Tamberlin's Account

by Jaime Munt

  I don’t believe that. This shit didn’t come out of a test tube.

  It’s just weird to be so close.

  Feb 9 4:04pm

  I stopped earlier because I thought I saw something down by the opposite side of the river. I thought it was a deer, but I couldn’t have really been looking.

  I am unreasonably far from my truck now, but I feel safe.

  Mr. Ages is laying in the snow and weeds beside me. This is so stupid to be in this position—foolish. I don’t care.

  I have been laying here for three hours and Mr. Ages hasn’t made a peep. He’s watching too.

  At first I thought it was a busy body, but he’s not. I couldn’t tell by looking at him, until I used my binoculars, but eventually I would have known when he started doing things they don’t do.

  I named him Neville.

  I think the shambled, nondescript mess of branches and trash is his shelter. I can’t tell what shape he’s in because he’s wearing a million layers and his hair is unkempt. It almost looks like he does try to keep his beard at bay. So there’s a knife or a scissor down there somewhere…

  Before I saw the “camp” or anything, I saw him wade out into the partially frozen river and close his fist in the air. With fist still raised he moved back to the shore and then fist over fist, in what looked like thin air, he pulled in a fish. I saw a limb bouncing on the trees behind him, where a fishing line was tied.

  I said “A-ha” out loud, but not loud. I was kinda startled by the sound of me addressing me. I talk to Mr. Ages, but I realized then that somewhere along the line here I stopped talking to myself. I don’t know what that means after having worried so long about doing it too much.

  This world demands quiet.

  His world demands that too. He doesn’t make a sound.

  He laid the fish on a log—he must have broke its back or something. He waded back in, without splashing and let the current eat the lure. I noticed two other things then too. There was a branch sticking out of the water that kept the line off the bank and I also noticed the bobber.

  He went back to his fish. He didn’t even start a fire.

  5:11pm

  I can tell nothing about him.

  His age… his hair is mostly dark, but it’s hard to tell, it’s filthy. I almost wonder if it isn’t really blonde or light brown.

  It’s hard to even know what ethnicity he is.

  The binoculars aren’t good enough to show me everything. They show me another human who is alone. And this time I know about the person first.

  This is intriguing.

  He is intriguing. I have seen four others before him—I knew no more about them than I do him. Even with the three I—I wondered what they’d been through. How they came together.

  6:37pm

  I’ve decided to move on after Neville very quickly and emotionlessly dispatched a number of busy bodies. He propped the small bloody pickaxes, like excavating picks?, against the log where he was sitting and resumed eating fish number two—even with the corpses stink a mere ten feet behind him.

  Your eyes only give you clues. Only clues.

  There’s a verse in the bible that I can’t stop thinking about: “Take heed that no man deceive you.”

  Still I wonder, I must wonder what it would be like to find the sweetest kiss in the middle of Hell.

  Feb 10 7:56am

  The shudders have subsided. Now it’s just me and regret again. You might not want to touch this journal anymore.

  Some people would say it’s an antifeminist idea to need a man. But right now I feel that, that exactly is what I need—like what’s the point without a man?

  When the loneliness and shame subsides I can reevaluate what I need in life…again.

  There’s a lot of regret right now.

  I should have been going through this with him. I fucked up. I lost. Maybe he was my only chance. I don’t think fate is concrete, just intended. But I think odds are now that I won’t get another chance. Not even if someone else was destined.

  Fate is like Human Resources. It makes like you can go to it with your problems, but that’s only to keep you from fucking with its plan to keep business like usual.

  Neither is on your side.

  Neither, I believe, is infallible.

  Well… definitely not now. There’s no fucking HR or PR or PC or PBS or BBQ or B&W. There’s lots of BS and BO and *BB’s.

  (*Busy Bodies)

  Feb 11 2:49pm

  The freeway exit slopes deep and curls down and to the right where a Wal-Mart parking lot grabs it. I would love to see what I could find there. I was thinking about it when the dogs came. Probably forty of them. They are chasing down something small, too bloody and too far away to distinguish.

  They are biting each other and fights break out among them. They are thin and miserable and ugly.

  They’ve noticed me. Shit.

  3:24pm

  I wish I could describe what Mr. Age’s face looked like watching them.

  I might be projecting, I don’t think so, but it was easy to imagine that he was probably feeling what I did when I watched other people not acting like people.

  There was something about the feral animals that makes calling them dogs seem really inappropriate.

  They belong to the wild now.

  Feb 12 3:41pm

  I’m not gonna lie, it really looks delicious. It smells smoky and meaty. There are actually strips of meat packed into luscious looking gravy.

  I tried to be enthusiastic about the first bite, because it looked so good, but the smell lied about the flavor, which was pretty bland, but not disgusting.

  So I wonder if appetite and craving is largely based on smell for dogs.

  Dog food keeps a long time, unopened. This kind still has a couple years on it.

  I think I could like it.

  I will not be eating any with carrots or peas. And for the first time in my life I’ll get to have “lamb”. At least I won’t have any preconceived ideas of how it should be.

