Dead Reckoning

by Tom Wright

  I noticed heaps in the road—bodies I guessed. Then a flash of movement in an alley, which vanished before I could lock onto it. Someone was down there; time to move on.

  I had but a mile left, and I knew it would be a spooky walk. Within a few minutes, I entered what the kids called “the tunnel.” Whenever we drove the road north of town to Shadow Beach, the kids talked about the tunnel. Less affected by the warm, drying late afternoon sun, that part of the island stayed moist, and virtually everything grew there. Competition for sunlight was fierce, and as a result, the ground rarely got any of it. Pines towered above, and species such as alder and madrona, complete with its constantly peeling red bark, over slung and enclosed the roadway. Branches tangled and twisted their way across the road, except for a small square, perhaps ten feet on a side, through which trucks passed. Even at the top of the day in the height of summer, that road was dark, moist, and mossy.

  A chill leapt up my spine as I passed a dripping ceramic driveway sentry. Covered in green slime, the little troll’s eyes peered out from under the hood of its raincoat and followed me as I passed. How the driveway’s owner could have enjoyed this greeting every time he returned home eluded me.

  Close then, I began to run. I crested the last rise and saw them not fifty yards in front of me. It stopped me cold in my tracks. Six of them stood over a corpse in the road, their mouths dripping with blood. They ripped and tore at the flesh of the thing, fighting amongst themselves for the best morsels. One of them stopped and stared blankly in my direction, chewing and oblivious to my presence.

  I pulled out my gun and tried to recount how many bullets were left. I had additional ammunition in my pack, but there would be no time to reload once they noticed me. And there would be no sneaking past them. They could not be fooled, eluded, or outran. I had to scare them off or kill them all. It was them or me, one on six.

  Frozen, I didn’t know how to proceed. I doubted whether I could hit one from fifty yards and I didn’t dare waste any of the bullets left in the clip, so I decided to walk straight up to them. I hadn’t made three steps when they heard me, or smelled me, or sensed me. Whatever it was, they all turned simultaneously and began walking toward me.

  God damn it! I've come five thousand fucking miles and I'm going to be killed within a mile of the house. I struggled to remember how many bullets my gun held. It was a Glock-19, I thought, so does that mean it had 19 bullets in the clip? My mind reeled as I remembered bits of conversations about magazines versus clips and bullets versus cartridges. I felt for Jeremy Peterson’s gun and noted its position in my belt.

  Oh, hell! This is it. I stood up straight and quieted my mind and controlled my breathing and heart rate. Just shoot and if you run out of bullets then fight with your hands. I'm not going to die in this damned street by a pack of wild dogs!

  I raised my gun and aimed at the leader. At 20 yards, I decided it was close enough, and I fired. I hit it. It fell in the road and flailed, trying to get back up. It finally laid still. The others recoiled from the gunshot and stopped to look at the leader. The two taking up the rear suddenly scampered into the woods, but the other three tore out after me. I fired as rapidly as possible at the approaching menace. Within the first half-dozen shots, two of the three fell and struggled in the road. I took a bead on the final predator and fired repeatedly. Finally, within a few feet of me the last dog whimpered and fell to the pavement as my gun began to click harmlessly.

  I dropped to my knees and gasped for breath as my heart pounded in my chest.

  Suddenly, I remembered the other two dogs and snapped back to the present. I wiped the sweat from my vision with the back of my hand and pulled out Jeremy’s gun. Thinking better of trusting my life to an unfamiliar gun, I ripped off my pack, fished out the other magazine and clicked it into my gun. I pulled back the slider to chamber a round, stood up, and held it out in front of me. I kept my eyes ahead as I shoved Jeremy’s gun into my pack and slipped the pack back on.

  I scanned the woods as I edged down the road. The dog closest to me clung to life with shallow, raspy breaths. I decided not to waste another bullet on it. The next two lay still in the road, and the fourth followed me with its eyes, the rest of its body paralyzed and useless. I stopped at it and considered its pink, foaming mouth. A sudden shutter ran up my spine.

