“Not going to be able to grow a garden this year,” he said. “Won’t be able to buy any seed.”
He commented in a sober tone to no one in particular, letting his words roll off his tongue. Ben’s mother, Tammy, sat in her reading chair and looked at him. Puzzled, she opened her mouth to speak and snapped it shut, deciding against it. She remained silent, flipped through the pages of her book, and looked over the words in an absent state.
“You want some supper?” she asked, watching his shaking head. “I can fix something to eat.”
Back she went, pretending to read the words on the pages, and listening to the news reporters in their knowledgeable way of speaking. However, they knew nothing more than the rest of the people in the world. God only knew what was happening to them, when it would end, and when things would return to normal. The thought of it going back to the way it was before had become a form of fantasy, one they prayed would become true. They pretended as if it were like the flu season. People would get sick, get better, and daily life would return to its ordinary state. The world would right itself. That was what they told themselves. They knew it would not be that way but it made it easier to sleep at night. A lie to pacify themselves.
His mother’s hopes rose high on the day the Baptist preacher walked by on the road in front of their house. ‘God will help you. This is his way of testing us, to see if our faith remains strong,’ he told them. Ben’s mother felt at great peace when he walked on by, heading down the road into town.
“Things are looking up. The Lord has sent us a message, Marshall. All we have to do is pray, and Jesus will find a way. He always helps the true believers.” Tammy told her husband as if it were a fact that was undeniable.
On the third day, there was a noticeable change to her rationale. The same preacher came back by, naked and covered from head to foot with bleeding gashes, and gave a two-hour fiery sermon to their mailbox. He shouted about the sin of man flying in the sky, the use of electricity, and warned that penguins were agents of the devil. Marshall shut the door and locked it as Ben and Charlie watched their mother cry silent tears and pretend to read her book. She did not speak about it afterward. No one spoke about it. They acted as though it never happened.
Two weeks later, as they sat at the candlelit table eating a scrounged together supper, his father told everyone they would leave Iuka to head south. They would walk the Natchez Trace, travel to the CDC and FEMA camp in Jackson. It was the only place in the state guaranteed to be safe and infection free. They proclaimed on the radio that a cure existed. The reporter said the National Guard would carry anyone willing to go. Marshall continued to lay out his plan, explaining the dangers they would face along the way and the precautions they should take. Ben listened with fading interest as his father talked. It resembled planning for one of the family camping trips.
His mother did not protest while he spoke. She busied herself washing the dishes in water fetched from the rain barrel. The water had stopped coming from the tap right after the power went out. They turned the light switches on and off by habit for several days until the reality set in that it was never coming back on. The month went by with planning and gathering everything they would need. Marshall informed the family they would leave on the following Monday morning. He had heard a report on the car radio that spoke of the camps across the country and the success they were having vaccinating people against the virus. No one resisted his orders. Hope was still alive in their minds. They did not understand what they were heading into with the journey. To them, it was another camping trip for the family.
The night before they left, he had to watch his father kill a crazed woman who tried to burn the house down with them inside. The whole time she screamed the word ‘murder’ while she poured gasoline across the front porch. He did not even step outside. Marshall shot her through the front window, and left her body to lie where she landed. Her feet stuck up past the edge of the porch after she fell backward into the flowerbed. Ben noticed she wore bright red shoes.
The family left out the back door and walked toward Tishomingo, they had not made it halfway before his mother saw the little orphan girl. She refused to pass her by and demanded Marshall carry her bag while she toted the little girl.
That damned dirt covered little girl.
Her blonde hair in small pigtails, dirty kneed pants, and a yellow jacket with pink hearts on the sleeves. With her little sausage-fingered hands held out, eyes bright blue with the pleading look of a puppy, the little girl was not much older than three or four. She smiled as Tammy picked her up. They carried her with them because Tammy refused to leave an innocent child to fend for herself all alone. At Tupelo, they had to leave the highway at a blocked overpass. Marshall led them to the street below where they would cross to the other side and return back to the highway. That was where it happened. That was the place where it all fell apart.
That goddamned little orphan girl.
The long, booming, concussive rumbles of thunder woke him from a light sleep. With a small gap to peer out of from under the sleeping bag, he tried to figure how close dawn was. His eyes registered a faint shape just from the glass, it almost looked like a woman’s face. A bright flash of lightning lit the world outside the window. His pulse raced and his grip on the gun tightened. Outside the car stood a rain-soaked woman, with long scratches from her forehead to her cheeks and continued down her neck. She looked into the car interior. Fearful, with his nerves buzzing, he lay in wait for what would happen next. He heard the sound of all the door handles tried at the same time. More than one person was beyond the car doors. He slowed his breathing down to be quieter as he prepared himself to run or fight if he had to.
