“Do you know, Jack, what you’ll do?”
“Keep hiking.”
“Keep hiking. Just you and a knife and some whiskey.”
He turned onto a limestone bridge off the road. His driveway was a sheet of moist clay rutted to the exact shape of the International’s undercarriage. Tom’s house was a large brown tower of mud and straw with church windows, portholes, a turret, and a large wraparound deck. Part of the roof was covered with tarp, another with plastic sheeting and asphalt shingles and roofing tar. Gobs of black tar adorned the roof like fat little spires.
“I live with my daughter some,” he said sadly. “When she’s taking a break from her boyfriend. Husband. Who cares what he is? He’s nothing. She’s not here today.”
The motor collapsed to a halt. The cab went silent except for Carla, unwavering in her petulant growl. I stepped into the mud and Tom lowered the tailgate for Carla. Thin snow fell quickly, crashing into mud puddles and swirling around my head. Suddenly, the snow turned thick and wet.
“Goddamn!” Tom yelled. I hurried to him at the back of the truck, slipping in the mud. Carla was clamped onto Tom’s hand, teeth sunk to the gums. She stared fixedly through him. Carla was dead quiet and still, head barely cocked to the side. Tom fell to his knees. Carla’s jaws were locked. Tom’s hand crushed.
I held Carla by the neck and stuck the knife between her teeth and twisted. She bit against the blade. Her teeth chipped and shattered and made a hollow crunch. The blade slid deep into her gums. She felt nothing. I let go of the knife and grabbed her snout and jaw. I pried them apart, arms trembling, while Tom thrashed. Blood fell from Carla’s mouth, and Tom fell away from the truck. His freed, ruined hand flopped in the mud. The dog stood wobbling on the tailgate. Skin hung from her mouth. I noticed the exposed tendons on Tom’s hand. The white of bone.
Carla stumbled forward and Tom seized her by the braided collar. He dragged her through the mud to a chain-link pen.
I closed the tailgate and followed him inside. He’d wrapped his hand in the bottom half of his shirt. He disappeared down a small, dark hallway and into the bathroom. I stood at the kitchen sink and ran hot water over the knife. I soaked the handle and watched the bloody tar slide off in clumps.
Tom’s breakfast bar was covered in coffee grounds, apple skins, and egg yolk. The house had a faint hint of nicotine. Under a magnet on the small refrigerator was a picture of his daughter in robe and mortarboard, diploma clutched in both hands. For all the satiny blues and low light, she was pretty. Straight dark hair and olive skin. She didn’t look like Tom at all.
Another photo was of Tom on a Harley. Another of his daughter with her husband. He was a police officer. In the photo, she was dreamlike pretty. And the husband, with a buzz cut and puffed-out chest, was uniform-handsome.
“That’s Audrey,” Tom said brightly. His hand was covered in a deep layer of gauze and tape. “And Watts. Theodore Watts. You call him Ted and he goes mental. Watts.” Tom looked out the kitchen window. “I don’t see Carla out there. She probably went in the chicken coop. She loves those chickens.”
“How’s your hand?”
He sighed. “I’ve never known that dog to be anything but sweet,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “I know I said you spooked her, but it’s not your fault. She’s an animal, after all.”
I noticed a spot of blood already surfacing on the bandage.
“Feel free to help yourself to the shower. I think I’ll have some wine.”
Tom opened a small refrigerator and took out an already opened bottle of pinot grigio. He pulled the cork with his teeth and drank straight from the bottle. He made a sour face. “Shit’s old. Audrey opened it over a month ago. All I got.”
“Keep your hand up,” I said. “You’re about to bleed through.”
He dragged himself across the house to his canvas-covered sofa. He collapsed and propped up his arm.
“I got something for you,” he said, eyes closed. “Grab that cigar box on the bookshelf.”
I placed the old Swisher Sweets box on the coffee table.
“Go on,” he said. “Open it.”
I opened the box and carefully set the contents on the table. Folded receipts, a wallet, loose keys, broken cigarettes.