  Feb 16 11:19am

  I’m at a country greenhouse shop. I found seeds and a lot of other useful gardening equipment. I’m going to take the seeds with me.

  I like it here. I feel something good here, even as I have descended deeper into the world of freezing ice. I don’t care. I hope I won’t be traveling much longer, so what does it matter?

  Something almost feels like it’s saying, “What took you so long?”… maybe even, “Welcome Home.”

  Not to be cynical, but that would be the first time in my life when anything that said, “Welcome Home” wasn’t synonymous with a bad thing… at least, somewhere I definitely didn’t want to be.

  I think I’ve found what I’m looking for, but there’s only one way to know—to find exactly what I’m looking for. The nearest town is Poplar Bluff. I have an idea about how to find the perfect home. What I would do in my other life, a normal life (if I didn’t have internet)—I’m going to check the paper.

  5:02pm

  I’m sitting in a room in the Relax Motel in Poplar Bluff. Other than dust, it is untouched. The beds are made. There’s no vandalism whatsoever. Light is streaming in through the unboarded glass and I am falling in love with this place.

  After collecting and scouring through newspapers and real state ads, I think I found a house about 9 miles out of town. I just got back from a little place just off Highway 60. It was for sale and all the furniture but the beds were gone so I could really see what I was getting into, from its also unboarded windows – including a hall almost completely lined with bookshelves. When I get settled I’m going to try to adopt copies of the books I left behind. It will feel like home when the shelves are stuffed with books.

  The property is sprawling. There is a small shed and a large detached garage. The house is single level with a fireplace and a pond. I can do a lot with this place. Mr. Ages liked it too. I’m going to get a new door and boards and a new lock set because I’m sure I will have to break
in and I want to have my own keys. I’m really excited.

  I am happy. I am happy. And I feel so, so close to living. There is something vibrant in my chest, right in the spot that gets tight when you panic. My spirit?

  I am so relieved. Mr. Ages is smiling and content. He ran around like a fawn on speed, checking everything out too.

  I just asked him what he thinks. He’s strung out on the other bed. He only bothered to roll his head at me and wag his tail a little. He’s exhausted in the most wonderful way. Blissfully.

  I’m going to go jump on him. I’m thinking a belly flop will do it. I’m too excited to sleep, so I’m not going to let him either.

  I’ve got my earbuds in. I turn up Guardian Hacker’s Mr. Jingles. I’m not afraid. Mr. Ages will let me know if anything is wrong. I trust him. I can depend on him.

  Being able to do that is harder than to love someone. I’ve loved him for what feels like all time. It doesn’t feel, anymore, that he was ever not in my life. Which reinforces the theory that he was sent by God.

  I think I have actually met my guardian angel.

  And I do trust him.

  After all these nights of bio-warfare I should question if that is wise.

  Goodnight.

  Feb 17 7:19pm

  I found a travel bathroom kit. I melted some snow and have just brushed the hell out of my teeth. I feel instantly healthier.

  Marie used to say, if she wanted an instant goddess makeover she’d shave her legs and lose five pounds at the same time.

  That woman didn’t worry about “letting herself go.” She was never stupid enough to give all of herself away. She knew herself so well. I always admired that about her. If she didn’t feel like shaving her legs for five months, why the hell should she?

  I know that it was hard for me to give a damn when I wasn’t involved. Who was I doing it for?

  Only my capri’s.

  They better know how to run and hide—but I don't think they do. People like that are never afraid or they would never do what they do. Even if they try to get away—and maybe they will—I know what I'd do, but it’s because it’s what I do—what I did. I’m gonna find them.

  If all we're doing is waiting for the inevitable, then I guess what we should really be doing is choosing the best time and way to die.

  If I can make them sorry, before they kill me, that is good. Then I can do what I have to do for him, because I can't take the time now, but I hope I get to.

  I'm alive right now—I can't bring him back—so why take chances?

  Because that dog took chances all the time for me - ALL THE TIME - I can't take the chance of any of them being around anyway.

  I’m going to kill every last one of them—twice.

  It's getting dark—I see the smoke of their camp. They are in the ravine just about a hundred yards from where they jumped me. They may move on if I wait until morning.

  they may try to run away

  I can’t give him back to God like this. I can’t do anything right! It’s so fucking backwards! I couldn’t do anything for him and now Mr. Ages… he wouldn’t want to be burned, but I can’t – I can’t – I can’t! I CAN’T!

  I can’t give him back to God like this.

  He would have wanted to be buried—with his face in the dirt; with the earth in his fur. Soiled. And that – so very fucking wonderful to a dog.

  But I can’t return something I borrowed in this condition. I won’t take the chance I can’t take the chance that anything should dig him up.

  I can't do right by Mr. Ages in the dark; they would see the fire and might surprise me again.

  they’re in for a surprise

  I can’t stop laughing. I can’t stop shaking. I’m hysterical.

  Stop. STOP.

  He won't be there to protect me—he will be with me—I know he'll be with me. He's with me

  Oh God his poor body

  They aren't going to leave. They aren’t. They aren’t. They aren’t. I'm gonna make them scream and they're going to die like cowards—I need to believe God will understand. He knew Mr. Ages better than me—so I'm counting on Him cheering me on. For I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Right?

