by Hawk, J. K.
The boy held his hand out and tipped the cup towards my lips, and resentfully I sipped the liquid just before it spilled over, pulling away in disgust. Abel grunted furiously and pushed the mug back to my lips, and this time I chose not to taste it, and chugged the entire cup before pulling away again with an attempt to cough out the taste, but the boy was not satisfied. Vigorously he shook the cup as the saturated piece of charcoal bounced around the side with a repetitive clink.
“Chew, Chew, Chew.” He said clearly and completely.
My stomach gurgled and cramped at the thought, but I knew Abel would force-feed me if he needed too. Quickly snatching the cup from him, I tilted my head back and let the chunk for scorched wood fall into my mouth, chewing fast and aggressive in hopes the bitterness would pass quickly. It did not. My mouth filled with a pasty chalk that coated my teeth like cement. Swallowing was the biggest challenge, my mind said ‘YES’, but my throat said ‘Fuck You!’ In the end, I was able to painfully gulp it down before I fell back onto my side in exhaustion. The boy, surprisingly, patted me on the back with an extrinsic gentleness before sauntering back to his cabin.
“Awn yo etter.” He mumbled.
I continued to drift in an out of consciousness for the remainder of the day, with Steph always by my side, and thankfully both the upchucking and the trots had subsided, but the cramps lingered like the devil. The boy did return to us, just as the sun faded out behind the mountain. Although my eyes only opened for a moment, and I was unsure if it was just a dream, I watched as the boy stacked the remaining canned goods from his cupboards beside my fire. And without a word, he retreated back into his home.
“Thank You!” Steph called out to him, but he just waived her off. “I think he’s warming up to you.” She whispered to me.
“Not sure if Iwill return the sentiment.” Isaid as Ishivered next to the fire.
Simple Q&A
Whatever was in Abel’s concoction was definitely effective, and if I can ever obtain the recipe I may market it to the new world. Although still weak and nauseous, I was feeling much better by morning, well enough to venture to the other side of the brook in the hope to break down the boy’s defensive walls and open a line of dialogue. Communication is the only course for answers, and Abel was in dire need of linguistic reeducation.
He ignored me at first, even after thanking him for helping me, and continued to ignore me as I assisted in stacking the wood as he vigorously chopped it. The strength that he possesses would be a luxury for any grown man, and yet it is second nature to him, but he seems unaware of the weaknesses in people like me. Although I still fear the virus within his veins, my curiosity in it outweighs the dangers, and like a school boy on Christmas morning, I cannot wait to unwrap his gifts.
After a couple hours of chores, and continuing pressure from Steph and myself, the boy broke the silence. Of course it was mostly babbling about ‘not liking me’ and how I was ‘trespassing,’ but the more he spoke, the easier I found it to understand him. And, vice versa, the more I spoke to him, the clearer his words became, it was as if my interactions were slowly pulling him out of his feral state. “Abel, how old are you?” I queried, testing his awareness. “Six Hunting Moons.” He responded with irritation. “Do you know where you were born?”
“Papa say’s at Ocean.”
“That’s right.” I was amazed at how much he had retained. “Mama was asleep, and Papa took me to wall of rock to watch
sunset.” He said as he swung his axe upon another log, splitting it like balsa wood.
“Your Papa told you all of this?”
“No, it’s in here.” He said pointing to his head before swinging his axe once again.
“You remember?” He nodded and my amazement grew.
I’ve read tales of people claiming to remember being in their mother’s womb, or remembering the hospital room as they were born. I always thought this was absurd, not that I do not believe the tales, but I felt they were replacement memories. Visuals from another time and place that the brain miss-categorizes as one of their earliest memories. So I assumed such, stories by his father confused with imagination and stored in a premature mind. But, I had to test it.
“Do you remember the color of the lighthouse?” I asked.
“White and red.” He muttered. He was correct. The house itself is white, and the light tower made of red bricks.