Time passed and the rain slacked. He heard several feet step on the fallen leaves as they moved away from the car. He remained motionless for a long time after, afraid to move and look out the glass. They began to sing, not a song with any particular words, it was more like high-pitched noises and wailing. It sounded as though they were on the road heading away from him. More time passed as he kept still, the sound of their singing continued a distance further on. He lifted his head just high enough for his eyes to see over the door panel. On the road, dim lit by a small crescent moon covered by thinning clouds danced the figures of three women in a small circle.
He watched as they spun around in a steady fashion, releasing their incoherent garble of a song. When one fell down, the others came to a sudden and rigid stop. They waited unmoving until she stood again. The long hair clung to their rain-soaked bodies, it fell like dark paint marks across the front of their white dresses. Hours passed as they danced in their tireless, unending circle.
Without a signal, no audible form of communicating it, they all walked south. Their pale figures disappeared into the distance like fading ghosts. Ben slid back down to the seat with cramped neck muscles as his mind became worried and restless. He planned to wait until daylight before he traveled again. It was an attempt to give the women more time to get further ahead or leave the road.
The muted gray dawn stirred him from a half sleep. A thick fog hung in the air from the warmer morning breeze. The warmth felt good against his skin. His hands regained their flexible movement. He took time getting ready to continue his trek southward, hoping the longer he took, the less chance he would encounter the female strangers. He opened the cylinder of his father’s revolver and removed the used cartridges.
Oh, God. Now it’s three for them and one for me.
Breakfast of half a can of potted meat and the last five crackers went down with a slight unease. He would have to hunt more food. His waistline was smaller than it was before he left home. Ben had tightened his belt another hole in and feared it would not be the last.
The spot on the road where the women danced was bloodstained in a wide circle. He looked at it with a quick glance, shook his head in confusion, and gave it a wide berth. Ben moved down the road at a slow speed and watched ahead for them. The warmer air made him u
nzip his jacket. He stuffed his knit hat into his pocket. The warmth did wonders on his stiff muscles, but also made him sweat more. There were fewer water bottles, soon he would drink from creeks again.
Wished I’d caught some of that rainwater last night. I’ll need to remember to do that from now on.
Up ahead less than a mile, on a hilltop along the road, he saw the lumbering shapes of the women. He slowed his pace to keep from gaining on them. The day progressed and he traveled on foot beside the bike. The women’s speed was one of leisure. They passed several roads they could have turned down. Ben grew frustrated, he had no choice but to follow behind and hope they would find something of interest off the blacktop so he could get past them.
Spread wide across the lane, the women held hands and staggered alongside each other. To shoot them with the rifle had crossed Ben’s mind, but missing a long distance shot on any of them would only complicate things. He knew gunfire would act to send a warning for any highway robbers or lunatics ahead. He looked at them with the binoculars a few times. They appeared to be sisters or cousins as all of their features looked similar, including the open bleeding sores across their faces and chests. He stopped at a high bank on the left side of the road and waited for them to travel down the highway.
He catnapped leaned against the dirt wall, often startling awake, afraid he heard a noise from the roadway. Ben lingered, undecided with what to do until the day had grown into afternoon. To find a place to sleep for the night would have to wait, he needed to make sure the women were far enough from him. Ben rode the bike until he crossed another overpass. He stopped to scout for any abandoned cars on the road below. He noticed a sign for a gas station at the top of a hill along the road below him. It was about a mile away, and the temptation to investigate it crossed his thoughts. Fear of stumbling upon someone kept him on the road. After the short pause, he rode along and looked for a place to hide for the night.
Another road came onto the Natchez Trace, and he hoped to see the women walking down it. To his slight amusement, he saw the same sign for the gas station. It was a few hundred feet from the roadway. The thought to search for food and water came to his mind again, but he shrugged it off. He would not take the chance yet, his hunger was not bad enough.
He traveled a mile before he came to an abandoned white van in the middle of the road. Ben took the normal precautions of his routine to make sure it was safe. He debated to use it for shelter over the night. It was littered inside with candy wrappers and empty soda bottles, nothing useful seemed left. Ben prepared to hide his bike when he heard the screams, high pitched and blood-curdling.
Those god-awful screams.
14
Her head rocked back and forth to the movements of the body beneath her. The scent of rotted meat mingled with the choking smell of gasoline from the rags tied over her face. She could not lift her head. The splitting pain inside her skull was greater than anything she had experienced before. It was as though a train had crashed into her forehead. Someone carried her limp body over their shoulder, and it pressed into her full bladder. Angela slipped back into the haze and serenity of unconsciousness.
The throbbing in her head pulled her back from the hold of nothingness. Something covered her head and blocked her sight. The cold air made gooseflesh of her skin. She knew she was lying on a bed by the feeling of her naked back against a coil spring mattress. The sharp metal loops that held the inner springs together dug into her exposed back from underneath the worn top fabric. Her pants were still on, but her jacket, shirts, and bra were missing. The captors had bound her hands together on what felt to be a metal bed end, she could not tell if it was the head or foot rail.
