Fall of Venus

by Daelynn Quinn

  “Sorry Victor, I thought we had her,” Ned replies.

  “Let’s just go. I’m hungry. We’ll pick up that other fella on they way home and turn him in tomorrow.”

  I listen as they shuffled off. Then I wait at least another hour before moving a muscle. My joints ache with each movement and my left foot has fallen asleep. I bang it on a rock until the pins and needles sensation starts. Then I walk it off with a limp. I continue walking around the lake, maneuvering around trees and shrubs, until I arrive at the other side. It’s late in the day and twilight is setting in. I’m getting homesick and I smell ripe. I’d be in heaven if I could soak under a steamy hot shower. That’s not happening tonight though. Right now, I need to find a safe place to make camp tonight.

  There’s a dense part of the forest ahead with an abundance of low-lying brush to hide amongst. I find a small enclave surrounded by tall, crinkly brown ferns and thorny shrubs. I consider starting a fire with the lighter from the pouch, but it’s too risky and not really necessary. Those men may have gone home to eat, but they may be close enough to see the smoke. And somehow, I doubt they’ll let the darkness keep them from hunting me down when I’ve got a trail of smoke leading them right to me. Fortunately, it doesn’t really get cold at night anymore. It used to, though. When I was little, my grandmother used to tell me stories of winter from her childhood. It used to get really cold, even during the day.

  “When I was a little girl,” she’d say, “we would sit by the window watching the snow fall while sipping hot chocolate. They would even close the schools when the roads were covered and all the neighborhood children would go out and play in the snow.”

  I gazed up at her longingly, “Grandma, what is snow?”

  She smiled sadly, “Snow is when tiny ice crystals, called snowflakes, fall from the sky, just like rain. If it were cold enough, it would stick to the ground and as long as it kept snowing it would keep piling up.”

  “How high did it get?” I asked.

  “I think the biggest snowfall I ever saw was four inches, but my grandmother said it got up to twelve inches in her time!” I gazed in wonderment as my grandmother told her stories.

  “I used to love sledding and building snowmen. My brother used to like snowball fights, but I never did.”

  “I wish it would snow now,” I said. “Grandma, why did it stop snowing?” Grandma sighed.

  “Pollen,” she started, “we’ve done a lot of bad things to the planet and by the time we realized what we were doing, it was too late. You are too young to understand now, but you will one day. If people hadn’t been so swept up in money and luxuries and all things convenient, maybe there would still be snow today.”

  Grandma was a wise lady and I spent much of my life looking up to her. Those things I wouldn’t understand, I eventually did. Industrialism and pollution had led to greenhouse gases and global warming. But people didn’t stop. We didn’t know how. How do you give up the luxuries you were born with? How do you stop driving cars when they are required to get you where you need to go? People say that nobody cares enough to change. But I don’t think that’s true. People care, they just don’t take action. We get wrapped up and cradled in the conveniences that serve our lives, and can’t bear the thought of living without them. I’ve been guilty of that myself. Grandma died in a car accident on the way to see my school play when I was fourteen. I always felt responsible, even though it wasn’t my fault. That seems to be an ongoing theme in my life.

  As I settle down, I take out the jerky and examine the dry, tough piece of meat. For a moment I actually consider eating it. But my stomach clenches at the thought. No. I’ll save that for later. I try to gather up some leaves to use as a pillow, but they scratch at my face and I end up using my arm instead.

  I expect to hear crickets, owls and other nightly creatures but there is still silence. A strange eeriness fills the void where the sounds of nature used to be. I can’t quite explain it but it’s difficult to fall asleep surrounded by silence, especially after what happened earlier today. It’s like that moment in a scary movie, when everything goes silent, no music or anything, and you just know something is about to jump out at you.

  With nothing but the stark silence to focus on, I feel the penetrating stab of fear creeping into my soul. Sure, I was terrified when I was being chased and shot at, but I had the adrenaline rush to keep me going. I was scared hiding out in the cove, but I was so focused on keeping still I didn’t really allow myself to feel the full weight of my fears. Now, though, my feelings have come down in one crushing blow. I’m a lost little girl and I want my mommy. I sob quietly into my arm, letting go of my pent up emotions. After I’ve cried myself dry, I try to think of home. Perhaps it will help me fall asleep.

