Amy’s voice was loud and irritated. Her father put his finger to his lips, signaling for her to be quiet as he limped to her. She backed away from him with her arms held up, expressing her unwillingness for him to touch her.
He talked to her in a calm tone. He said, “Just be quiet. We don’t know who’s around here.”
Amy swung her arms down to her side and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Why should I ever listen to you again?”
She screamed the words so loud it made him recoil from her. Amy did not see it, but she felt the concussive force of his slap. It sent her to the hard blacktop, left her head numb and ringing. She held up her bloodstained hand to stay his. He stood over her with the look of utter rage contorting his face and spoke with an emphasized whisper.
“Because,” he said. “I am still your father.”
He left her to cry on the asphalt and hobbled back toward the other wailing females inside the van. He did not bother to console them. His anger at what he had done, the instant regret he felt for his actions, kept him from meeting their eyes. He wanted to take it back, to tell her he was sorry, but quiet self-righteousness kept him from doing it. The sound of Amy crying on the blacktop hurt him, but his current position made it harder to apologize.
“Might as well start unpacking the van now,” Evan said. “While we still have the daylight.”
Evan heard the muffled cries coming from the back seat as he walked to the rear of the van. Instead of trying to soothe them, he pulled out their backpacks and placed them on the blacktop.
“Are we going to walk from here tonight?” Amy asked. She stood beside the door, choking back her tears.
“No, baby,” Evan said. “Just getting it ready for when we do start. We’ll leave in the morning at first light.”
He patted the side of his makeshift crutch, considering the hard journey ahead of them. The sun faded beyond the treetops, darkness and cold replaced the space it left behind. They spent the night sleepless, uncertain about the future. The females huddled together, frightened by all the nightmarish visions they could fantasize during the long hours before dawn. Evan sat in the front seat, pondered his eventual death, and mourned for his brother.
10
Ben glided along the blacktop, trying to keep a steady pace pedaling the bike. His departure from the old house came earlier than he liked. He had planned to stay another day longer to rest and care for the blisters on his heels. The strong smell of smoke and the sight of the trees burning in the distance caused him to panic. He gathered what he needed and left in blinded haste, abandoning the piece of pipe.
Maybe it will be of use to someone else.
Unsure if it was natural causes or someone set the fire, he did not conceal himself as he rode from the house. Determined to get as far as he could travel before the sun reached midday, he made a choice not to stop and rest if he grew tired. Sounds of spooked birds in the trees heralded his progress. The speed he traveled at first was too much of a strain to keep up for long. When he figured enough distance had passed, he allowed himself to slow.
Hills and the saddles between went by in quick succession. He noticed a road sign ahead on the shoulder. It read ‘Witch Dance’ and showed the symbols for restrooms along with a picnic table. The road was flat, and he coasted for a distance. It gave him time to rest with his energy still depleted from his intestinal issues.
Ahead a blackened, burned-out military transport vehicle blocked the south lane. Old wooden sawhorses plastered with bright orange and white stickers stood in front of the metal hull. He noticed scattered bones the closer he got to it and assumed them to be from the once living soldiers who had arrived in the large vehicle. The various parts lay at random in the dead grass. He took notice of a few skulls by the roadside with others farther down in the shallow ditch. It was pointless for him to stop. Nothing was left to scavenge among the remains. Ben steered onto the broken edge of the road and let the wheels follow the painted white line. He sped up as he moved beyond the graveyard of the forgotten souls.
Within less than a half mile he stopped. He had made it to the rest area, but a large swath of wrecked vehicles blocked the way forward. They covered the highway and both ditches up to the tree lines. Ben could see the top of the little building that housed the restrooms to the right side, down a small embankment. At least fifty cars and trucks sat crushed together on the roadway, scorched like the military vehicle. The road past was clear, he considered carrying the bike over the rows of burned vehicles, but it was too heavy for him in his weakened condition. He feared he might puncture a tire on a jagged piece of metal. His only way through with the bike was to circle around the little building if the way was passable. As Ben rode closer, he saw a small gap at the side the building that looked clear. He got off the bike and pushed it while he walked. With the revolver out of the holster and squeezed in his hand, he listened for any noises.
A large tanker truck blocked the path to what appeared to be a parking lot. He became nervous and reconsider trying to carry the bike through the woods and avoid the whole place altogether. Halfway down the small case of concrete steps, he noticed an information board with a small faded shingle roof over it that presented a large map of the road. That was the first map he had seen since they had started the journey. After a hasty search for any movement, he stepped closer to the corner of the building. Ben inched his head past the edge to see if anyone was on the other side. The way was clear and he used the opportunity.
He ran his finger from the spot marked Tupelo southward trying to find where he was. Ben caught sight of a small box holding folded maps in a neat row nailed to the side of the information board. The sound of a door opening startled him. He grabbed several maps, turned with the gun aimed toward the door, and blinked his eyes in disbelief of what he saw. His instincts failed him. Ben stood holding the revolver pointed at a strange man. The sight of him was nauseating.