“My brother died last year of a heart attack. He was painting his fence and just fell over. That stuff was in his pockets.”
I pulled out two silver rings connected by a large piece of jagged wire. It was wound up neatly, no bigger than a condom.
“There you go. It’s yours.”
“It’s a tree saw.”
“Yeah. Kyle loved that thing. Carried it everywhere.”
“I appreciate it.” I pocketed the saw and gently put Kyle’s belongings back in the box.
“You’re welcome to a shower. Some wine,” he swished the almost empty bottle. “Whatever you want. When you’re ready, we’ll head to Hot Springs.”
“I’ll clean up a little.”
“I think I’ll close my eyes a while if you don’t mind,” he said sleepily.
A warm shower after a month of scrubbing in icy streams is a strange, welcome sensation. I relished the hot water while staring at the web of foot-long gray hairs cemented to the fiberglass wall. The water swirled away brown and thick.
I don’t mind a beard, but I like the peace and patience of shaving. I gave my razor fifty swipes on my belt and carefully scraped away the month-old beard. The straight razor reminds me of Dad, and during winter it pays to remember him well.
Dad took to the bad winter depression when I was thirteen. He could hardly get out of bed. It’s hard to watch a man give up. I went to work to keep us warm and fed. To get out of the house. The first job I had was for a wrecker company. In the winter we stayed busy hauling cars out of ditches and driveways. We plowed and salted all the roads in Quinn Valley. At thirteen, any time something had to be done outside the truck, it was my job, and by spring my hands were dry and chapped and eternally cold. That’s when I decided I’d go to college. You can’t live a full life if you’re always being told to do shit-work.
Dad lifted out of the darkness gradually. By the end of February, he’d make coffee at six, stay up until lunch, and nap until dinner. That’s when he taught me to shave, how to strop, and how to edge and resurface a blade. It pays to remember him well and to shave the way he taught me.
Tom was on the couch as before, the wine bottle between his legs. The cigar box was gone, and in its place on the coffee table was a long, fat-barreled rifle. He barely blinked as I walked into the room. Several boxes of ammunition were piled at his feet. He pointed at the rifle.
“Also my brother’s. He liked to hunt. I don’t believe in hunting. It’s yours.”
The rifle was a 300 Winchester Magnum, a big game rifle good for steady shots at three hundred yards. My father owned one a long time. He swore by the 300. He kept his on display above the kitchen door. He daydreamed of hunting elk. He sold it one winter when money was tight. His friends said that’s what got him depressed.
The rifle was plain. Olive and black steel. It had two folding legs near the middle of the barrel. The legs were drawn up and tucked against the stock.
“You can have it, but you gotta take care of something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Carla.”
“Carla?”
“Yeah. Thought about it while you were showering. Got to put her down.”
“It’s for the best.”
“Listen up, now.” He held up a single round, the slug and jacket longer than his fingers. “I love that dog. One shot.” He tapped his forehead with the tip of the bullet. “Please don’t make her suffer.”
“Sure.”
“It’s the damnedest thing. I feel like I have to sweat but I can’t. Like my skin is aching to sweat. You know the feeling?”
“I don’t.”
“But it’s all over. All my skin is aching. My right
toe’s kind of numb.”
“Hm,” I stepped forward and put the back of my hand on his forehead. It was cold. “Keep your arm up,” I said. “Drink more wine.”
He looked at the bandaged hand resting on his chest, the blood staining his beard beneath. “I forgot all about that.”
I arranged the ammunition in my pack, set the pack by the door, and took the rifle outside. I stared over the chain-link fence looking for Carla. I entered the pen and walked around the back of the house. In the corner of the yard, I saw the light yellow chicken coop with one hen awkwardly pecking around outside. I raised the rifle and peered into the opening of the coop. The mangled bodies of a dozen hens and a couple roosters were strewn over the straw and walls. Feathers and blood everywhere. Carla stood in the back of the coop, teeth bared with a scaly chicken foot wedged between them.