  I walked up to the twisted heap of flesh, organ, and bone in the road. It bore no resemblance to anything in my experience. It surely wasn’t human, but the steam that rose from it indicated it had been alive in the not too distant past. Maybe it had been one of the pack. Or maybe the poor creature just happened by only to be ambushed. With a little different timing, I could have been that meal.

  Keeping a wary eye on the woods and my ears peeled to my rear, I jogged the rest of the length of the road and turned onto Shadow Beach Lane. Just as I entered the road, I heard a gunshot echo through the woods from the direction of Shadow Beach. The road wound down another half mile before hair-pinning back toward Kate’s parents’ house. With urgency, I instead took a shortcut sprinting over a cliff.

  I bounded recklessly down the hill, fearing that I had come all that way only to have gunshots end my family minutes before I got there. I saw some movement and stopped in a small clearing just above the beach.

  The child was on one knee, flipping rocks over and poking at the sand. At least from my vantage point it appeared to be a child. He held a shotgun in one hand. I slowly moved closer, careful not to give away my position. He wore dirty blue jeans, and a tear down one side revealed a gaunt white leg. His filthy, red hooded sweatshirt stood in stark contrast to the cobalt water of the bay and the dreary, gunmetal sky. Could that be my boy? He was a little skinny, but that would not have been a surprise after all that time, and he was about the right age.

  A single flake of snow fell somewhere between us and interrupted my gaze.

  He stood up and threw a rock into the cold, still water. It tumbled end for end through the air and pierced the surface without creating a splash. Ripples spread out in perfect circles and upon reaching some predetermined distance, vanished back into the tranquil water. He took a handful of pebbles and whirled around, spraying them across the water. He crouched down and paused as if to study the sound of the stones tearing into the water. Maybe he imagined himself firing an automatic weapon or ducking for cover as bullets pierced the water around him. Must be a boy. He spun as he finished the throw and I caught a glimpse of the side of his face. Obscured by long, sandy blond hair that protruded from under his hood, I could not identify it.

  Right color hair.

  He walked a little to the right, and, even from a distance, I could hear the sound of gravel crunching underfoot through the still air. He turned over a larger stone and pounced on something like a cat on a mouse. He picked it up and studied it for a moment, flipped it over several times, and then put it in his mouth.

  There was a sudden disturbance in the water; a strange linear ripple emanating from left of the boy’s position straight out into the bay—too straight to be natural. He scrambled toward the origin of the disturbance, set down the gun, and grabbed a fishing pole from among the weeds. The pole heaved forward as the boy struggled against the creature on the other end. Each time he pulled, a streak in the water appeared as the line tightened, then as he relaxed and reeled, the line slipped back under the surface. A fisherman's worst enemy poked its head up through the water and looked curiously at the boy. Then the seal disappeared back under the surface.

  It was not long before the boy dragged the flapping prize onto the beach, silver flashes piercing the monochrome scene as the fish flipped from side to side. The fish writhed and jerked, and its gills heaved mightily in and out as it struggled for oxygen. The boy grabbed a large rock, and with a swift, sharp chop, ended the commotion.

  Suddenly, I heard rapid footfalls behind me. As I dove down into the weeds, my knee landed square on a twig and the snap of it cut into the cold air like a firecracker. I heard a skidding sound
as the person came to an abrupt stop and cautiously listened for more sound. I held my breath. After a few tense seconds, the footsteps resumed, and the figure ran past me down toward the water. I slowly lifted myself up and peered down toward the bay. It was another child about the same size as the first one, but with much broader shoulders—likely another boy. He was also armed and carried something furry by the legs. He set down his rifle and dropped the creature on the beach.

  I saw a brief glint of steel as the first boy took out a knife and began cleaning the fish. He plunged the knife into the fish’s underside and in one clean motion, opened the cavity from the anus to the jaw line. He ripped out the innards and dropped them on the beach and then, as if thinking better of it, scooped up most of the mess and tossed it into the water. With a scooped hand, he shoveled water onto the beach and washed much of the remaining evidence from the scene. It was either a small silver or a very small King Salmon, but food either way.