With the sound of rubbing leather, the man’s bare feet slid on the pebble topped concrete. The man moved out from the doorway of the furthest restroom in small shuffling steps. Ben glanced at the door that was closest to him to verify that it was not opening also. He saw the customary symbol that represented a man surrounded by strange hieroglyphs carved into the wooden door.
Heated blood throbbed in his ears. He pushed the bike until he moved past the end of the information board and away from the building. Cars blocked him from retreating the way back north in the parking lot. He considered returning the way he came, going back up the steps, and finding another route forward. There was no time for indecision. He felt trapped more by his weak and helpless condition than the physical barriers around him.
The man did not run to catch him but held up his arm as if to wave. Sound of stiff cow flesh came to Ben’s ear and made him queasy. He found it hard to comprehend the sight of the man, as it did not fit his conceptions of what was possible. The menacing man opened his mouth with great effort as he fought the barbed wire that held it shut.
“Let me sing you a song, a lullaby of the learned truth. Revelations I offer to all that would hear.”
Ben shuddered to hear the words. His gun hand became unsteady. He stuffed the maps inside his jacket and used both hands to hold the barrel straighter. The bike leaned against him and threatened to slide and fall.
“Don’t you want to hear my song?” the man said. “It will make you weep.”
The dry, raspy words rippled in the man’s mouth. He made loud smacking noises with his lips as he spoke. Ben looked over his shoulder to see if the man had accomplices. He checked for a way out, but it became apparent the vehicles formed a corral. The only way past was to walk alongside the building. The infected man, with his horrible threatening appearance, stood in Ben’s way.
Two options stood out for Ben. Shoot the man and escape, drawing anyone within earshot to his location, or leave the bike and jump the cars. The strange man turned his head with difficult movement. Blood stained strands of rusty wir
e wrapped around his head concealed his eyes as they pointed in Ben’s direction. His thick-tongued speech came in gulps.
“I will let you pass, boy,” he said. “Unharmed and quite safe.”
“How can I trust you?” Ben said. His voice wavered, weak from disuse.
He watched the mouth strain to pull back against the wire as it contorted with resistance into a deformed grin of rotten black teeth. A purple sore covered tongue protruded and moved like a thick slug across his ripped and scabbed lips to wet them.
“You don’t.”
A loud wheezing laugh came from his open mouth. The man held up his arms, with what appeared to be great discomfort, and pointed to the sky. Ben saw that the wire wrapped over the man’s naked flesh, as though it were his clothing. The strands wound around both of his legs forming unbendable braces. They caused the man to waddle instead of walk. Long strands extended from his loincloth covered waist, flowed up the center of his chest, and ended coiled around his neck. Covered with overlapping twisted strands of the same corroded wire, the flesh of his arms carried a dark purple hue. A large halo of copper wire encircled the top of the man’s head and held rusted metal horns into his shaved skull. They cut sores into the skin and created festering wounds that could not heal. His whole body was lacerated and rotting, held together by the windings of stranded metal that dug deep into his swollen flesh, as though he were a walking assemblage of infection.
“What if I blow your head off?” Ben said. He weighed his options as he spoke. “What if I just pull this trigger and watch your goddamn head explode?”
“Then you wouldn’t hear my song.”
“Yeah?” Ben said as he turned his head from side to side. “Maybe I don’t care.”
“We are alone here,” the man said. “It’s just he and I.”
The diseased man grabbed a chain from inside the door and pulled on it. A large black dog labored out from the darkness. Its body decorated with the same barbed metal strands. The skin of its mouth was pierced and pulled back by blood-coated hooks tied to the wire around its head. Ben winced at the sight of the beast. He heard the breathless laugh from the man. The cold stare of the wire covered eyes continued for a short while, until he stepped back into the doorway, and held out his hand to point at the gap.
“Go.”
He heaved a sigh and blood-laced phlegm slipped past the wire over his mouth. The man lowered his arm and coughed, expelling bloody mucus from his mouth in a large quantity. Ben moved forward with caution but kept the gun aimed at the man’s chest. He stepped closer to the opening past the building, still waiting for an ambush, he glanced behind as he moved forward.
He had made himself prepared to end his own life a long time beforehand. If he thought it had to happen, he would do it quick. There would be no hesitation. Ben had practiced the scenario in his head a thousand times. He refused to end the way so many others had before, the thought of it terrified him.
Less than ten feet separated him from escape. The man stepped from the doorway again. He pointed at Ben with a lacerated and scabbed hand. Anxiety gripped Ben. He took a backward step and bumped into the rusted pile of cars.
“They are coming. Did you know this?” The strange man said. “The kings, the righteous rulers, they are coming back here. I am a chosen one, ordained to shepherd the weak. They will return and claim their thrones. The kings are coming.”
“Kings?”
Ben crept with his back pressed against the metal on the vehicles, inching his way to the gap and his getaway. The man, a manifestation of pain from wire, spoke with arms stretched out, as if giving a sermon behind a pulpit. His stiff legs inched him to the edge of the concrete walkway, filth covered toes hung over the sharp corner. Ben kept moving forward an inch at a time, pretending he was listening to the mutilated man.
“Who are these kings?” Ben said.
