Fifteen feet. The deer bit.
Fourteen feet. The deer chewed.
Twelve feet. The deer swallowed.
Ten feet. The deer went for more, a last meal.
Nine feet. Its head snapped up, turned to look at Ryan.
It bolted, shooting off into town. Ryan squeezed the trigger once.
The bullet ripped into the deer’s flank, but the animal didn’t slow. It pranced off with unthinkable speed and grace despite injury. Ryan took off at a dead run, boots pounding pavement. Back on the street, he glanced at the wagon, checking on Emily. She was still in there, waving at him. He followed the deer into another alley, cutting along the shadow of a small credit union with white Greek columns in front.
“Come on, you little piece of shit! I’m gonna eat the fuck out of you.”
Over bottles and cans, ripped garbage bags and rotting boxes, he tailed their dinner. The deer was always one leap ahead. A trail of blood weaved down the street. He thundered on, nearly crashing into a fallen metal sign, twisted, and hopped over a fence to cut off the animal’s path. He went left, it went right, face screwed up in terror. It bounded through a busted out window to a clothing boutique, Ryan’s pistol wildly tracking its movements. He had but one shot left. The animal got stuck between two racks of clothes, one filled with too-skinny jeans, the other see-through peasant shirts and scarfs. He squeezed the trigger. The animal screamed and shot off through the back door, taking out the register and one jewelry rack.
“Bitch!” Ryan tucked the empty pistol in his belt and drew the knife.
The deer led him on a chase through town. They passed the local Starbucks, ran circles around a gas station, went up and down the steps of the courthouse, over an iron fence, and into an overgrown park. The deer was getting tired, blood loss reaching severe levels. Ryan was just behind it.
“Just a little more,” Ryan huffed, his mouth dry as cotton. “Just—a—”
He backed the deer into a corner of the park where two stone walls met, just past a copper monument of a man on horseback. The animal’s legs wobbled and collapsed. Ryan wiped the blood from his hands on his face and shirt, red painting his beard. He’d accidently cut himself with his own knife in the pursuit. He licked his lips and tasted the delicious, fresh sweat trapped within his facial hair.
This was what it meant to be alive. Ryan was the hunter.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” he told the deer as he bent over, sliding the blade into its neck. The action was far easier than killing the lion had been, even though this creature was young and healthy. It gave a cry and went silent, blood leaking onto the grass. For a moment he considered drinking straight from the wound, but held back. He could always do that later.
Ryan skipped his way through town back to the wagon. He’d done it. He’d brought home the bacon. The streets were alive, the occasional bony townsfolk grinning back at him in congratulations. He whistled a tuneless melody and clicked his heels. They were going to eat well tonight, and perhaps, if he was smart enough, this would last until they found the source of the lights. All the signs were there. They were getting close. The streets were cleared. Shops had been foraged.
His eyes were having trouble focusing as he rounded the corner and caught sight of the wagon. From here it looked as if the door were open. He skipped closer. It was open, swinging on its hinge. His skip became a power walk, which became a jog, then a run.
The wagon door was wide. The cage was empty.
“Emme?” he shouted, hoping she might be lying flat and he couldn’t see her. “Emme! Don’t play this game!” Breathing had become difficult.
Once he reached the wagon his eyes focused clearly. Emily was gone. Her dolls and toys were lying beside the impression in the sleeping bag where she’d been sitting. Her new plush doggie was missing.
Ryan spun around, searching for her, and caught sight of movement in the alley. He took off in that direction, keeping his knife close.
As he drew closer to the movement, he heard Emily scream, “Dada!” and doubled his pace.
He rounded a set of trees and saw a blurring figure in dark pants and a pale yellow shirt. It had hold of Emily, her pig tails poking up over its shoulder.
It was another man. Another human. The first person he had seen in months—and it had taken his Emily.
“Stop, you son of a bitch! Stop!” Ryan shouted, breathless. “Put her down now! You don’t need her. She’s mine!”
“Eat her! Eat her!” the man shouted in reply, words tremulous. “All you do. Eat her! Eat her!”