  Good for them. Well done.

  The spectacle suddenly made me aware of my own building hunger. He slit the skin from head to tail along the spine, peeled down the skin revealing the pink flesh. A few more cuts and he had several small boneless salmon fillets. He cleaned the fish just as I had taught my son to do it when he was old enough to safely handle a knife. The other boy moved in and after a brief, barely audible disagreement, they began eating.

  A shrill screech poured out from the forest behind me. An emaciated crow flew over me and swooped down over the boys, searching for leftovers. It landed about ten feet from the boys and hopped toward their day’s catch. One of the boys edged over toward the guns, while the other picked up a tiny bit of the entrails and offered it to the bird. The bird got about as near as a bird will get, and the boy lunged forward but missed. Millions of years have taught birds just how close they can get to potential predators. After a while, the only birds left are the ones that know how close is close enough.

  The bird flew off toward me in a fit, shrieking loudly. As the bird approached, its eyes locked onto me, and it let out another series of caws and began circling over me. My hair stood on end and my pulse quickened. I heard pellets spray into the forest behind me and then I heard the shotgun blast.

  “Don’t shoot!” I yelled. “Charlie, is that you?”

  I felt around for any kind of projectile, and my hand landed on the freshly broken twig. I hurled it toward the fowl, and it flew off. When I stood up, the boys were gone.

  I covered the remaining distance to the beach in what seemed like a tenth of a second. I arrived just in time to see the boys rounding the peninsula about a quarter mile down the beach. I yelled out, but they kept running. Then I set out after them.

  I reached the first house on the beach. It had been burned. As I passed houses, I caught whiffs of death. I followed the tracks in the sand until one set peeled off and went up toward a house about four houses north of Kate’s parents. I suddenly took notice of my carelessness—both of the boys were armed, and thought they were being chased. I also had no idea who else might still be living down there. My awareness regained and my gun still drawn, I sprinted for the beginning of the bulkhead, which stood taller than me and provided some cover.

  I edged along the bulkhead until I arrived in front of Kate’s parents’ house. The house was dark, its windows broken out. Dread spread over me like a cold wind.

  A light mixture of rain and snow began. The wind suddenly gusted from the south, dragged down from above by the onset of precipitation. The rush of air funneled into my hood and inflated my jacket with a chill.

  I peered up over the bulkhead, and nothing moved.

  To get to the stairs, I had to walk through the ankle-deep water of the incoming tide. Frigid water topped my boots and squeezed into my socks and trickled down my ankles and into the soles. My shoes made a squishing sound as I cautiously climbed the stairs one by one.

  I got to the top and yelled: “Charlie! Are you in there?”

  There was no response.

  I scampered up to the sliding door and looked in through the broken glass. My heart sank as I cringed at what might have taken place there. In addition to the sliding door, most of the windows had been shattered. Debris was strewn about, furniture overturned, the cupboards open and empty. The door on the other side of the kitchen banged shut in the wind and gave me a start.

  My eyes gravitated to a well-worn path through the rubbish to the back of the house.

  I stepped into the house and called for Charlie again. Still no answer. I walked slowly through the house with all sort of wild, horrible thoughts pulsing through my head. Every closet and room in the house had been rummaged except for one—the closet door at the end of the hallway.

  “Charlie! It’s your dad. Don’t shoot.” I didn’t hear a sound.

  I walked slowly to the end of the hall and tapped on the door. “Charlie, are you in there? Don’t shoot. It’s me, Dad.”

  I grasped the handle, twisted, and pulled. The door squeaked open.

  The boys screamed and pushed their feet against the floor in an effort to get further back into the small closet. I recognized the other boy immediately. It was Tommy, Charlie’s friend from down the beach. Both guns pointed a gun at me.

