The Wretched

by R. James Faulkner

  Tick-Tock.

  The night would be like the many before it. The men would stay from sight in the woods, never drawing near the flames so he could get a good shot at them. He knew by now they were unarmed. The first night he shot at the one with the missing eye and none of them returned fire, he understood then they were only waiting for him to slip. All he could figure is they were trying to get his gun. He looked at his pistol in the firelight, watching the orange glow reflect off the steel. Black, cold, and threatening, he held it up so they might see it if they cared to look. A smile crept across his face as he thought about the silliness of it all. He thought of how the world collapsed and what caused it to plunge into desolation. Every single night he wished it to return to the way it was before.

  He was once an avid card playing, disgruntled taxpaying, proud heterosexual Republican with a massive mortgage payment. He sought after all the luxuries afforded on a high salary. Excess, with all its rewards.

  At least that is what used to matter to him then. Now he would settle for being warm and comfortable. Life changed abrupt and absolute after it all began. He had never spent one night sleeping in the woods before it started. Before the plague swept across like God’s own hand, crushing all the filthy souls beneath it. That is what it did, it did not just kill people, it destroyed people.

  He recollected every night about his former life as though some type of self-inflicted punishment. There were memories he wished would fade away, but the same ones he refused to let go. His wife, the large house, his wine collection, and all the material things he cherished, gone, never to return. He grabbed a tin of sardines from his bag, pulled open the lid, and ate them while he let a can of beans warm by the fire. Oily and salty, he savored each one as he lifted them high over his upturned chin and lowered them into his open waiting mouth. He tossed the can into the fire after he chewed the last one and piled on more sticks.

  “You motherfuckers hungry?” He screamed upward into the night air. “You can eat my shit.”

  Deep chuckles came from his throat. He envisioned the men fighting over his refuse, picking among his excrement trying to find something of nutritional value.

  Especially the one with the missing front teeth, he looks like the type of man who would enjoy it.

  He continued to laugh at himself as he ate the warmed can of beans. Once he had eaten his fill, he looked at the remaining third in the bottom and stood up, holding it out in front of him. He heard the snapping sticks as they walked around in large circles far from the fire.

  “You want some beans? They’re hot. Ready to eat.”

  Low voices came in a flurry of excitement. He strained to listen to them talk about negotiating a trade. Moments passed as he waited, none stepped out from the trees, so he decided they had nothing of value. Flames burned the can and scorched its contents while he watched from a distance. He sat on the ground with his back leaned against a stump.

  He reached into his bag and pulled out an almost full bottle of cheap bourbon. It was nothing like the single malt he drank when the world was right, but it would do. The deed of self-medication came with its own ritual of sorts, one he savored for the release he sought.

  Metal cleared glass, the sound of the cap unscrewing. The first swallow always burned the worst. Comforting warmth radiated from his belly. It was not long before it spread down to his toes. The bottle pressed to his lips several more times, each swig taking longer than the last. It was an action as familiar to him as rubbing his tired eyes. When he drank almost half of the dark colored liquor, he put it back into his bag. His ritual was complete for a time. The pain of sore feet faded, replaced by numbness.

  Stars shone in the clear sky, he looked up at them and tried to stop himself, to keep from remembering her. He did not want to recall what happened to her or how it happened. Tears formed in his eyes. He pressed his knuckles against his eyelids in an attempt to block the flow. He did not want to remember. To remember was excruciating. It hurt him more than any physical pain. Memories and pain, pain from memories. That was his world now.

  His mind drifted there anyway, it always did. The day was just like the others before it, he went to work and came back home ready to unwind for the evening. He knew something was wrong when he opened the door and walked into the entryway. There was light smoke in the air. It hung in thin layers and had the harsh scent of burnt food. He looked into the kitchen and saw the oven was the source of the smoke. He took a step toward it to check on the overcooking dinner but a sudden loud noise caused him to stop.

  The god-awful sound filled the air, and it made his skin gooseflesh. The hair stood up on his neck. It felt like cold water ran down his spine. The harsh scraping noise, similar to a knife drawn over a whetstone, made him clench his teeth.