“What else do you remember from that day?” Steph chimed in.
“Thunder, screams, crying.” He said.
“Who was crying?” I probed further.
“No more talk!” He scowled. “Work or go.”
It was obvious we had pushed him too far, and by his command I obediently complied. We split wood in silence well into the afternoon before he laid the axe down and strutted over to the bear carcass and cut off a large chunk of putrid meat. Stacking the last few pieces of wood, I pretended to ignore him, praying he would not force me to eat any more of that rubbish. Instead he waltzed over to my fire and retrieved a rusted can of sardines, tossing it onto the ground before Steph and me.
“Eat.” He demanded.
I cringed at the long-expired can of fish, afraid that its contents were as rancid as the bear meat. However, as I sat on a log beside the boy, I was dumfounded to find the contents identifiable and the smell the same as I remember from long ago. The power of preservatives is as strong today as it was over a decade ago. On the other hand, sardines were never my cup of tea, if only I had a bottle of mustard to drown out the taste. But beggars can’t be chooses, and with gratitude I sucked down two of the fish and handed the rest to Steph, all the while ignoring the boy’s table etiquette. Aside from the smell of his lunch, the smacking of lips and grotesque belches churned my stomach once again.
“Abel, who was crying when you were born?” Steph broke the silence.
“My mama.” He stated before biting off another chunk of meat.
“But she was…” I paused for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “Asleep by the time you were born.”
“Before.” He muttered with a mouthful. “While I swam.”
Swam? I was confused by his answer for a moment, still unsure that he actually remembered any of this. But, after pondering I realized he was referring to while he was in her womb. Although improbably, I suspect the virus could have invaded his brain prior to Adam’s merciful release upon her. I fear the boy’s blood alone would not be enough to answer all of my questions as I would require more resources from the GFS. CT-Scan or even and MRI would only shed a little light on this devil’s miracle, but a brain sample would be sufficient however overly invasive.
“What do you know of your mother?” I asked.
“She an Angel, sent by Gaia.”
“Gaia?” Iasked, assuming he meant God. But he answered with a quick gesture to the trees around us. Mother Nature, the Greek God of life. It appears that Adam had passed down some of his knowledge of ancient civilizations to his son, his prodigy. I was impressed with the information he was providing, but could see his frustration building, so I proceeded with some restraint.
“I knew your mother, Mia, after she went to sleep that is.” I mentioned. “She was quite beautiful.”
“You no know Mama.” He stammered. “She here.” He said, pounding his chest.
“Yes she is. I can see her in your eyes.”
He didn’t respond, instead he chomped down the last piece of flesh before walking over to the pile of logs to begin chopping once again. This time he swung furiously, attempting to ignore my harassment, to ignore me. But I had so many more questions, and we had made such progress in so short a time that I refused to give up. So, since Mia was a touchy subject for him, I decided to press a different subject matter.
“Abel, where is your Papa?” I asked.
He stopped mid swing, dropping the axe as his eye burned with irritation. My insistent pursuit of his history had crossed a boundary that I refused to acknowledge, until now. He did not respond, not immed
iately, instead he took deep breaths in attempt to control the rage. After a moment he stormed towards me, fiercely standing before me with his hand pointing out towards my campsite.
“NO MORE TALK! GO!” He squawked, and I complied, not daring to push my luck any further. Steph on the other hand was welcomed to stay, and his infatuation with her brimmed as he constantly touched her hair, caressed her arm, and stared intently at her as they continued to work. The longer they spent together the more they talked, the more he opened up. Everything from the animals he’s killed, to the best swimming holes he has found. With Steph, it seemed, that no subject was off the table. So I listened intently to their conversations from across the brook.
“Where your parents?” Abel asked as they sat down beneath a tree for another break.
“Gone.” She answered. “Asleep like your mother.” “Did the dead ones get them?”
“My mother, yes.” Steph sighed, “I was very young, and Idon’t really remember how it happened.”
