Joshua (Book 1)

by John S. Wilson

  The man knew he was going to need the medical supplies in his backpack and turned back towards his bike. As he turned, he saw a boy standing next to it. The man hadn’t a clue where he came from. He was young but tall, in his teens, maybe not even out of high school yet. He wore black sneakers, black shorts and a long plain white T-shirt. The shirt had a large bloodstain on the front and at first the man thought the boy was injured. But then he could see that the teen had dried blood on his hands and also on his face where he had accidentally smeared it on his temple and into his dyed blond hair. Now the man didn’t think the blood was his at all.

  The man cautiously approached his bike and the boy when the teen at last spoke, saying in a mild voice. “I need this bike man.”

  He slowed his pace but still warily approached the boy, “I need that bag on my bike. I’m trying to help these people.” The man still wasn’t sure if this boy was a threat or not; he tried to find out. “Are you hurt?” The man was reasonably sure of the answer before he asked.

  The youngster found the question funny and gave a trifling laugh, but then his face turned serious as he repeated himself at the top of his lungs. “I need this bike old man!”

  The man stopped instantly. The adolescent was obviously a threat and he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t call a cop, that was for sure. The man hoped he could reason with the teen and he spoke in a calm voice. “I need my bike and I need the stuff that’s on it. I’m trying to help these people. You understand?”

  The teen was becoming visibly agitated and put two fingers in his mouth producing a very loud and shrill whistle. At once, another teen boy appeared, jumping over the barrier behind the first one and to his left. This boy looked to be the same age as the other. They even dressed a lot alike. The only real difference being this new teenager had on orange and white shorts instead of black. The second one said to the first, “What’s the problem?” and the first explained the dilemma.

  “This guy won’t give up the bike. He’s got the keys.”

  Without speaking, the second teen reached around to the small of his back and from the waistband produced a large black pistol. He aimed it directly at the man and told him, “Just give up the keys.”

  The man stood there frozen about eight feet in front of the boys. He was sure he was going to be shot and didn’t have any idea what to do about it. One of the teenagers was pointing a pistol right at his chest. His own pistol was in the bag behind the teens and the man wondered how long it would be before one of them checked the bag and found it. Then he would have two guns on him. He did have a pocketknife but did not want to get into a fight. His knife against their pistol, he doubted he would win. But the man didn’t want to give up the bike or his supplies either. He realized he wouldn’t get very far without them, it might even mean his death if he gave them up.

  The second teen was becoming as agitated as the first. “Just give up the keys! You’re going to make me shoot your ass?! Ain’t ya?!”

  The keys! The man suddenly remembered his keys. He routinely put them in his left front pocket whenever he wasn’t using them and even in this insane situation had unconsciously took them out of the bike’s ignition and put them there. He didn’t even remember doing it. It was the only reason the two boys hadn’t just stolen his bike and gear as soon as his back was turned.

  The teen with the gun was becoming increasingly angry, the man knew he was going to have to do something quick or be shot. He questioned if he might be shot anyway. From the look on the boy’s face that was a definite possibility.

  He tried to sound composed although he was frantic inside. “Okay, I’ve got the keys right here, you can have them. I don’t want any trouble.” The man carefully produced the keys from his pocket and offered them out to the teens. The man still didn’t know exactly what he was going to do. He knew he had to do something though. He wasn’t just going to stand there and get shot. He wasn’t going to entrust his life to the goodwill of a couple of armed and angry teenage boys. The first boy stepped forward to take the keys from him.

  The man stood there immobile, his mind racing; he still didn’t have any idea what he was going to do. Suddenly somewhere inside him, something of animal instinct took control and he quickly rushed forward and hit the first boy from down low. He hit him with his whole body and hit him as hard as he could. The boy was knocked back into his friend, both tumbling to the ground and they tipped the bike over as they went.

  Instantaneously the man was on top of them. The first teen had landed on his friend pinning him to the ground. He began hitting the first boy repeatedly in the face, the boy swinging back at him wildly. The man knew he had to get their gun that was now on the ground right next to them. He tried to reach it but the second boy was faster. He retrieved his pistol and got out from under the other, then got back on his feet and took off running. As the man was trying to get the gun, the first boy, his nose and mouth bloodied, was able to get free and like the other boy, sprinted away.

  Before the man could even stand up he heard a shot. The boy with the gun was about thirty-five feet away and shooting at him. The first three bullets hit the motorcycle behind him; the boy wasn’t a very good shot but was getting close. The teen continued firing but now slowed down and was trying to take better aim, the bullet ricocheting right in front of the man. He crawled over the bike and took cover between it and the concrete barrier. The boy continued to fire but was now taking slow careful aim.

  The man noticed the slowly moving traffic behind the boys. The only effect the gunfire had was to speed it up a little more, most of the vehicles trying to hurry through the bottleneck while a few were attempting to back away. None were stopping to help. The man knew he was on his own.