  He walked down the hall to the bedroom, toward the direction of the noise. The bathroom door was ajar. The yellow light cut through the dimness of the bedroom and illuminated a narrow strip of the floor. The grating sound grew louder with each step. He heard a low hummed melody. His trembling hand pushed open the door, revealing a mortifying scene to him, one of blood and long brown hair lying on the floor beneath his wife. Her once beautiful tresses no longer hung from her head, gone at the edge of a kitchen knife.

  Blood ran down her face and neck, absorbed into the once white bathrobe she wore. The blade in her hand continued to make pass after scraping pass over her bare skull. The knife shaved delicate layers off with each careful stroke on her exposed bone. She stopped humming when she caught his reflection in the mirror. The changed woman before him gave a slight smile and one of her customary winks.

  “Almost finished, then we can leave. Almost…just a little more, baby.”

  He could not stop himself. Vomit launched from his throat, he doubled over and fell to the floor. The sight of his emptied stomach sprayed out over the detached strips of flesh and hair was too much for him. His hands shook as he held them to his face. Unable to speak, he tried to pull it together and attempted to stand back up. She noticed his discomfort and rose from the seat at the vanity to help him.

  “Almost finished. Then, we can leave.”

  Red covered the front of her robe making it cling to her body. Her shape was not normal, something was altered with her physique. As she bent forward to help lift him to his feet, her robe opened. Two large, bright blooded, circular holes in the flesh of her chest filled his vision. He tried to scream as he flailed from her, but his voice did not respond. His body slammed into the side of the bed. A short time passed before his wits came back. He forced himself to stand and move further from her. She remained in the doorway with her hands outstretched, smiling at him as she offered a warm embrace.

  “Almost…finished…”

  She spoke as though he needed to understand the words. His hands moved with short, violent jerks as he smoothed his hair back down and tightened the tie against his throat. He formed a weak grin. His lips quivered as he tried to hold it. The hot sensation in his throat and the taste of vomit caused him to cough. She struggled to find the words and stepped toward him again.

  “Are…are…you…sick?”

  “No!”

  His voice wavered with nervousness. He held up shivering hands to stop her. She tilted her head in confusion at his reaction as if it was then she realized something was wrong. Her hands lifted higher, outstretched in front of her. A look of anxiety grew in her eyes.

  He steadied himself and tried to keep the appearance of normalcy. To give her the impression everything was ordinary, he stepped around the bed and leaned against the doorframe. He looked at her with a forced warm smile and smoothed his dark blond hair back over his head to keep her from seeing his hands still trembled.

  “Well, you just take your time, dear. I think I’ll have myself a stiff drink to get rid of the workday.”

  He tried to show her a happy grin, but he knew it must have looked like repulsion. Dried blood streaks ran down her face, outlining her smile and defining the contours
of her cheeks. With a wink from her twitching eye, a gentle upward curving of her lips, she turned toward the door. In some form of unintended macabre seduction, she gave him another wink as she glanced over her shoulder. The simple hummed melody resumed, and she returned to sit at her mirror bathed in a warm yellow radiance.

  “Almost finished…then…”

  His feet felt heavy as though made of stone. He staggered down the hall as his mind reeled. The air seemed thick, and his breathing became shallow. He tried to run from the room, but his legs were unwilling to carry him at a fast pace. Everything in his sight shifted and skewed. More vomit flowed past his lips again with his hand too slow to cover his mouth. His knees landed on the hard tiled floor. There was coolness under his hands as he fell forward. Caught in a brutal and reflexive fit of heaving, his body tried to void an already emptied stomach.

  His face became numb and yet it throbbed with his pounding heartbeat. On his hands and knees for a long while, he waited until his mind cleared and he could take a deep breath before he attempted to stand. Sweat dripped from his clammy face. He used a shaky and weak right hand to loosen his tie. Promises of soothing called to him from the whiskey cabinet, and he obeyed the desire for relief. His stiff fingers fumbled to open the glass doors. He stopped and took a deep breath of air to clear his lightheadedness.