I brought the stock of the rifle to my shoulder, took a deep breath, and fired. The coop shook. The shot echoed. Thunder in my chest. In that moment, I held the hand of God.
Carla twitched. Her head was gone. I’d killed a dog before, but I don’t like to think about it.
I stepped out of the chicken coop and into heavy, sloppy snowfall. The temperature had dropped since morning. It seemed to plummet by the minute. The Appalachians is a part of the world no one really understands. It’s a hard place to live. It is cold, isolated, and requires effort. You really have to love the place to live there. But you can’t go there hoping to find something inside you. It’s a place you go when you know that something is already there.
I wasn’t on a quest when I started hiking. A young couple I met after a week on the Trail told me they were building a stronger relationship. After a few weeks, they found they didn’t know each other at all. They split up the night we met. I heard it while I sat drinking on a log, warming my hands in the fire. They yelled a long time. Finally, the boyfriend unzipped the tent, hoisted his pack, and marched into the darkness.
I walked with the girl the next day, both of us silent. She stared at her feet most of the hike.
“I’m taking the next side-trail we see,” she said after an hour. “I’m going to take it to a trailhead and find a parking lot. People,” the girl twitched her head, hair swishing against the nylon rain cover.
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thanks.” She clicked her tongue. “Did you hear everything last night?”
“Tents are very thin. And I was on that log.”
“Of course you did.”
“Hiking can be hard on people.”
“Not you?”
“Just walk, eat, and sleep.”
“I’ve never been camping before. I spent all my money on this pack and don’t even know half of what’s inside.”
“At least you got the tent.”
She laughed. “The woman always gets the house. He got the food, though.”
“Hungry?”
She shook her head. “He yelled at me for setting up the tent wrong. The first night. First time I ever saw a tent. Said it would leak if it rained, the tarp was all wrong or something. How was I supposed to know?” She sniffed. “I’m a little hungry.”
I gave her a bag of nuts and uncooked oatmeal. I could tell she hated it, but she shoved several handfuls into her mouth.
“How can you yell at someone for trying to learn something?” She added.
“I haven’t been hiking in a long time. It’s like I’m relearning everything.”
“It’s weird. We’ve been hiking before. All over the place. But this is dangerous. I don’t know why people would want to do this for two-thousand miles.”
“It’s a long trail.”
“Tanner just lost his dad. He thought a big project like this would help him deal with it. Thought if I did it with him we could change together. Maybe the world would work different for him. He’s just frustrated all the time. Angry. I didn’t really think this was a good idea.”
“I lost my dad. I was younger.”
“How’d you deal with it?”
“I still deal with it.”
“It doesn’t really stop, huh?”
I shook my head. She handed me the empty bag.
We came to a carved sign pointing to a trailhead and departed. I saw Tanner at the next shelter and told him where she’d left the trail. He ran after her, pack bouncing, and I never saw either of them after that.
To enjoy hiking, you have to like dirt and walking and being tired. It’s not something you do to reach a higher level of consciousness. It’s a physical activity.
The snow fell faster, it came up to the tops of my soles. I pulled my jacket around my neck and turned back to the house. Kicking the snow and mud off my boots, I opened the door and called to Tom.
“Tom, let’s go. This snow’s getting worse.”
But Tom was silent.
I went inside, the rifle hanging from my shoulder, and found Tom still on the couch. The wine had toppled and spilled on the couch and floor. I approached and shook his shoulder. Tom opened his mouth but said nothing. He didn’t even breathe. The only thing that came out of his mouth was the thick decay of death, the smell that attracts flies. He pulled my hand toward his open mouth, staring at me. But he didn’t look at me. He didn’t see me. I tried to pull my hand back but his grip was too strong. I wrenched my arm out of his hand and almost fell over.
“Tom, I’m leaving,” I said. “I appreciate the hospitality.”
Still quiet, he stood—it looked like falling in reverse. He stumbled toward me. I backed up to the door, lifted my pack, and hurried outside where the snow was thick as fog.