  He zipped open his backpack and retrieved his own pistol while the teen continued shooting at him. The man wondered how many rounds that gun of his held and if it would ever run out. It seemed like the boy had been shooting at him for the longest time. The boy had managed to hit the bike several more times since then, three of the bullets rupturing the fuel tank, the gasoline pouring out onto the hot engine and ground. The man could smell it and knew what it meant. He had to get out of there now but he couldn’t. He knew if he tried to get up he would be hit. The boy wasn’t great but was a good enough shot to kill the man if he gave him half a chance.

  The boy was just standing there in the classic Isosceles stance firing away like he didn’t have a care in the world. His bloodied friend stood next to him cheering him on, “Yeah! Kill that bastard! Shoot him in the face!”

  The man knew he had to use his gun. He took his .45 and braced it against the edge of the fallen bike. Just as he was taught, he took careful aim aligning the sights on his intended target, paying special attention to his front sight. The boy continued shooting at him. The man pulled the gun’s trigger while keeping the sights aligned on his target. Everything seemed to be moving slower than normal and after what seemed to be an eternity he heard the loud report of his gun as it jumped in his hands.

  The would-be killer blankly stood there for a brief moment and then his arms feebly dropped to his sides, the pistol falling from his hand and bouncing on the ground. A small spot of crimson appeared in the center of his chest and began growing.

  I shot him! The man couldn’t believe it. Despite the circumstances, he still couldn’t believe he had actually shot another human being. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach and was sure he would throw up at any second, but knew he didn’t have the time. The stench of gasoline filled the air and covered the ground around him.

  The young gunman was still standing there with the crimson stain rapidly growing in the center of his white shirt. It was now dripping wet with blood. The other teen just stood there looking at him not knowing what to do.

  The man knew this was his chance and pulled his knife out. He always kept it clipped inside his right front pocket, ready whenever he needed it, now he most certainly did. He flipped open the blade with his thumb and went to
work on the ropes holding his gear to the bike. In short seconds, his bag and rifle were free. The man threaded his left arm through the sling of the rifle and the straps of the bag. He kept his right hand free for the pistol. He then jumped up from behind the bike looking for somewhere, anywhere to go.

  The boy continued bleeding, the front of his shirt now completely soaked. He tried to remain standing but very shortly all of his strength left him and he fell to his knees. He paused a second more then dropped flat on his face.

  His friend still stood there in shock not knowing what to do, just watching him die. He then saw the man stand up and the teen grabbed the gun in front of him on the ground.

  The man stood up and looked over the edge of the highway barrier. He could see he was at the top of a very steep hill that then leveled out into a long grassy field, on one side a line of trees leading away from the road. The man looked back, the shooter was on the ground and the first boy was now picking up the gun.

  He set his equipment on the barrier and jumped over. Then he picked up his possessions again and started running down the hill. He could hear the sound of gunfire as he did. The man ran as fast as he could and thought he would trip and fall at any time. He expected to hear more shots being fired as he made his way down but none were coming.

  He raced to the bottom and could now see a long line of trees about two hundred yards away and the man knew he had no choice but to run for them. He took off running in a full sprint carrying his heavy pack and rifle in his arms, his heart now pounding. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and it felt to him like he was moving in slow motion. He was sure he was going to be shot in the back at any moment. He made it halfway there before he heard the sound of another gunshot, the noise of the gun startling him even though he expected to hear it. There were two more shots but neither seemed to come even close. As he rushed towards the trees it felt like his heart was going to explode. The man heard a final shot just as he made it to that first tree and jumped behind it for cover.

  The man sat there with his back to the tree; it wasn’t very wide and barely concealed him. He could see around either side in the direction of the highway and could easily tell if anyone was coming. He sat there trying to catch his breath and groping through his pack looking for a box of ammunition for his rifle. He was constantly looking around both sides of the tree to see if the teen had followed. At last he found the ammo and a twenty-round magazine. He began awkwardly thumbing the cartridges into the mag and more than a few fell to the ground before he finished.

  Within a few minutes, he was at last able to catch his breath and his pulse slowed. After checking repeatedly, his opponent didn’t appear to be following. He picked up the dropped cartridges on the ground and finished completely loading the magazine which he then inserted into the rifle. Cycling the action, he loaded a round into the chamber and the last thing he did was engage the safety. He then promised himself this would be the very last time he ever left his rifle unloaded.

  Getting up, he checked again for anyone coming; they weren’t. It had been a while and the man was reasonably sure he was safe and stretched his arms and legs. He didn’t know how long he sat there hunched behind that tree but to his tired muscles it felt like forever.

  The man stood there thinking about all he had just been through and then the realization hit him like a train. He had just killed a man; not even a man but a boy. He had killed a teenage boy. That sick feeling from before returned. He was now a killer. Him! He would have never believed that in a million years. The nauseating feeling was in his stomach again and felt like it was climbing up in his throat. He began heaving and the man couldn’t control it any longer as the vomit filled his mouth and spilled out onto the grass beside the tree.