  I see my mother, who looks like an older version of me with long chestnut hair and sparkling green eyes, sitting on the bench in her secluded garden behind our house. Floral scents fill my nostrils as I imagine the roses, lilacs, and jasmine planted there. My father is working on his car in the garage, covered in motor oil.

  Next my mind drifts to Glenn, my boyfriend. We are sitting in a huge rolling meadow together at night--his arms wrapped tightly around me. Fireworks illuminate the sky with sparks of red, yellow, and blue. The crowd around us awes in delight and Glenn kisses me as if he hasn’t seen me in months.

  Then I think of Drake, my brother, and how we used to build forts in the woods behind our house. I would gather the tree limbs and he’d set them up in a tangled mess surrounding our fort. We would play out there until dusk every spring night, pretending we were defending our fort from foreign invaders. Then I’m back in my house again.

  My mother and father are sitting across from me at our cherry breakfast table, which sits against a large picture window, overlooking our backyard.

  My father looks at me sternly, as he does when he is disappointed in me. “I know you think you’re grown up, Pollen, but you’ve got a lot more growing up to do,” he says.

  “Well, how am I supposed to grow up when you keep treating me like a child,” I assert, slamming my open palm down on the table.

  My mother tries to quell our tempers; she always plays the peacekeeper. “Honey, we just believe that you need to think ahead, plan for your future. Don’t act in haste as if your life ends at adulthood.”

  I inhale deeply to try to calm my heated temper. “Look, I know I’ve made some mistakes. But that’s my right as a human, isn’t it?” I say. “Surely you’ve made mistakes when you were young.”

  “Yes, we all make mistakes Pollen,” says my dad firmly. “But the question is, is it a mistake you can live with for the rest of your life?” What kind of question is that? Of course I can live with it. I am having a baby. And despite what happens I will love that little boy for the rest of my life. How could I regret giving life to my child?

  Evie, with her curly copper tresses in pigtails, appears next to the table, jumping up and down like a frog on a trampoline to get my attention.

  “Auntie Pollen, guess what, guess what!” she exclaims.

  I turn to look at her, fearing something is out of place. Evie wasn’t living here when I was pregnant. She was only a year old when Lex died. She came to live with us last spring.

  “Today I am going to bring Mr. Ned to show and tell,” Evie says. Ned. Why does that name sound familiar? Out of the corner of my eye I spy something just outside the window. A man is pointing a rifle straight at me. It’s Ned, the man that shot at me.

  BOOM! A blast of black smoke shatters the picture window into tiny shards of confetti-like glass. And then blackness.

  * * *

  The sound of shuffling nearby awakens me. It is not nearly sunrise yet, but beyond the trees the sky is beginning to turn a lighter shade of grey. The darkness should conceal me well enough, but to be sure I’m not caught I slow down my breathing, such that a snail could barely feel the breeze leaving my lips. I lie so completely still that my body becomes part of the soil, wrapped in tree
roots. The sound is so near, my inner child is screaming at me to run, but I keep still, imagining that I am melting into the ground below.

  In the darkness I can make out some movement just on the other side of the brush. It’s one person, I cannot tell if it is a man or a woman, walking slowly and deliberately. I wonder if it’s one of those lowbred mountain men or if it is someone like me, lost and trying to find their way home. I’m too frightened to find out.

  Please keep walking. Please keep walking. This mantra repeats itself over and over in my head until finally, the footsteps fade away into the deafening silence. I relax my muscles and continue to lie on the ground, even though I am fully awake now and I know I will not go back to sleep. At least I can make a plan for the day. Find food. Find my way home. That’s pretty much the extent of my plan.

  Before I leave I carefully inspect the contents of the pouch I took off the dead guy. I looked through them briefly yesterday, but didn’t have the time to really check everything out. I take out the knife first. It is just a simple folding silver knife, encased in a black textured resin handle. It’s slightly dull, with a mesh of scratches over the sides of the blade, but it still looks still usable.