“And your Papa?” He asked.
“He was murdered on a supply run.” She said. “His group was shot down by criminals.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Yes. As much as you miss your Papa.” She said. “Abel, do you know where your Papa is?” She asked.
The boy nodded as he scooped up a few ants from the ground and casually munched away on them. Steph didn’t question further, instead she watched him, waiting for him to answer on his own accord. The boy took notice, and nonchalantly pointed out into the forest before popping another ant into his mouth. Steph smiled, and I could see her contemplating her next question.
“Is he still alive?”
“Yes.” He answered, and I became excited.
“Can you bring us to him?”
“No more questions.” He stammered as he flung the remaining ants from his hand. “You help me now.”
As I continued watched them with his chores, from picking up the yard to milking the goat, I would occasionally skim through Adam’s journal. I hoped to find answers that his son refused to provide. However there was very little to go on, and as the day drifted by and night fell, I stoked the fire and settled in. Steph returned just before the darkness blanketed the area, and I casually read one last verse in the survivor’s memoir out loud for her, a sermon of sorts, taken and revised from the book of revelations.
“Behold, Abel, a child of both Angel and demon, and he shall reign above all else as the master of this Earth, and the master of my heart”
Parasitic Karma
Abelrefuses to takeme to his father, and the man’s whereabouts puzzles me all the more. Why would he leave his son alone? Was he staying at another cabin? Did Abel’s waywardness drive him away in fear? The way Adam speaks of his son within his journal makes it all the more perplexing, with love and endless pride, and whatever it was that pushed him away the boy has yet to demonstrate it to us. Although he has been childishly hostile, vague and secretive, and in some cases plan old rude, there has been nothing to truly instill fear into us. But, it is possible that on occasion Valkyrie shows herself from within his wavering temper, and when that event does happen, Steph and I may find ourselves on the run.
Steph tends to get a more cooperative conversation from the boy, where as I tend to invoke hate and distrust. So I have tasked her to press him harder than I would ever dare. Although he opens up to her, his answers remain ambiguous, and in most occasions he redirects her inquiries with trivial subjects, like fishing or tree climbing. And as for the subject of the dead, he shows no emotions and avoids talking in detail about them. It is almost as if he tries to forget their existence, or maybe he is aware that the same defilement that condemns them is also infused within his body and he prefers to ignore such similarities.
But all in all, his demeanor has change drastically over the last several day. No longer is he belligerent and asking for us to leave, he appears to be becoming comfortable with us, or at least tolerant. With that in mind I awoke early this morning and followed the boy out into the forest to seek out answers to his daily ventures. In truth, I expected for him to lead me to his father, and I did my best to maintain stealth in order to reach his destination without confrontation.
Cautious of each step, I scurried from tree to tree, remaining out of sight as the rising morning sun illuminated to forest even more with each passing minute. A mob of feathered carolers helped to drown out the sounds of my bumbling pursuit, as well as the foliage and brush concealed my silhouette. We were heading northward, along the western face of his mountain, crossing brooks, ravines, and the occasional swamp.
The boy never made a sound during that march, and did not seem to notice my own faulty steps. Instead he kept his bow in hand, arrow poised, and with ease pranced, skipped and hopped through narrow deer trails, over fallen logs, and across rocky streams. It was as if watching a nature documentary on some rare and exotic forest dweller, peacefully hypnotic and remarkable. And then there was me, stumbling, fumbling, and tripping over every little stick or root, attempting to maintain some measure of slyness.
Before long, though, I lost sight of the boy. Shimmying around a large boulder I laid my eyes upon empty woodlands, and although I am no tracker, I was surprised to find no evidence of his path. As I scanned the area, searching for a sign, it dawned on me that the chorus of birds had ceased, and a drab silence had crept over the mountain. My heart began to race from the fear of the unknown, the fear of separation, and more importantly the fear of being lost in an unfamiliar landscape.