  No matter what justifications he hung on it he still couldn’t change the simple unpleasant fact. I’m a killer the man thought

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Limping along, the man could once more smell smoke and see the occasional mist of it drift across the meadow as he hiked north away from the city. The day was not even half over but he was ready to stop. It was hot and humid and he was hurting and exhausted. He had more than enough excuse to quit but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Even though he didn’t feel up to it, he had to go on. The fires and rioting in Nashville were growing and he had to put as much distance between himself and the unrest as possible before nightfall.

  Before continuing, he tended to his wounds, his knee being the most pressing concern. He had injured his knee not long after his journey began but had completely forgotten it in the ensuing events. Later on as he had a moment to rest there by the tree, when stillness returned, the pain also returned and his injuries could wait no longer.

  The knee was badly scraped and cut but didn’t require stitches. He cleaned and then dressed it and now it was hurting and becoming increasingly stiff which each difficult step. The man needed to get off of it but that wasn’t an option at this moment. He had to get out of this place. That was more important than anything else right now. His very life depended on it.

  He had also cut his forearm as he made his escape from the want-to-be killers. As he jumped over the highway divider a piece of steel rebar caught and sliced his arm. He hadn’t even noticed when it first happened as he was too worried about staying alive to be concerned with such trivial matters. He noticed the slash later sitting by that first tree, the blood dripping on his pack.

  Following the line of trees that took him away from the highway the man couldn’t see or hear another soul. He was fairly certain he was not being followed but decided it wise not to take a chance. Keeping close to those trees gave him a little more protection from anyone up there on the road that had a rifle and meant him harm. He felt more than a little paranoid worrying about snipers, but if the events of this day so far had taught him anything, it was the fact that nothing was impossible. If you had asked the man a month ago if he could kill another human being, he would have told you that was impossible. But as he had very recently proved it most certainly was not.

  The man staggered along until he reached the last tree. He looked back and could barely see the highway. No one was behind him or anywhere near for that matter, but still he didn’t feel safe. Cautiously he looked all around again and although it was against his better judgment decided to take another break while he got his bearings and rested his knee.

  He wanted to head northeast into Kentucky and straight to Lexington and knew he would most likely be walking. He first considered taking a car but he quickly dismissed that idea. If he found an abandoned car, that was one thing, but to take one from someone else was out of the question. He wasn’t a thief. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to take the highways. So far his experience on them had been more than discouraging. No, he knew he would probably be walking most the way, unless someone offered him a lift. With the gas shortages he didn’t see much chance of that either. He realized his trip home was going to take longer than he first thought.

  Taking his GPS out of his backpack he tried to turn it on and noticed a large dent in the gray plastic face and the crushed remnants of a jacketed bullet embedded inside. The unit had caught a stray round fired from that boy and was now rendered a useless paperweight. The man pulled his pack from the ground. He thought it was getting heavier every time he had to pick it up. He checked the small side pocket the GPS had been in and could find no other damage except a barely noticeable hole on the outside. Then he began fumbling through the main compartment and without too much effort found what he was searching for, a compass. With some checking, he was at last able to get his orientation and knew what direction he wanted to go, if he could get back up.

  It took a few moments but finally he was able to talk himself back on his feet again. His leg was almost completely stiffened from sitting so long and the man decided from now on to take shorter breaks.

  After about twenty-five minutes of slowly making his way across some long neglected pasture, he could see railroad tracks runni
ng roughly northeast. He thought they were probably part of the old rail line that ran from Louisville to Nashville and decided to follow them a while.

  He continued his slow journey closely shadowing the railroad tracks for well over an hour. The whole time there wasn’t another individual to be seen. The rails met a few lonely roads on his way but he didn’t see anyone or even hear traffic nearby. Occasionally in the distance he could hear gunfire or sirens but it seemed very far off now, it seemed to him another world away.

  As he continued walking early in the afternoon, at some point an imaginary boundary had been crossed and the troubles he experienced that morning were “over there” on the other side. He felt a little more at ease. After a while he decided to give his knee another short break and sat down on the rusty tracks.

  Sitting there in his loneliness, his mind turned inward and he couldn’t help but think about those events from earlier in the day and their horrible conclusion, him having to kill someone.

  Rationally he knew there was no choice but to do what he did and that it was the boy back there dead who was to blame. The teen had forced this terrible decision on him. Kill or be killed, that was the decision the boy had forced the man to make and now it was the man that had to live with the consequences.

  The boy could have stopped this any time he wanted, any time before it became deadly. The obvious fact was the man’s life meant nothing to that boy. He knew without question if he hadn’t shot the boy it would be him now lying in the road dead. He had no doubt of that at all.

  Logically the man knew he did the only thing he could do. But the mind isn’t completely controlled by logic and he still couldn’t help but feel as if it had been his fault somehow, that there must have been some way to avoid this ending. There had to be some simple answer he just couldn’t see. He sat there with his aching leg stretched out and tried to think of an answer but one wouldn’t come to him. The man didn’t know how he would be able to live with this but knew he would have to.