  Next I open up the breath mint tin that holds the first aid kit. Inside are one large and three small bandages, a tube of antibiotic ointment, a rubber band, a needle, and a short length of white thread. Fear grips my heart again as I imagine having to use this. I shudder at the thought and put the tin back into the pack.

  The lighter is just a cheap, standard lighter that you buy at the gas station counter. It has a picture of a neon green, coiled snake, with its hood spread and bisected tongue extended. And then there’s the jerky. The empty gurgling in my stomach is calling out for nourishment. Not knowing when I will eat next strengthens my resolve to eat the jerky. I close my eyes, open my mouth and bite down on the salty piece of meat. I chew. And chew. And chew. I gnaw on the rubbery dried animal flesh until it is small enough to swallow. My gag reflex almost keeps me from swallowing, but I manage to suppress it.

  I place everything back in my pack except for the canteen, from which I drink the remaining water to wash down the salty taste in my mouth. Since the lake isn’t too far back, I decide to return there to quench my thirst and refill the canteen. Carefully, I creep out of my sanctuary, peering around, to make sure nobody is around. Once I’m confident that I am alone I make my way back to the lake.

  I reach the edge of the forest and pause for a moment to listen. Silence. So I move forward, but I stop at the edge of the lake. Just like the forest animals, there are rotten fish lining the embankment. Dead fish usually mean there’s something bad in the water. Maybe that’s why the animals are dead. Poisoned water. I hesitate, but since I drank water from the stream yesterday and I haven’t dropped dead yet, I fill my canteen anyway and leave quickly. It’s not like I have an abundance of choices concerning water.

  Upon reentering the forest, I am grateful for the trees. They make me feel less exposed, less vulnerable.

  After a couple hours of walking, the woods begin to thin out. Rays of golden sunshine burst through the empty spaces between the trees, dotting the forest floor with patches of glowing light. This was always my favorite time of day to be in the woods. Mid-morning, just as the sun gains height over the trees and the light casts a stark contrast to the shaded darkness of the copse.

  I come to an abrupt halt. Leaves are rustling, but I am not moving and the breeze is nonexistent. I hold as still as the trees around me and peer around, trying to locate the sound. In the far distance, in a well-lit area, I see movement. I think it is a man, but it could be a woman. My first instinct is to hide, but curiosity keeps me right where I am. Is that the person I saw this morning? I can’t tell if he is armed or not. After about ten minutes, the person in the distance moves on, out of my range of vision. I wait until the footsteps fade in the distance, then I reluctantly step forward, slowly so that I don’t catch up with him.

  I approach the clearing in the woods where I saw the person earlier, and now I see why he was here. Berry bushes are abundant here. Wild berries this time of year? They must be genetically modified berries. Many years ago, biologists genetically modified certain plant species to grow and bear fruit in the winter. A solution to the growing problem of the rising summer heat. Some birds must have eaten from a berry orchard and excreted the seeds here in the woods. Wild blueberries and blackberries dot almost every bush I can see. There are even a couple purple byrchberry bushes. Byrchberries are very rare these days.

  Trying to work quickly so as not to be caught unaware, I start collecting berries in my pouch. I can’t help but stuff most of them in my mouth while picking, which is probably best. I can only fit so many in my pouch and I don’t want them crushed, leaking juices over everything. The berries seem to burst with the most sensational juicy sweetness I’ve ever tasted. Maybe it’s my hunger talking, but I’ve never eaten berries so delicious. My fingers look bruised from all the violet juices staining them.

  I am in my own world right now, almost forgetting where I really am and where I’m going. I’m so exhilarated by my discovery that I don’t even notice the pair of pale blue eyes watching me.

  “Don’t eat them all. They won’t last.”