Ryan’s face went slack.
“Dada! Help! Help!” Emily kept screaming. Her hands were now reaching over the man’s shoulders. The plush doggie fell onto the street.
The chase went through downtown and up a hill. The wiry man was much faster than Ryan. He’d just chased a deer all over town, and now this. He should have never left Emily alone. It wasn’t worth it.
As the man went around a blue house, Ryan could just make out some of his features: wrinkled, dark skin, but wasn’t black, hair white and wiry, beard of the same color as his head reaching his pot belly. His clothes were filthy, but were by no means rags. He wore sandals. Ryan had no idea how the man ran so fast in sandals.
“Vishnu, preserve. He say, eat her! Eat her! All you do!” the man shouted frantically.
“Please! Give her back, damn it. Slow down, give her back!” Ryan waved the bloody edge in the air. If he could get close enough he’d hamstring the guy.
“Oh no! Please!” the man started. “Eat her! All you do! Cage! Trapped! Eat her!”
Distance widened between them. Ryan couldn’t catch up, it was just too much for his body to take. He needed to save Emily, but cursed this depleted bio-machine for not keeping up to the task. He watched them go into a white house and followed on their heels. The man did not have time to lock the door.
“Hello?” he shouted into the foyer, voice echoing. The place was pristine, no dust or dirt. Glossy floors and the fresh scent of pine cleaner. “Please, it doesn’t have to be this way. Don’t hurt her. I promise, I will not hurt you. That is my daughter, my sunshine. Don’t do that to a man. I know times have been hard, but it’s not worth it. Please, I beg of you, please don’t hurt her. There is food nearby. I killed a deer with my own hands! We can share it. Yes! That’s right! We can share it! All the meat you can stomach.”
Ryan turned to check the living room, knife hidden at his side. The blood from earlier had already dried. His arm was crusty with red and black.
“Please, damn it! Please. If you don’t give her back I’ll fucking kill you. I have faced far worse than you on my way here. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. You think you scare me? You think that I’ll turn away? All I ask is that you please, just don’t hurt—”
There came a flash of something black. His head crashed onto the hardwood floor.
Chapter 55
Ryan could see the ragged man but couldn’t move. A bonfire blazed, savages without clothes dancing around it, faces covered in inky paint. Their shadows flickered in the canopy of midnight trees. Emily was screaming. She was next to be stuck along with the other bodies roasting atop the flames. Then it was him. They had come all this way, and this was what humanity had been reduced to. Naked, roving cannibals. The social order had collapsed on itself, all that mattered now was the hunger and its unique brand of psychopathy.
“Eat her! Eat her!” the ragged man’s voice echoed in his mind. “Eat her!”
Ryan tried to get up but his hands were bound behind his back with rope, feet immovable. His face was pressed into the dirt, taking large bites of muddy soil and grass. Insects swarmed in his hair and crawled into his ears.
“Eat her! Eat her! Eat her!”
The night shimmered. The ragged man faded. Dancers vanished. Emily’s voice was silenced.
“No,” he huffed between loose, chapped lips. “No. Please no.” He rolled around on the ground, pushing his arms apart. The ropes wou
ld not give. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The sun was falling, but it was no longer midnight. A squawk came from over his shoulder. He twisted around and opened his eyes, seeing dozens of black birds staring back at him, beady portals regarding his fate.
“This isn’t happening.” He struggled against his bindings. “This isn’t happening,” he said louder, the birds closest to his mouth taking a step back. Wings flapped in the trees. More came to gawk. Rolling over once more, he found himself drowning in a sea of glossy black feathers and sharp beaks. The dancers and their fire had vanished. Screaming little Emily had vanished.
There had to be a way out of this. He had to get free and find Emily before that man had his way.
Ryan’s face and body ached with an agony he had never known. Whatever he’d been hit with had been heavy. He had a strong feeling his nose was broken by the way it hissed when he breathed. Side over side, he rolled into the press of blackbirds like a screaming bowling ball. They parted at his arrival, squawking protest as he drew near, cries echoing through them like the crash of a falling stone through a canyon. A large rock lay at the base of a tree with a jagged edge, the target of his actions.
