Face it, why would she want you when she has so much else going on?
They were apart for a while. Avoidance seemed to be the best move. Let the wounds heal. But gravity had yet to play its last card.
*
Brett was walking through the summer in South Dakota. It was a land that had been carved by the steady hand of nature with the knife of a glacier. There were few towns, some still survived but were unfriendly to the traveler. The eyes of the people were cold, suspicious and hungry.
YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE! MOVE ON! More than one fence post proclaimed the message and Brett decided not to test the sincerity of it. He clipped his beard with a pair of scissors he found in a looted pharmacy, it made him feel ten degrees cooler in the growing summer heat. Although his clothes had been discarded and changed over time he still kept his flak jacket.
As he travelled on, Brett found a cottage down a meandering dusty road that was hidden from the world by trees that were so close together they could have passed for a living picket fence. The grass was thick underfoot and the earth had not felt the glare of sunshine in decades. The dirt was almost black as soot and rich with minerals. Birds twittered nervously at his approach but decided this was not the time to take flight.
The cottage was the type you rented on weekends to do a little fishing. A crooked aluminum chimney poked out of the V shaped roof, a pot belly stove might be inside. Brett considered the possibilities as his feet crept slowly to the front door. He paused in front of the tiny porch, a single window stood on the left side of the door with frayed off white curtains. A few logs were scattered about, he picked one up and whacked the railing of the porch.
Once, twice and then a third time, he waited for the reply. A sound, a movement of broken footsteps or a hiss of hunger and defiance, none of these things broke the silence. Brett stepped forward with his rifle in his right hand and his left extended to push the plain wood door open. It creaked slowly in complaint. It may not have moved in years.
There was staleness in the air as he stepped into the small living room. An old television set with rabbit ears was parked in one corner with a couch and single chair taking up the rest of the space. The wood floor creaked noticeably as he stepped forward. The paneling was the cheap kind, bought in bulk. There was an odd pattern on the wall, black dots in a symmetry that defied any uniformity he could discern.
…..and then they moved.
They all moved. The dots were slowly crawling one way and then another. Brett took another step forward and the floor felt mushy underneath one of those round hunting lodge type rugs, He was close enough to see them now.
He had never seen carpenter ants so huge, the big black bodies were clearly defined between head, body and thorax. The skin almost glistened like wet leather, the antennae worked about their heads like the appendages of a gorgon. His eyes scanned the room, accustomed to the light. They were crawling about his boots. Most seemed uninterested in his presence. A few scurried up his pant leg. He brushed them away after making a face. His eyes happened to glance upward and he knew what he would see, a vast, living carpet above his head, it was their home now.
Brett began to slowly back out of house. The floor was almost elastic underneath his feet. It’s what happened when they’ve tunneled through wood long enough, it starts to give way. They were just a part of what was really taking place all around him. It was another cycle of life going about its course. The cottage had been reclaimed by nature. Slowly, they would take back what was and always had been theirs. It felt like a passing of something, the mustiness in the air was just another shade of decay. Brett paused in front of the cottage and listened to the woods. The depth of silence was dizzying without the clumsiness of humanity. They might still be following but they were far enough behind that he could not hear them. He could hope that a passing scent or movement would throw them into another direction. After a few minutes he began to find his path again. He was dirty, tired and alert like an animal in unfamiliar territory. The Montana border was a few miles away.
The ants tunneled on, oblivious of their visitor or the passing of man.
*
“Corporal Symons, reporting as ordered, Ma’am.” Brett saluted at Maggie’s office door.
“Thank you, Corporal.” Maggie looked up from her desk and nodded to a chair. “Close the door and grab a seat.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.” Brett replied and eased the door closed. Welcome to my parlor was a phrase that suddenly entered his mind. Where the hell did that come from? He grabbed a chair but suddenly became aware of a change in atmosphere.
Maggie stood up and in two paces and sat on her desk in front of him. She seemed uncertain on what to say, Brett let her work it out. It was an army thing, speak only when spoken to.
“I wanted to talk to you about this first.” Maggie made eye contact for the first time since he had walked into her office. “I have an opening for a Sergeant.”
“A platoon leader,” Brett didn’t move a muscle. Maggie’s enthusiasm for command was lost to him. “You think I could do that?”
“I think you’d be amazing at that.” Maggie was speaking from the heart. Their conversation had fallen naturally back into a rhythm that had been there long before this new life. “Brett, you lead by example. That’s always the best way.”
“Really,” He always believed in doing the right thing the right way. He leaned forward to try and pry some truth out of Maggie. “Why me?”
“Because you always said you’d have my back.” Maggie replied and crossed her arms. Regret seemed to pass in front of her face for a second. Perhaps she felt it was unfair to use those words on him now. She took a deep breath and shook her head. “I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have……”
“Maggie, you know you can just order me to do this,” Brett offered, a neat clean way to avoid the past between them.
“I know, but I want to do what’s fair for you.” Her green eyes were almost acrylic in purity. “Look, I just don’t want to bring this up if you don’t want me around.”
