. With hopes of falling asleep, she tried ignoring the rumbling in her stomach, and rested her head against the trunk. It wasn't long before she drifted off to a somewhat peaceful sleep.

  It was cold. A thick layer of snow covered the ground, but Emma was speeding through it. She couldn't tell where to, or whom from. Everything was blurred into a wide range of white, brown, and green.

  Her arm was stretched out before her, reaching for Mary's cross, which was dangling from its chain. It was being pulled away by an invisible force. No matter how far Emma stretched or ran, the necklace stayed only inches from her fingertips.

  In the distance, two dark shapes, one standing far to the left and one to the right, came into focus. All Emma could see were the shadows of a man, on the left, and his dog, on the right. No flesh and bone—just the outlines of their bodies chose to reveal themselves. Their presence distracted her, and Emma began to lose her footing. Slipping to the frosted ground below, she immediately tried to stand back up.

  Fear consumed Emma as she realized her hands had been bound behind her. The rope cut deep into her flesh. Looking up, she was startled to find the shadows towering over her. One barked, while the other knelt beside her. The dark figure spoke in a foreign language as the dog licked the sweat from Emma's face.

  "Give it to God, baby," Mary's voice whispered from above. Despite the quietness of her message, "Give it to God" echoed loudly throughout the woods.

  "Who are you?" Emma asked.

  The air surrounding them grew thicker and cooler. Breathing heavily, Emma was forced to double over into a viole
nt coughing spell. The pain was so severe that it resided deep in her lungs. Blood spilled over Emma's bottom lip, soaking her chin. Frantic, Emma tried keeping her coughs under control, but what she feared above all else hit her: I have no control.

  As the word "death" was eerily whispered in her ear, the shadows of the man and his pet disappeared. It wasn't until they'd left that Mary's cross landed in a puddle of blood in front of Emma. Reaching for it, she grasped the chain and began dragging it closer to her.

  "Ahhhhh!"

  Woken by bloodcurdling screams echoing throughout the woods, Emma rose to her knees. Grabbing the revolver, she prepared to investigate the horrible shrieks. She fetched a branch from the fire to use as a torch, took a deep breath, and plunged herself into the darkness.

  The screams were not a product of her lack of sleep. There was definitely something out there. She held the torch out in front of her, and the crunching of leaves behind Emma forced her to wheel around, firing off the first round.

  In fright, her hands began to shake. They felt tingly. The cold steel of the handle only made the sensation worse. Sprinting back into the light of the fire, Emma stood with her back facing the flames. Her eyes went from darting left to right, to nervously glancing over her shoulders.

  Watching the flames dance on the ground, Emma became hypnotized by them. Even though the screams of women and children surrounded her, the shadows held her attention. She continued to gaze at them as they metamorphosed into silhouettes of people. The shadows she now saw were figures of women, men, and children running and being shot down.

  Terrified, all Emma could do was watch as the shrieks grew louder. Following the rise in volume, a rotten smell emanated from the ground. As she covered her nose, Emma felt as though something was watching her from all corners of the woods. She felt they were desperately trying to tell her something, but everywhere she looked, there was nothing.

  Suddenly, the shadows and screams died down, and everything was silent. No familiar sounds of animals scurrying or the stream flowing beside her resurfaced. Even the howl of the rushing wind had been placed on mute.

  Torch in hand, Emma stood still and waited for the shrieking to start again. As she became convinced that all was well, Emma lowered her weapon. Still staying alert, she placed the torch back into the flames and rested against the tree.

  Emma sat, severely shaken up, and felt something breathing against her neck. The tiny hairs stood on end as she bolted to her feet, and with that, the screams began again, but were more distinctive than they'd been previously. With every sound of whimpering child, distraught woman, or angry man, Emma's heart felt as though it would pound from her chest.

  Collapsing to her knees, Emma covered her ears and attempted to drown out the terrifying screams. Her efforts were all in vain, as it only made the shrieks grow louder. Whomever they were, they wanted to be heard.

  Emma brought her knees to her stomach, buried her face between them, and clamped her eyes shut.

  "I can't help you! I'm sorry!" she yelled. "Stop! Please stop."

  Horrified, Emma watched as figures emerged from the darkness. The copper-skinned legs of the screaming victims surrounded her. They were bruised and bloody. Some were broken, with bones protruding from them. Their feet were bare. Toenails had either been ripped off or pulled back as a result of their owners' attempts to flee. Deep cuts covered the tops of their feet, soaking the ground with blood. Instead of screaming, they began whimpering.

  "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up," Emma pleaded, covering her ears. "Please, God, please be with me. Make it stop!" she cried, rocking back and forth. "It isn't real. It isn't real. This isn't happening!"

  As soon as the words escaped her, the victims disappeared, but with their leave came the shuffling of leaves. A badly wounded, brown-skinned woman holding the remains of a butchered child marched forward. She was clothed in a long, brown wraparound skirt, and ribbons had been braided through her thick black hair. Her breasts were barely covered by what remained of her ripped red shawl. Beads hung from around her neck. Some were broken and rolled onto the dead child's stomach.