Ryan sat up as best he could with bound ankles, wincing, and put his wrists against the rock. He pushed down, lifted, and pushed again, sawing the ropes against the rough surface. His already irritated right shoulder exploded in a blossom of agony so intense he began to sob. In the moment he was glad it hurt. It helped distract him from the gravity of his situation. Another lance of pain shot through his wrist and into his shoulder. Water sprang from his eyes. His chest heaved, the birds stared, his nose throbbed.
“She’s all alone,” he cried. “All alone without me.”
The threads of the roped popped. Ryan’s wrists stung. Still bound. He kept sawing.
“Lillian!” he shouted. “Where is she? Tell me! You can see better than me. Please, Lili, where is she?”
His wrists raised and lowered, raised and lowered. Pain. More Pain. Blinding. Sawing. Burning. Sawing. Blurring. Blinding. Sawing. Pulsing. Throbbing. Sawing. Burning. Sawing. Burning. Sawing. Burning. Sawing. Slick. Sawing. Sticky. Sawing. Pain. Agony. Blindness.
There was a snap and Ryan’s arms came free. His limbs were so stiff he could hardly pull them back around to the front of his body. The birds stared as he unbound his ankles, blood pulsing back to his legs. The skin was bruised, black and red.
Ryan stopped himself, took a hard, deep breath with another sob and surveyed the area. He was in the yard beside the white house. The grass was cut, the verge trimmed. He ventured back inside, legs wobbling, found his empty pistol, and looked for Emily. No trace of her or the man who took her. He went back outside, circled the property, searching for a trail.
The birds began to disperse, heading off into the west, their flock twisting skyward in a vortex of glossy black feathers.
“Emily?” he shouted without much hope. “Where are you? Come back to me.” A futile effort.
He removed a second knife from beneath the undercarriage of the wagon, and shoved his things in the turquoise backpack embroidered with the name Ruth. Lillian’s Hello Kitty lunchbox went with him, as well as the canvas stained in lion’s blood, used as a cloak. His body trembled, mind awash with confusion. He didn’t know where to start looking, but he was getting her back.
It was nightfall. He arrived at the body of the deer, weak from being tied up and going days without food.
He fell upon the dead animal, guzzling a tumbler of blood and cutting out its heart. All he needed was a little strength, just a little. Using a Missouri license plate as makeshift dishware, he ate the heart of the doe raw, slicing off long, crimson bites and swallowing without pleasure. The tatters he donned became black with blood, the sweet and salty taste stuffed his mouth. When the heart was gone he stood and took off running. He knew where they were going.
Into the night. Towards the light. He ran for what felt like hours, barreling through a void of darkness and doubt so absolute the world did not exist. He fell and got back up, was assaulted by tree branches and molested by groping, skeletal hands. He was running blind, desperate for his Emily. He had to save her. He could not fail her again. He could not fail Lillian.
Will was not enough, however. He needed guidance.
In a heap on the ground he began to sob, bloody palms pushed into his eye sockets.
He mumbled, “Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won't sing, Daddy’s gonna find you a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring turns brass, Daddy’s gonna buy you a looking glass…” The words became a choking noise in his throat. Hope was slipping away.
A familiar bark came from behind him. Without a thought, he tossed a hunk of meat he’d stuffed in a pocket over his shoulder. He almost grinned.
“Good girl. Glad you’re here. Show me the way.”
Chapter 56
As the Earth slowly rotated, blissfully unaware of the plight of its passengers, Ryan impatiently waited for the return of dawn, meditating on his mission. The fire had died down, leaving only the light of the stars and the moon. The floppy mutt laid against his feet. He gazed into the open sky, lost.