“That’s not it, Maggie.” Brett leaned forward slightly and his voice softened. “I don’t hate you.”
“But can we work together?” Maggie was visibly relieved at his news but still cautious, “I just don’t want to put you into something that you don’t want.”
“I’m okay.” Brett nodded with a half-smile confidently. “We’ll keep it professional.”
“Yeah,” Maggie agreed with a touch of sadness on the word. “Let’s do professional.”
“Alright,“ Maggie said after a pause, “I’m putting the papers through for you to be Sergeant.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.” Brett rose and saluted.
“Welcome aboard, Sergeant Symons.” She returned the salute and shook his hand professionally. Did the contact linger for a second longer? Maggie’s face was all business but her eyes betrayed relief at having signed on an ally, “Dismissed.”
*
Brett watched the dead as they moved about the landscape. They seemed to be so much a part of the scenery now. He watched them as they picked their way through the scattered refuse of the end of days. There were burned out hulks of trucks, homes that were quickly being overgrown by moss, weeds and creeper plants. He saw entire houses now devoured in green. It was as if nature and the dead had been working in concert all along. When they were alone the dead would sniff the ruins carefully, searching for that one scent that would send them into a frenzy. Fall continued into the start of winter.
It was strange to see them alone. They shambled or lurched along fields with their shoulders hunched, wary of any movement. From a window in an attic, Brett watched two of them in a field. They had come from either end of the now overgrown and spoiled acres of crops. They stumbled through the earthen mud without looking at one another, intent on something far away in the distance and still unseen. They’re paths dovetailed together as they continued through the late November ice and mud. Now side by side and moving together
they passed a hundred yards away from the house.
One of them, a woman of perhaps forty with incredibly long red hair and a bloodied blouse that was once white stopped briefly and turned her head to the house. Brett felt the air in his windpipe tighten as she slowly moved her neck in varying degrees this way and that. She was sensing her surroundings, feeling the air. The other seemed frozen in place as if playing a game. Then, the frozen one took a step forward and the other followed, still watching the house. Brett examined the form from the window. She seemed to be lost in a dream while watching the front porch of the house he was hiding in. Was she from around here? Did the image suddenly trigger something from inside, something that was still alive?
Perhaps farther along they would encounter two more…….and then two more and then into an infinity of broken figures. For a second, Brett was back in the forest during the headlong retreat of nature and man. He was watching a virtual scythe slice through the countryside, consuming everything in its path. His memory retreated farther back to the towns he had passed with their makeshift signs and boarded up windows for protection.
The packs would grow larger, more aggressive and yes, they would find these places. He had been on the road for almost three years and he knew who had the advantage now. The little towns with the people and their hungry eyes were like embers still burning on bravely. Eventually they would be consumed by the deluge. It would take time, but time was suddenly not on their side.
They hungered, just like we did. Brett watched the figures recede into the afternoon, but did they starve to death like we could? He had never seen one like that. We starved, his stomach reminded him. We starved and killed each other in blind madness and release from the shackles of what was decent. They simply fed on us and moved, incapable of the thoughts that seemed to get us lost along the way of our lives.
He was a good three hours walk from his parents’ cottage now. Anticipation of familiar faces made him grope for something to eat in his backpack.
He found them at the side of the gravel road. The truck had pulled over and was parked underneath the massive elms that were evenly spaced down the almost endless two lane path. The tree limbs seemed to carry the weight of the world on them as they drooped over and blotted out the sun. Brett had plenty of time to un-shoulder his rifle, check the safety and begin a slow, circular examination of his surroundings. The slightest movement was what he was looking for. An attempt to stay hidden, camouflaged in the darkened shadows under the trees. A slow feeling of dread kept creeping up his soul while he approached. It was a healthy warning, preparedness for what was next. Take care. The next few minutes are going to hurt.
It was one of those huge heavy duties. The big back wheels and extended cab that made his father so proud. He loved driving into town with mud on the grill and the hubcaps less than pristine. It made him feel alive, active and strong. The truck and he could still earn a good days pay.
The dull red paint had not blistered or rusted. Brett assumed that meant it had not been parked here that long. Perhaps they were picking strawberries, mom loved to do that. But, this is winter……..
You really don’t believe that, do you? His rifle did another slow pivot around the gravel road, the color of the stones were in perfect synch to the steel grey sky. The clouds seemed low and multidimensional. If he paused, Brett could make out shapes and patterns as they boiled away like steam across the horizon. The only sound was one foot after the other and a slight breeze whistling through the trees. It had the resonation of angels or ghosts heaving a long, mournful sigh.
Another step, something was blurred behind the rear cab window. It was there like a phantom and then gone. It happened so fast Brett had a second of hesitation in believing it was real. It’s there, he confirmed to himself, stop the make believe.
When he was aside the cab and six feet away he took a hard look and let the lump grow in his throat. The world seemed to melt away, his skin felt cold and he registered nothing for the longest time. The large, heavy hands of his father pressed against the glass with a slow snarl that opened up on his face in an almost vertical angle. The hands withdrew and hammered the glass hard. He was naked from the waist up. The silver hair that was always in perfect order was now disheveled. His chest had grown two red blots the size of an old silver dollar.