  The first bottle he grabbed crashed to the floor. It sent shards sliding away from his liquor-splashed shoes. He turned and looked down the hallway to see if the noise would draw her from her preoccupation. The second bottle he lifted from the shelf with both hands for the fright of letting it fall as the first one. He sat it down on the wooden tabletop and poured the first drink into a small glass. The alcohol splashed over the sides as his arms shuddered in uncontrollable fits. The next two drinks came straight from the bottle, forgoing the glass, and with a far greater quantity.

  Warm flowed down his throat and spread from his center like a calming wave. However, it could not quell the panic inside his mind. The ringing in his ears diminished, and he realized there was a steady beeping noise. With an abrupt return of his senses, he smelled a strong chemical odor. He heard the smoke alarm shriek in the distance. The sight of thick smoke tendrils from the kitchen concerned him.

  His eyes darted back toward the hall. He waited to see if she would come from the soft yellow glow of the bathroom in her horrendous new form. Trapped in a fog of uncertainty and disbelief, he shuffled forward as though he was not under his own control. Gray-streaked black smoke rolled from the sides of the oven door. He reached out to grab a hand towel from the countertop. Screams filled his mind to flee, to get away. He did not have to open the door, he could just run, go far from it all. Escape from the knowledge.

  Deep down inside the pathways and corridors of his thoughts, he knew he needed to see, needed to know, as though the confirmation would satisfy his overwhelming curiosity. With his hand wrapped in the towel, he opened the door. He saw it with his eyes, but as a bystander observing from a safe distance. Somehow, it felt as if he were far removed and powerless.

  The door opened downward, smoke billowed from inside, through the clearing of it, he saw the glass baking dish. He watched in a helpless state as his hand slid the dish out to the edge of the rack. The vision, the bitter realization of what she had done made him withdraw in complete revulsion. The desire to block his mind from witnessing it was immeasurable. As the glass smashed to the floor, he lifted his head upward and released a long cry of agony.

  His blue eyes adjusted to reveal the thick clouds overhead. In the distance, a lone crow cawed out. He stood from the stump, steadied his cold-numbed legs, and rubbed his stiff neck. The smoldering fire offered little warmth to his hands. His head ached and produced a dull throb behind his eyes. He drank too much alcohol, passed out in the night, it was a ceremony he practiced often.

  The bag and his pistol still lay by the stump. He wondered why the men had not grabbed them while he slept. He stoked the fire and piled a few more sticks onto it. It seemed strange they did not overtake him while they had the chance. He stepped from the fire to relieve his bladder. A search of the tree line proved fruitless, they did not show themselves.

  Dimmed by the cloud cover, an early morning sun was well above the horizon. He sucked large swallows of water from the jug and ate a smashed candy bar while he waited for his feet to warm by the fire. Noises of blackbirds chirping and flapping from tree to tree distracted him. It was not until he rubbed the sleep from his eyes that he noticed a familiar face in the shadows of the young pines. Partially hidden within the leaves was the one-eyed pursuer. He wore a crooked grin on his bearded face. The blond-haired man drew his gun, aimed it in the one-eyed man’s direction, and waited for what would happen next. He spat out the anger-filled words towards the man with one eye.

  “What do you want? Just what in the hell do you want?”

  A murmur, a hushed retort to the question, the single eye man slipped from view. The sounds of trees shaking and sticks breaking came from beyond his range of sight. He overheard them talk with low voices in agreement with one another. Angered by it, the blond-haired man cursed aloud. He snatched up his bag and the jug of water and walked east again. They would follow behind him. They always followed.

  4

  Ben often thought about what waited on him in the city of Jackson. Did they have food? Was there hot water? Could he sleep through the night? Would he be safe? Would they protect him? Could they protect him?

  He wanted to feel safe again. Not the safety he felt with his father watching over him. That was gone now, never to return. Instead, he wanted to know he could relax, let go of it all.