  I turn, my mouth crammed with berries, to see a man at the edge of the opening. His clothes are torn and dirty. His shaggy auburn hair, caked in sweat, hangs limply over his ears and he has a shadow covering his chin, suggesting he hasn’t shaved in a few days. He looks to be a few years older than me, perhaps my brother’s age, early twenties. The contrast between the iris and pupil make his eyes deep, penetrating. The overall look of him reminds me of the crazy, enraged homeless people who lived under a bridge in my hometown. They were not people to be messed with. My instincts take over and I wheel around and dash in the opposite direction. My energy levels are at a high after the jerky and the berries that I ate, so I dodge obstacles effortlessly. I easily jump over knobby tree roots and duck under fallen trees.

  “Wait!” the man calls out. But I ignore him, refusing to allow myself to look back. He’s not shooting, or even threatening me, but he is bigger than me. And by the looks of him, he can’t be up to any good. I just keep running.

  The terrain has gradually evolved to an incline and before I know it I am climbing a very steep hill. Toward the top, the trees thin out into a large clearing. Maybe I’ve finally reached civilization!

  At the top of the hill, I gasp, struggling to inhale gallons of oxygen into my quart-sized lungs, when I spot a glimmer of hope. A small yellow hatchback sits about fifty yards away. Hopefully the keys have been left inside, otherwise I’ll be out of luck. Right now, I don’t really have any options. My pursuer is catching up quickly, but I think I can run to the car fast enough to escape. I gather up what’s left of my energy and run, but my legs are turning to jelly and I only manage a light jog.

  “Wait! Don’t!” the man yells behind me, but I’m not about to stop now. Suddenly, something whooshes above my head and I can’t help stopping to look. A giant craggy rock comes plummeting down right into the open driver’s side window of the car.

  There is no time to react. The ear-splitting explosion is the last thing I hear before I am momentarily deafened. In an instant I am struck by a wall of pressure so forceful it blows my body backwards into the ground, landing like a ratty rag doll. I raise my arms to protect my face from the flying shrapnel, only to have bits of metal and glass shards scratch the skin of my forearms. There’s a shrill ringing in my ears that blocks out any other noise. I give up. I surrender to my discombobulation and just lie there with my eyes closed.

  My mind drifts back to another tragic time in my life involving a car. I used to play with my baby doll, Twinky, in our front yard, twisting her blond curls around my fingers, whispering secrets in her plastic ear, and dancing. Twinky and I loved dancing. I would hold her arms and spin around in circles until I could spin no more. When I stopped, the world continue
d to spin and wobble and I’d collapse onto the warm grass, squeezing Twinky tightly to my chest.

  I was about six years old at the time, when I heard the screeching tires. They were so loud I had to fold Twinky around my head to cover my ears. A black pickup truck had been speeding down the road in front of our house when our kitten, Storm, darted out into the road. The truck had tried to slow down, and even swerved into a mailbox before driving off, but it was too late. The gray kitten lay motionless, blending in with the dark asphalt on the road.

  I ran out to the road and picked up Storm, folding her into my skirt and cradling her in my arms. “Storm,” I said, “wake up. Wake up, Storm.” But she didn’t. Storm was my cat. I begged and pleaded with my parents for a year before they gave me Storm. They thought it might teach me how to be responsible, by caring for another living being. But I never got that opportunity. I had irresponsibly left the back door open so that Storm could get outside. And then she became instant roadkill. I was devastated. It was several years later before we would get another cat, Spooky, but I never forgot Storm, and how I caused her death.

  Chapter 3

  “You okay?” The sound is muffled and distant to the ringing in my ears, but I can still hear it as if it was being shouted across a football field. I blink a few times and see the man who was chasing me leaning over my body. His face leans in closer to mine and there’s a brief moment of deja vu. His sapphire eyes are deep and penetrating. His lips full and firm. I have this disconcerting urge to kiss him. Or maybe I just hit my head too hard. Pollen, get a hold of yourself.

  “Are you okay?” he says again. This time I manage to nod as I take his hand to pull myself up. My head is still spinning, like a whirlwind extending down to the pit of my stomach. The trees in the distance are doing an exotic belly dance. I just need to sit and reorient myself. But there’s no time and the man yanks me up.