No…. He was cold from the inside out. He felt himself cross over from survival to absolute surrender. The rifle began to slide from his fingertips.
He was watching dad twenty-odd years ago carefully lobbing a huge white softball in his direction. He watched the sphere turn over and over as it got closer. The weight of a bat was in his arms.
“Keep your eye on the ball, now.” His father’s voice drawled. It was an echo through his memory.
“He’s got a way, that’s all.” He heard his father proudly whisper to a neighbor as Brett jumped over the fence and began to approach an unruly horse. The animal met his eyes and snorted a challenge at him. Brett kept his eye contact up as he slowly approached. Gently, he grasped the horses reigns. It tried to rear up but Brett held firm. Timing was the next step. Brett lowered his eyes just as the horse submitted. They were on the same level.
“I’ll be damned.” The neighbor swore in surprise.
“We’re just gettin’ to know one another.” Brett said softly as he turned back to the two men. His father gave the slightest hint of a smile and nodded his head. Brett felt like the world had been handed to him on a platter.
‘Never give up, keep trying.” His father counseled after the hundredth time he had swung at the ball. When Brett finally connected and watched the ball sail across the lawn the lesson was ingrained, welded to his bones.
Never give up……..
Time became linear, he had no idea how long he watched his dad push and prod the glass. The nose of his rifle was resting in the gravel, like a small animal burrowing into the ground. Brett inhaled slowly and felt his eyes getting red.
“Dad…..” He whispered.
The crisp, blue eyes of his father were gone now. They were replaced by the yellow haze that swam about his sockets. It gave his face a desperate look. The mouth worked slowly, like a child forming words while the fingers moved about the glass like a pair of hummingbirds. All around Brett the world seemed used up. The trees barely moved but the wind whispered on.
“Dad!” Brett broke the hypnotic silence with a voice that he swore must have carried for miles. It was the first time he had heard himself speak in weeks.
His father paused, their eyes met. Don’t dream, Brett raised the rifle slowly. Don’t pretend he recognizes you. His father’s face pressed closer to the glass. Not touching, but hovering a centimeter or two over the surface.
“I love you.” He whispered, he wanted him to hear it so he spoke the words again. “I love you, dad.”
The glass shattered at the report of his rifle. The single piece became a thousand shards that briefly hit his father’s face. The window pane was gone in the blink of an eye. A body that was naked from the waist up lay sprawled across the backseat cabin. It was strange how it bore no resemblance to the man that he had worked so hard to please all of his life. There was no release here. No feeling of passing. It was all just ……gone. The trees, the landscape and the sky settled back into silence.
The trees swayed to another winter siren song and he slowly felt himself back in present time. Almost every moment at the kitchen table, every ride in the truck or day in the fields had come back to him. They felt clearly defined in his life, but he knew that the passing of time would curl and burn at the edges of every second of remembrance. Soon they would all be lost and forgotten with the passing of his life. Brett took a few steps toward the front of the cab and felt his breath pause.
Mom had always been a large woman. Her head lay sagging against her chest as if she had fallen asleep for a few minutes. On the upper right hand corner of her skull, dried blood mixed itself liberally with her grey, short cut hair. He remembered how she always
seemed to smell of lilacs. The kitchen when he was growing up was a wondrous home to aromas that found their way into every crack and crevice of the house.
“Wash up, now.” The words always were the natural preface to a meal and family time.
Her skin was just beginning to lose the luster of life as if was turning grey in some patches. The circulation of new cells replacing old was falling apart now. Like his memories, she was becoming a forgotten part of something much bigger. Again, a thousand thoughts and what they meant rushed by. Each singular instant between them flitted in front of him like watching fireflies on a summer night. First there would be one that captures his attention. Then, another and it would go on and on. Brett felt helpless, defeated and alone. You walked this far to be late by a few hours.
There was a rushing tide of emotion that was tears, rage, anger, weakness and fury. They all seemed trapped inside a tempest in an enclosed space. The tides inside seemed to push hard at his edges to get out, to create new rivers running in every direction outside of his usual space of emotions. It was as sudden as electricity, as deep and fathomless as an ocean. Alone in the cold, he was numb to the world as his insides became hollow.
Brett found himself walking toward the cabin without remembering taking the first step. He was aware of the trees that seemed to be brown, mottled and dead in the cocoon of winter. The ground was muffled as the snow collected on the road and stuck to the bottom of his boots. The road was a perfect pasture of glistening white in the setting sun. His memories of this place were a compass now, guiding Brett’s footfalls now that he was no longer aware.
The corners cut in the earth on the path leading toward the property, rocks and stumps of trees that stood like sentinels in a clearing of flat, pearl-like snow. The property stood like something ancient against the elements, proof that someone had been here. But that time had come and gone.
5 Years After (Book 2.5): Smoke & Mirrors Page 17