  Emma's fear was wiped away as she rose from the ground. Somehow, she knew this woman didn't mean her any harm. Cautiously, Emma reached out a helping hand, and the woman whispered something she couldn't hear. Scared, Emma stepped back, but the woman continued to approach. The gaping hole that had been shot through the child's chest was large enough to produce enough blood to douse every inch of her clothing—and then some. The toddler's long hair covered her mother's arms. Her lifeless body would have been light to anyone else, but the despaired look on the woman's face suggested that the pain of losing her child weighed her down.

  "We are not evil, child," the woman whispered. "We once were like you. We hunted and thrived in these woods."

  "Why are you here?"

  "To tell you," she said, "so you will understand this land belonged to us once."

  "How . . . how can I help you?"

  "You cannot—we are already dead—but there is one," she said, closing the child's eyes, "one who still lingers in the shadows. One who needs your help finding his way home."

  "His?"

  "He who never leaves your side." She motioned toward the footprints. "One who has been following you all this time. And when your time comes, he will show you."

  "Who is he to you?"

  The woman reached out, and glided her hand through the darkness as if she were comforting whoever stood next to Emma.

  "My son," she said.

  "What will he show me?"

  "That is for another time, a time close at hand," she said. "For the sake of your family . . . accept it when it is upon you, child."

  "Accept what?"

  Leaning forward, she stared into Emma's green eyes, and whispered, "Death," as she disappeared.

  Surrounded by darkness wasn't something Emma needed added to an already frightening, confusing night. So instead of resting her eyes, she focused on keeping the fire strong. Now and then, her eyes would shut, catching a glimpse of Griffin's face, but then she would jerk herself awake.

  Emma was thankful there were no more visits that night. Soon, morning was upon her, and as she wobbly stood, she was accompanied by a few pains in her lower back. Slowly, she limped toward the stream to wash the sleep from her eyes.

  Splashing her face, Emma noticed a faint image appearing in the water. The reflection wasn't hers, but it grew stronger as she leaned closer. It was the chubby face of a little boy. His bright-blue eyes, freckles, and red hair shone through the murky water. He wore only camouflaged overalls. Despite the color of his eyes, the resemblance between Emma and the child was uncanny.

  The boy began picking up an invisible object beside him, and dropping it over and over again. As the tip of Emma's nose glided across the water, her hand was lifted and dropped into the stream.

  "Momma, wake up," the boy whispered, catching her off guard. "Wake up." Startled by his touch, Emma lost her balance, and fell face-first into the stream. Resurfacing, she searched desperately for the boy's reflection, but the image never reappeared.

  She'd recognized the boy's voice as the same one she'd heard only a day earlier, but when she'd been caught in Reed's trap, it was "Momma, move" that had been whispered. Replaying what the boy had said in her mind, Emma sat in the middle of the stream, allowing the cool water to calm her.

  "Too many spirits lurking around," she whispered. "I think I may be a little out of my depth here."

  Chapter 29:

  Stella

  Wandering through the woods, Stella investigated the area high and low, expecting to catch a whiff of Emma's scent. But it never crossed her path. No matter how far she traveled, the pit bull stayed alert so she wouldn't miss her master's call. But no familiar cries pulled Stella in any which way.

  It wasn't until Stella reached the back porch of an old house that she chose to rest her aching paws. As she dangled them from the edge of the top step, storm clouds began to form.
Frightened by the approaching storm, Stella backed away from the entrance and jumped on the swing in the corner of the porch.

  The strong wind whipped the rain through the screen surrounding the porch, showering her with mist, when a noise coming from inside drew her interest. The sound was that of someone belching loudly, a sound she knew a human would make.

  Lightning flashed and struck in the distance, forcing her to jump from the swing in fright. With the goal of finding someone, anyone, to help shield her from the storm, Stella bolted to the door and whimpered before it. Startled by the thunder in the distance, she tore her claws through the screen of the door, bringing with it a loud screeching. Stella didn't stop until she heard the person inside coming to investigate the source of the racket.

  As the door was thrust open, Stella was shoved away from it. A man she recognized stood at the doorway. "Stella?" her old friend asked, welcoming her in. After hearing him speak, Stella had a familiar voice to match a familiar scent. "Girl, is that you?"

  After showering him with thankful kisses, Stella was ushered through the kitchen and into the living room, where there was a couch. It was well broken in and the cushions were soft, just the way she liked them. Without waiting to be invited, Stella jumped up, twirled, and stomped her paws into the cushions so she could get her spot just right. Comfortable, she looked up at the welcoming host and joyfully wagged her tail.

  Sitting beside her, the man ran his callused hand along her white coat and whispered, "Whatchu doing here all alone? Is Doolie on his way behind you?"

  Stella tilted her head, questioning, but all she wanted to do was cuddle.

  "It's okay. It's okay," the man said. "I know you're a dog, but it's been a while since I've had anybody to talk to. You can stay here as long as you want."

  Dozing off, the man kept his arms circled around her. As they slept, Stella rested her head on his rising stomach. They were snorers, so neither of them was woken by the other. Blessing them with a peaceful sleep were the soothing sounds of the pouring rain on the tin roof. But it didn't take long for Stella to be thrown into an elaborate dream.