“They are the bringers of misery. They will come back to these lands and reign over all that are left. You don’t believe me? You will see. Each of us has a place beneath their feet. Lords of the detritus. Kings of the flesh and bone. Their power is immeasurable. All will serve them as I serve them. All will praise them as I praise them. My body is their canvas, and I give it to them, I am the sign of their glory.”
His hands reached and removed the loincloth, he presented himself as a testament to what he was preaching. The wire punctured into and stuck out of his flesh, the collection of them met at his groin where a large, swollen, purple mass with multiple laps of metal binding protruded from his body. He turned his body deliberate and slow to let the young man see him in all of his tetanus suppurating magnificence. Long strands of rusty spurred wire covered with dried blood disappeared inside the man’s lower body. The upper portions ran into his back like metal stitches. He continued his slow rotation, his private viewing party, displaying his bruised, bleeding, infection oozing body.
Ben made a break for it. He pushed his bike into the narrow gap and past, making his way into the clearing on the other side. He stopped to look back at the nameless man, watching him try to give chase. The wire that sheathed his legs prevented him from pursuing after Ben. Sounds of anger erupted from the mutilated man’s bleeding mouth.
“You can’t escape—”
A bullet tore the left eye socket from the man’s skull, taking all the flesh and bone with it. His body stiffened, convulsions started before his body slammed backward to the ground. The second bullet ripped a hole into his chest, his body stopped moving with one final spasm after that. Ben lowered the revolver as he walked back to where the man lay. He whistled aloud, pulled the rifle from over his shoulder, and squatted down to wait for the dog to come out. The animal came into the sunlight. It struggled against the wire for movement and sniffed the air as drool dripped from its injured mouth.
“I’m sorry, boy,” Ben said.
He lifted the rifle to his shoulder and took aim at its head. The pitiful creature must have known its fate, it stood and waited unmoving as Ben took his time to aim. He refused to let the dog continue to suffer in the way it existed. He pulled the trigger and watched the dog collapse inside the threshold. It was at peace, they both were.
No kings are coming to reclaim these lands, there is only death.
He slung the rifle over his shoulder and got back onto the bike. Another large brown sign with yellow letters stood to the left of him. The top brace proclaimed the words ‘Witch Dance’ in bold yellow paint. He did not bother to read the rest. His only intention was to get as far from the place called Witch Dance as he could get before dark.
The sound of the tires rolling over the asphalt comforted him. It meant he was making his way forward. Miles would go by faster with transportation, he felt confident he could reach Jackson within the week.
If only we had started the trip with some kind of vehicle, we would be there now, all of us would be there.
Ben shook his head, clearing his mind of thoughts, he needed to keep himself focused. He suspected the gunfire had notified someone of his existence. If they cared, they could catch him without warning on the road.
After he traveled a dozen labored miles, an intersection was ahead, he could see various trailer houses and a country store in the distance. The sound of dogs barking followed by men shouting prompted him to pedal faster. As he passed the open area of a turnoff, he noticed another bullet hole pockmarked brown sign with white lettering. It had mileages listed on it for Tupelo and Jackson. He only cared about one. There were one hundred twenty-eight miles of travel left to reach safety in Jackson.
Another half hour of steady pedaling, he stopped to rest and drink some water. In the distance, large portions of fire-ravaged trees had fallen and spanned both sides of the ditch banks. The remaining trees that stood were leafless and charred. He smelled the breeze that blew across him. It carried the scent of death. Buzzards circled in the sky far above the trees. Their small black silhouettes ever circling in large spirals. He wrestled one map from his pocket, opened it, a
nd studied the path he had traveled. His finger traced the highlighted road until he reached Witch Dance. He looked at how far he had yet to traverse. Ben said the names of the coming towns to himself repeatedly as he tried to remember them.
His feet moved the pedals again as a low rumble of thunder came from the west. He needed to find shelter from the rain. He considered trying to find another empty house, but pushed it from his mind, an empty barn was better. It would be easier to escape. If he came to an abandoned car, he would consider using it for shelter, anything was better than being wet and freezing during the night.
He tried to outride the grotesque visions that filtered back into his mind. Ben did not want to remember the sight of the man caught in the grip of the virus or what it made him do. The conditions the sickness led the man to would haunt Ben for a long time.
11
Amy grabbed the suitcase handle and pulled it along. She listened to the small plastic wheels roll against the asphalt. Her father had unpacked the food to reorganize it into the bags they would carry. He handed a clear jug to his wife and pushed another jug into his own bag.
“This jug needs to stay with you,” he said. “You and Maggie will use it.”
“How much distance you think we can make before dark?”
Jessica stared down the roadway. She focused on the first curve in the distance.
“With my leg, I’d say maybe ten or so miles.”
He kept his head down as he rummaged in the van. Amy pulled her backpack on and grabbed the small canvas bag she used as a purse. She refused to look at her father. Anger still boiled in her mind. Instead, she joined her mother looking ahead. The sun broke the horizon, yellow rays of light poked past the dark morning clouds. Her father lifted his own pack and slung it over his right shoulder with the shotgun to offset the weight on his left leg. With the makeshift crutch under his arm, he hobbled from the van.
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