The thick fabric over her face did not allow her to see out of it, no sign of light offered itself through. She felt nauseated, her throat was dry, and she had the ache of a swollen bladder. A constant low ringing was inside her head. She thought to call out to Mike, wishing he was near, but she knew he was dead. After all they had been through together, the idea he was gone disturbed her on a greater level than she thought possible. She strained and pulled against the binding over her hands and then tried to pull her legs free. Nothing let go. There was a stiff rope at each leg and a tight winding of cord on her wrists.
She passed out again. The world moved from darkness that was silent to darkness filled with noise. Angela heard men talking and smelled burning wood. The thick taste of wood smoke was in her mouth. A hand pulled back the cover from her mouth and poured something wet onto her lips. She opened her mouth to drink. The fluid was salty, thick, and had a metallic taste. At first, she thought it was a sports drink, and then she considered the type of people that captured her and decided it might be urine. Angela did not care, her body cried for something liquid. The hand pulled the covering back down, and she was alone again.
Time passed and she asked aloud to go to the bathroom, but none of the voices answered her. An hour went by before she succumbed and pissed herself, all the while, she cried quiet tears of shame. It was as though the last of her dignity flowed from her and onto the bed. A full day passed as she faded back and forth, between the sound and the silence. The dull pain in her head was unrelenting. She told herself it meant she was still alive.
But for how long?
Her mind settled on Mike, loyal and sweet, but much too gentle. He was the man who loved her more than he would admit. His closest friend, her husband Daniel, never suspected he had that type of affection towards her. Mike was the one who checked on them when the trouble first started. When things reached the level of extreme panic, he came to make sure they were safe. He brought supplies and stood watch at night. After they had to leave the house, he protected them the best he could. When he lost his friend to the sharp edge of a swinging hatchet, he helped her mourn for her husband. He made no unwelcome advances and always remained the gentleman.
As time went on, he helped her and defended her as a surrogate husband. Up to the day he died, he strived to protect her from the evils of the world. She had feelings for him, but not the same as he had for her. She felt she treated Mike kind enough, even let him lie with her when she felt safe and comfortable. He never forced himself on her and always asked long beforehand to allow her time to think it over. Most of the time she did not, but a few selective occasions she allowed him. He appreciated it afterward and made it a point to thank her again the next morning. One night he whispered to her that he loved her and she ignored it, there was no reciprocity. He was polite, selfless, and considerate. That type of man, she often thought, would never survive in the world now.
The day he died, they had discussed where they would go and what route they should take. The sound of people walking from the trees startled them. She let Mike handle it as he seemed to know what to do. He tried to barter with them, bribe them, and when left no other choice he tried to fend them off. The two men, one more than Mike could handle, seemed determined to fight. One had a fat, round, flat-faced with a single red jagged scar from his forehead down to his chin. The other was a monster, with his face hidden behind long hair and a grizzly looking beard. She remembered how Mike looked when they attacked. His face showed pure terror as he tried to force them away. She recalled the way he yelled for her to run, but her legs could not move. They felt like thick stone pillars.
All she managed to do was scream aloud until she had to draw breath. The way the big man lifted Mike from the ground, she was sure it killed him when he slammed back to the hard dirt. It was then that the flat-faced man ran to join in the fight with a knife. Mike shot the monster in the head as the flat-faced man stuck him with the blade. He ran away as Mike tried to shoot him as well. The last bullet missed by a fraction of an inch. Angela helped Mike to his feet. Both of them stared in disbelief at the long blade buried in his chest. They tried to escape before anyone else showed up, and they would have if only she had thought to hide his feet.
Darkness with sound and darkness without, it was a continual cycle with no end.
It seemed days had passed since she had any water. She hurt all over her body with severe pain. Her forehead throbbed along with the beating of her heart. When they came into the room, she heard the loud steps of boots on the wooden floor. She tensed her body. Angela knew what came next.
The smell of sour body odor and powerful musk invaded her nostrils. She felt the bed move and a tug at her ropes. It was time, she thought, time for the men to assert their control over her the only way men knew how. They would terrorize her. Manipulate her through the brute forcing of themselves on her. Power wielded over her body as a way of breaking her spirit, creating a state of fear and pain they would then exploit. She figured it would come down to that, it was the first act of depraved men, but it was hard to prepare your mind for when it did happen.
There would be no reward for them, she would not scream, she would not let them have that. No matter how bad they tortured her, she would never let them have the satisfaction. When they would finish with her, bored or otherwise, she would find a chance to escape. All it would take was for them to make one mistake and she would be free.
However, they did not violate her. Instead, a pale woman with long cuts down her face pulled the canvas sack from Angela’s head. The woman and the flat-faced man untied her legs. As they worked at the knots, her eyes adjusted to the candlelight. She saw the other men drawing lines on the floor. When Angela’s left leg became free, she tried to kick the flat-faced man in the head, but she lacked the strength. They undid the binding of her hands from the head rail and the man with the round face lifted her onto his shoulder.
The Trace Trilogy (Book 1): The Wretched Page 10