  At midday, the sun cast a small shadow behind him. Ben walked while staring down at his shoes. He watched his feet move and willed them to keep on moving. Rest is what he wanted, but he would not stop until the sun was almost set. He did not walk at night. It was better to walk in the day so he could see ahead of him and into the woods on the sides. Nighttime was far too dangerous, it hid things from his ability to see. His father often spoke about the perils of night travel. Ben did not intend to make a go of it after sunset. The darkness terrified him.

  He stopped walking and stared at an object ahead. Less than ten feet away, it stood from the ground reflective with a black handle, as if to declare an assertion of its existence. Ben stood for a long while and looked down at it. How out of place it seemed, sticking from the brown grass. It should have been nothing for him to see a butcher knife jammed into the ground beside the road. Nonetheless, it struck him as peculiar. The way it looked as though someone with unknown purpose had put it there, as if in a knife holder, at a slight angle with the sharp side down.

  He pulled it from the soil and looked at its shiny surface. It was there for some time, the dirt had stained the tip of the blade. As he tucked it into his belt, he noticed a plastic sack a few feet into the ditch. The tattered ends flapped in the gentle breeze. He almost ignored it to keep walking. Instead, he trudged down the small slope to check it out. He discovered three cans of chili and a small bag of corn chips. A wave of joy swept over him.

  The can wrappers were falling to pieces, and the sun had faded the color of the chip bag. He gathered them up, stuffed them into his pack, and hurried back to the road. Comforted by the fact he would have a decent meal later on, Ben walked for another two hours before he decided to stop.

  The sun was still long from setting, but he needed water and rest. Locating a place to hole up for the night was a daily challenge. Often it took longer than he liked. First, he had to find water and then a safe spot away from the road to hide. Necessity followed by security, always the same each day.

  Ahead of him was another rest stop. It was not the kind with a restroom, but one that had a trash can and a large informational sign. He read all the signs as he walked to pass the time. A large wooden pillar on each the end supported the broad brown painted plaques. Bright yellow paint colored the engraved name on the top brace and the descrip
tion beneath it. They were irrelevant to the world now. The writing was of things that no longer mattered.

  However, this one was different. Someone had painted one large word in bright orange at a slight arc, with the last two letters merged together. It was a stark proclamation, bold and glaring, on the plague.

  Forsaken.

  One word, on one sign, that only one person may ever read. That kind of action fit the world now. Strange was a word that held a softer meaning than it once did. For something to be abnormal now, it needed to be on the level once reserved for the severely deranged.

  He half read the yellow letters from the force of habit and gathered the general outline. The sign was a harsh reminder that the world had changed and it did so for the worse. The place he walked past was at one time important for people who no longer lived.

  Might as well put up a sign at every house across the whole country if that were the case.

  A few minutes’ walk past the rest stop he came to a fair sized creek. He gathered water in a plastic bottle to boil and made his way up the side of a nearby hill. Ben took his time selecting a good spot for the night. With no houses nearby, it diminished the immediate threat. He remained on the side of the hill closest to the road. Ben avoided camping near dwellings or buildings. The possibility of hidden people attacking in the night made him wary of all man-made structures.

  Like every afternoon, he performed his silent ritual and set about preparing for the night. He lit a small fire to boil his water. He liked to fill his canteen before he ate. As the water heated, he walked around snapping off pine tree branches for cover. Ben drove short sticks into the ground around the fire and piled pine branches against them. He did it so the wind would not blow out the flame and it would be harder to see if someone passed on the road.

  After the firewood was gathered, he spread out his sleeping bag. Ben dug a small hole in the loose soil and laid the bag over it. He did it so he could sleep on his side and his hip would rest in the hole. It kept him from being sore the next day. A self-taught lesson learned the hard way, from pain and practice. He grabbed handfuls of leaves, spread them over the bag, and piled small pine branches on next, layering them as he went. Ben used anything he could find to mask the blue color of his sleeping bag. He did his best to conceal where he slept or rather where he lay awake. It gave him a sense of being less vulnerable.