Fighting to gain my bearings, searching for the boy, a sound of footsteps approached, and for a moment my fears eased. Turning around towards the noise, expecting to find Abel’s sneaking up on me, I gasped at the sight. A lone Necrotic stepped out from behind the same boulder, arms outstretched and jaw snapping relentlessly. I panicked, stumbling backwards and crashing down upon my ass as the sole figure lurched forward in excitement.
But, the beast was the least of my worries as two more came around the other side of the large rock, they too were highly aroused by my presence and lunged with uncontrollable hunger. Eyes closed, awaiting the inevitable, my hand searched for my gun, scrounging through my pockets with blind haste. I knew this was it, the curiosity that killed the egghead, the moment of my own demise.
My search for the gun resulted in emptiness, and I sighed in defeat as my eyes clenched shut even tighter, and the thumping and fumbling of the dead dropping down to the forest floor to feast stopped my heart. I waited for it, that first bite, when infectious teeth pierced my flesh and tore it away. Awaited for the excruciating pain, the burn to follow, and the cage of darkness to fall over my consciousness. I waited, prepared, and counting the seconds, but the inevitable never came. Even the ghastly sounds of the damned faded and slowly the songs of the birds recommenced.
“ Lose something, Numb-Nuts?” Abel’s voice flowed like a guardian angel and I pried my eyes open to find him standing over me with my gun in hand. Quickly I shuffled to my feet while brushing off the forest debris and awkward cowardice before snatching the gun back and shoving it into my pocket. The boy just stood there staring at me with a smirk of satisfaction painted across his pristine face.
“Numb -Nuts?” I questioned. “Where’d you come up with that name?”
“Papa.” He answered. “He called a deer that once, after it ran from us and straight into them.”
“Them?” But he did not answer, instead he just pointed down at the three corpses laying at me feet, blood oozing from their skulls.
“Why you follow me?” He asked.
“I’m curious.” But Abel didn’t seem to understand, cocking his head to the side as he waited for more explanation. “I find you interesting, I wanted to see where you go every day.”
“Papa wouldn’t like you sneaking up on me.”
“Obviously I wasn’t that sneaky.”
“Nope.” The boy said before sauntering off and quickly I followed.
He did
n’t say anything else, nor did he object to my presence, but the stalking nature he possessed prior to my incident was nonexistent. The boy stomped through the forest without a care, his bow now strapped to his back with an obvious halt to his daily hunt. A part of me felt bad for intruding, yet, his acceptance of me gave hope that I was reaching him. That his distrust was fading.
We hiked for about an hour, almost completely uphill, closer to the summit of the sylvan mountain. When he noticed my aged feebleness slowing me down we rested, and thankfully he had a small pouch of water that he generously provided. I sucked it down, the coolness cascading throughout my body and invigorating my strength. After squeezing the leathery sack empty, I threw the boy a quick nod of thanks.
“Interesting pouch.” I mentioned, “What is it made of?”
“Moose scrotum.” He snickered, and my stomach churned.
Abel allowed me to rest further, as he scanned the area, as if looking for someone, or something. But soon, his eyes turned back to me as I struggled to catch my breath and stretch my aching muscles. Quickly he stepped forward and reached out, his hand grasping my chin and yanking it upwards as he stared down at my neck. Startled I pulled away and tossed the boy an annoyed glare, silently asking for an answer to his actions.
“Remove your shirt.” He said.
“Why?”
“Remove it. Now!” I didn’t question him further and complied. “Ticks.” He said. “You’re infested.”
He was right, looking down at my chest I found a dozen of them, even more on my stomach and sides. The boy quickly brushed away most of them as they scurried up my body. Those that were attached he removed quite effectively, if not abrasively, with a knife and then focused on my back to remove even more. Never before had I seen so many, even as a child exploring the woods I may have found one or two on me. But this was an invasion, and it was apparent that Adam’s insight of the insect population was correct ‘booming.’