  If I face St. Peter in the next few hours and he asks about what I'd done there. I'll answer, "Hell yes and I'd do it again. I wish I had lived to do worse—unless you can stop me, I'd like to finish the job.”

  I know he’s in heaven and if I want to be with him I really shouldn't do what I'm going to do, but not doing it doesn't give me any guarantees. Not doing it leaves those monsters to breathe, to prey on someone else, which I think is a sin in itself.

  To Saint Peter, I may remind him, “God already knows.”

  As it says in Psalms somewhere:

  I was made secretly in the lowest parts of the earth. God knew me, before I had formed. And in His book they all were written, the days planned for me, when as yet there were none of them.

  Today, I'll take my chances.

  I was foraging in a gas station parking lot, checking the vehicles. Mr. Ages was some distance off to one side sniffing the underside of a camper.

  Out of nowhere—ice and snow crunching and smashing. A large, dirty, thick hand seized my left wrist and I was slammed to the ground. Something went wrong in my shoulder. His long, filth clogged nails bit into my wrist. But my right hand was full of high carbon steel and when I swung my hammer it blew out the shape of the man’s knee and in seconds blackish red started wicking through the fabric.

  He flung back like a pigeon with a broken wing, rocking and flapping near the front bumper of a little green Honda Civic. A second man, younger caught my lower right arm and twisted it until I let go of the hammer. My bag was ripped off my back. The first, the older, was back. He grabbed my screwdriver and tossed it. They were threatening me. I could barely understand their words. They alluded to others who would also hurt me. Even now I hear those words as clear as a poet laureate reciting them in a perfectly quiet room.

  The one I hurt returned the favor—his big boot jumped into my ribs, awaking the slumbering giant of a childhood injury. I gasped out a cry at the same time I was punched in the mouth. My teeth shredded the block of hand and the man made an awful sound. I almost giggled.

  I'd seen enough end of the world movies to know their intentions, even if intuition hadn’t been screaming the same thing.

  The older yanked my belt out and cast it aside while the slightly younger bastard held my wrists and a fistful of hair.

  I was vaguely aware of his penis when it flopped against my knee. I don’t know when he took it out. In that moment I heard the winding down of his time on earth.

  I knew they'd beat me more if I fought—they were probably going to beat me and kill me anyway, but How could I call my life worth living, if I wasn’t going to pay any price to protect it and the body charged to carry it.

  In these matters, the only thing to do is fight.

  Suddenly Mr. Ages was on the older's trunk-like throat—there was screaming and blood. The younger let go of me. I kicked the older off. I grabbed my belt on the end and swung the buckle as hard as I could at the younger's head and again from the opposite side. He toppled backward on his heels and I stomped between his open legs as hard as I could.

  While the older man struggled with Mr. Ages I recovered my hammer and screwdriver. I put on my bag. The older man stood, I swung up from knee level with the claw of the hammer turned up and caught him under his exposed testicles. I followed through—a swing hardly interrupted by tearing flesh.

  His skull made a melon-like sound when the screwdriver punched it.

  The younger disappeared. We needed to too.

  I ran for the truck. I called for Mr. Ages. I heard him run with me.

  Then I heard him running away.

  I looked over my shoulder, his path swung wide to a third man, a tall skinny white punk with long straggly weakly bleached dreads and a long gaunt face—his gun was trying to keep up with me.

&nbs
p; Mr. Ages' teeth clamped on the arm with the gun.

  The man kicked him. He let out a whimper—I'd never heard him make any sound of pain before.

  I was nearly to them.

  Mr. Ages fell on his side from the blow.

  He was getting up whenthen he just dropped.

  I started screaming.

  He leveled the gun at me and then I saw the blood pouring from his lower arm. I could see the fleshy mechanics of it through the rushing blood. He looked dumbly at the wound. Then he ran.

  I chased for only seconds—Mr. Ages was more important.

  Busy bodies were already there.

  I thought I’d found Heaven. I don’t know if I was too right or more wrong than I have ever been.

  If all goes well I'll be back to take care of Mr. Ages. If not, he will be wrapped in the shower curtain, in the tub. I have left a note with him.

  If he's not there and you've found this, then I'm not back yet or I've been hurt and won’t be back. If they’ve mortally wounded me, I won't die before I've taken care of him. Not if I'm that close. I won’t.

  I’m ready.

  I’m ready.

  I’m ready.

  I am ready.

  I’ve got Ether by Nothingface in my head. And that is good—I’m really fucking feeling it.

  Like the victims of NIMH. We’re not rats, not anymore. At least, I’m not.

  I don’t feel strong—after all of this, I don’t know if there ever was such a thing as strong or brave. But there has always been hurt. There has always been anger. There has always been terror.

  This needs to happen, when anything matters that much—fear can’t be an issue… or an excuse.

  I don't really expect to survive.

  So I’m leaving my things here so they don’t get ruined.

  So, if you found this I am probably dead, but please try and find me. If I’m alive, I don't want to be alone.

  If I am dead, please kill me again.

  Sincerely,

  Tamberlin Miner