  “Don’t shoot,” I said, quietly and calmly. “It’s me, Charlie, your Dad.”

  Tommy sat terrified, the gun trembling in his hands.

  Charlie stared at me with eyes like saucers. His gun dropped to the floor.

  I knelt in the closet door and asked Tommy to give me the gun. He handed it over.

  I held out my hand to Charlie, and he took it and stood. He reached his hands out to my face and touched it. His fingers ran over my beard, a feature he’d never seen on his father. His eyes locked on mine. He didn’t even blink. Tears welled up in his eyes.

  “Is it really you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, my voice beginning to crack.

  He looked far worse than I had dared to imagine, but, at the same time, he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

  He stepped forward and threw his arms around me and clenched tightly. I returned the hug with my right arm and reached out to Tommy with my left.

  “Are you all right?” I asked to Tommy.

  He sat stunned and confused.

  I grabbed Tommy by the arm and pulled him to us and hugged him too. Charlie and Tommy sobbed in my arms.

  “I thought you were dead,” Charlie said.

  “I told you I would come,” I said.

  “I know, but it took so long. I thought you died.”

  After a moment of joy, caution kicked back in. I checked the boys over and other than being dangerously thin, filthy, and terrified, they seemed ok.

  I asked Charlie where his mother and the girls were. My stomach tightened as Charlie looked to the floor.

  “Whatever has happened is not your fault. Just tell me where they are.”

  “They are around back.”

  “Show me.”

  My legs grew weak, and I could barely walk as we headed to the back door. I began to perspire at the thought of what I was likely to encounter next—nearly my worst fear.

  We walked down the sidewalk and rounded the corner when I saw two mounds in the yard. Both mounds had make-shift crosses, and there was a third cross stuck in the grass next to the mounds.

  “No, no, no…” I muttered through building tears as I ran to the graves.

  “Daddy, no! Over here!” Charlie said, stopping me cold. He pointed to the side of the house.

  I ran to his side, and he began to remove firewood from the side of the house near the foundation. I began to claw at the pile. An old vent into the crawlspace beneath the house revealed itself, chipped away at the sides to the approximate size of a man.

  I dropped to my knees and peered into the black hole. Were they buried under here?

  “Do you have a light?” I yelled to the boys as I tried to wriggle into the hole.

  I pushed myself back out and
demanded to know what was down there.

  “Mommy and Kelly,” Charlie said matter-of-factly as he jumped in the hole.

  I heard someone speak faintly from within: “Who’s there?”

  I forced myself back into the hole behind Charlie. From behind a rock, Charlie produced a beer bottle filled with what looked like gasoline. A wick stuck out from the throat. He struck a match and lit the wick. Yellow light flooded into the crawlspace. It had been dug out on all sides to make space for people, dirt piled up against the foundation in every direction.

  I saw the face of Kelly, my oldest daughter, emaciated, pale, and sickly—nearly a zombie and much worse than Charlie or Tommy.

  “Who is it? Charlie, is that you?”

  “Honey? It’s Daddy.”

  She sat back, stunned. I wriggled myself through the hole and fell into the dirt.

  “Daddy?” She muttered, like an automaton. She sat and stared straight ahead.

  I peered further in and saw a figure lying in the dirt covered by filthy blankets. I scrambled over and hugged my daughter, but she pulled away. I slid over to the figure and rolled it over. It was Kate. Alive!

  I shined the light on her and my heart immediately sank. Her jaw hung open and drool dripped from the corner of her mouth. Scarred-over sores covered her face. Her eyes darted about—the only movement in her otherwise immobile body. Her head rolled back to its original place, looking away from me but struggling to turn back.

  I suddenly doubted that this was even my Kate. Was the beautiful, confident, bright-eyed woman that I loved still inside this dying shell?

  I couldn’t speak as a lump formed in my throat. I struggled for what to do. A million thoughts flashed through my mind ranging from dialing 911 to dragging her to the hospital to rushing out to find Jill. But I knew all those things were impossible.