I’d made it to the end of the driveway, already battered by snow, when I heard tires splashing through the slush on the road ahead. The fog turned blue with flashing lights, a spotlight burned through the snow and hit my face. It was a retired military truck, painted black and white with a boxy light bar on top. Number 997. I waved but the man driving didn’t wave back. Heavy utility boots landed in the snow from the driver’s side. Tom’s son-in-law. Watts. He looked different from the photos. Fatter. Balder. Dumber.
He approached, snow crunching. His hand hovered over his pistol. “Drop the rifle. And the pack.”
Gently, I placed the rifle in the snow. I dropped the pack next to it and backed up. Watts stepped forward and picked up both.
“This your rifle?”
“It’s Tom’s.”
“I know it is.”
“He gave it to me.”
He frowned. “You say you been inside?”
“He gave me a ride.”
“But he’s not giving you a ride now?”
“I don’t think he feels well.”
“You turn around and walk back to that house.”
He tossed my pack in the bed of the truck and set the rifle in the front seat, muzzle down. He honked and motioned for me to walk back up the driveway.
It goes against common sense to turn your back on a man with a gun. But I did it. Watts’ truck growled at my heels, the tires spun in the snow. Once at the house, Watts and Audrey both stepped out of the truck. Watts immediately put me in a pair of cuffs. I leaned against the warm hood and watched as Watts stormed up the steps and into the house.
Audrey didn’t follow him, she stood outside in the snow just two feet away. She turned to me. Her hood blew off her head and her straight hair whipped across her face. She looked no different from the photographs. She was a pretty lady, smooth skin and bright green eyes, alert.
“He’s jealous. He’s been trying to get Daddy to give him that rifle for a year. It’s just one of those days. I’m Audrey,” she held out her hand.
I jiggled the cuffs behind my back. “I’m Jack.”
She smiled, “Sorry.” She lowered her voice. “You want me to loosen those?”
I turned my back to her and she gently took my hands in hers. She loosened the cuffs so they barely hung from my wrists.
“Besides, he brings hikers back all the time. He loves them.”
I turned back to her. “Your father is very hospitable. Very kind. But I think he’s ill.”
She frowned and put her finger on my cheek. “You cut yourself shaving, looks like. And you missed a spot.”
“Probably.”
Our gentle conversation was cut short by gunfire. Two shots. Three. Six. The house shook and crashed. Audrey jumped and stepped toward the house. I pulled the cuffs off my wrists and dragged her to the truck. I opened the door, grabbed the Winchester off the seat, and helped Audrey into the cab. She leaned anxiously against the dashboard as I propped the rifle on the hood.
Watts burst through the front door and fell on the porch, struggling to reload his revolver. Tom appeared in the doorway, face ashen and leaking the same pitchy blood as the bear the night before. Watts was in a panic, in pain. He bled heavily from somewhere on his neck or shoulder. It was hard to tell. Tom collapsed on top of Watts. His fingers tore into Watts’ chest. I fired and Tom collapsed. Pieces of Tom’s skull dropped on Watts’ face and chest. Audrey yelled. Watts reloaded and fired at the truck, hitting the light bar. I shot Watts.
I was the hand of God.
I climbed in the truck and dropped it into reverse. The front end swung left and right in the mud. The road was a lonely stretch of white. Audrey cried and stared out the window. Her back faced me. Her shoulders heaved.
“Maybe I can drive you home,” I said after several minutes.
She shook her head. “We came here because we can’t stay home. We came here to get Daddy,” she said softly. “I want to lie down.”
“Where were you going?”
The truck crawled along. Sheets of snow flew from the wipers.
“We can’t go there now.”
Eventually, we made it to the interstate. It was slow going at barely twenty miles an hour. The Appalachian Mountain stretch of Interstate-40 is dangerous enough in good weather. In the advancing dark and snowfall, we were like a hockey puck waiting to get bounced around.
“Where are the salt trucks?” I whispered.
But Audrey didn’t say anything. The cab was almost completely dark. The raggedy heater hummed.
Kill Town, USA Page 2