From far out of sight, sol blazed in the cold nothing, unable to keep Ryan company. It coughed and spewed a flickering stream of devastating, radioactive winds, hurling them towards Earth, millions of miles off. And as the gust of energy passed by, Earth stretched out with invisible arms to receive this gift, warming it to the core. The skies above the north and south poles exploded with purple and green ribbons of light; bands of energy elongated, becoming wider, taller, venturing south until Ryan could see them overhead. Be them gift or curse, an ill omen of death, an ejection of charged particles, a freak solar event, it had become familiar. It was the only comfort he had at this time. The sun would return to him, and perhaps, so would she.
A dim glow of civilization called from the west.
Ryan closed his eyes and thought of Emily, of all the times since the mid-west aurora’s discovery, that they’d watched it together. He felt for the wrapped dagger in his backpack. He tried to recall the features of the man’s face, but exhaustion dominated him. He had tried to push on but his body had said wait.
“Fuck!” Ryan’s eyes shot open, early morning sunlight hidden behind tree cover. The mutt began to stir. “We gotta go, girl.”
The dog wagged its tail and tossed around its floppy ears. It barked twice as if understanding Ryan’s statement. He tossed the turquoise pack over his shoulder, wrapped himself with the bloody canvas cloak. This time he was traveling light.
The wagon was abandoned.
“Where to, girl?”
She barked three times and led him to the end of the street, directing their path back towards another highway. Ryan followed at a jog, dark thoughts crowding his mind. The things he would do to that man, especially if Emily was injured, would make Charles Manson’s blood turn cold. He envisioned himself searching for implements such as a cheese grater, paring knife, or anything like what he had seen in the Marinoffs’ basement, but such diversions weren’t worth the time lost.
Ryan followed the mutt for several miles, heading in the general direction of the lights he’d seen at night. The day was hot, dry, and full of mosquitos. His thick beard itched, his arms were scaly, his legs were numb. Water went down too easy. A pint bottle of whiskey found sitting in a car floorboard, even easier. The roads ahead were once again cleared, cars pushed off onto shoulders reducing obstructions to almost nothing. The mutt weaved in and out of the trees, running ahead for several hundred feet, moving in circles, and then coming back. It all looked routine.
The dog led him off the road and back into the woods, Ryan stumbling, near delirious, through several hundred feet of thick underbrush, finally approaching a clearing. An old, wood-sided white church sat upon a small rise, surrounded by a wide pasture fence. Unlike other signs of life Ryan had seen recently, half of it w
as broken, most of its paint scoured away.
The church’s high steeple was a holy spear, thrust upward from the front steps.
The dog rushed under the unkempt fence. Ryan climbed after.
He found himself in a graveyard filled with toppled stones, and behind that, a great void in the ground, easily thirty feet across, presumably made by the idle, yellow excavator sieged by high grass to its left.
Ryan approached the hole, chilly fear creeping into his stomach over what he might find within. The dog barked at its edge, beckoning him to get a move on.
“Please don’t,” he mumbled. “Please. Please let it not be.”
Peering over the edge of soft dirt, Ryan did not find what he feared, though it was nearly as gruesome. A pit half-full of bones. The skeletons, not a bit of flesh on any, were swathed in sun-bleached rags; sneakers or boots were all that remained on some.
“Why bring me here?” he asked the dog.
She cocked her head and glared at him.
“Seriously? What is this place?” He rubbed his temples. “It’s just another grave. It’s not like I haven’t seen one of these before, the whole world is a grave! Tell me, girl, where is my daughter? Show me. Come on, girl. Show me.” He extended the plush dog Emily had been playing with. The dog stared back at him. “Come on, just try. Come on, please.”
The dog turned around and trotted off, not having sniffed the plush toy. Ryan followed after at a crestfallen pace. They passed back through the woods and came out on another primary road. The dog was nowhere to be seen. Ryan stayed the course and hoped she would return.
“Hey, girl!” he shouted, then whistled. “Come here. Come back here!” No response came. His guide was missing.
He stumbled over a fallen wooden sign painted with black spray paint near the mass grave. It read: “The gods returned to us, and we had not taken care of the world they gifted. They started over.”
The Two That Remained Page 34