He Runs (Part One) (6 page)
'Maybe it's time someone sat and worked out where we went wrong,' says Man as he sips more wine. He puts the mug down and strokes Emma's head with his spare hand. He smiles wildly and widely and takes comfort in knowing that while he can he's going to be at peace. He's going to enjoy the moments of nothing at all and have a crack at being human again.
That is, if life will let him.
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Men enjoys his coffee even though it's weak and tastes intestinally pungent and he has no milk or sugar. He enjoys it.
In between the index finger and middle finger of his spare hand sits a cigarette, the tip glowing brightly, even in the springtime sun. Man watches the smoke spiral up to the cloudless sky, feels the embers climb down towards his flesh with each drag. He found a pack of twenty Marlboros behind a sack of flour in the pantry and the sound he made when he opened the packet, found twenty of the white, intact sticks, was loud enough to make Emma cry.
The first drag sent him upstairs to the bucket as his bowels loosened with the now unfamiliar rush of nicotine. His lungs burned as they filled with the scorching smoke and his head lightened, limbs floating as if filled with helium. He's smoked three since he found that packet. And that was half an hour ago.
Hound lies next to him on the step, his patchy skin looking leathery in the sun. The dog's head is turned away from Man, as though he's disappointed in the smoking.
'Life is good today!' says Man as he puts the coffee down and strokes Hound. He has to force his hand not to recoil as it traverses the rough, furless skin. 'We can't stay long at all, you know. It's been too long already since we got here. Tomorrow, we'll have to leave. I don't know about you, but to say we are pushing our luck is an understatement. Your old friends will catch up to us. We'll end up like Emma's parents. Or maybe like that calf you killed.'
A sickening feeling rises inside Man, like a hand springing from a grave. It grabs his guts and squeezes, turns them so they're upside down. His eyes glaze over and all he can see is a shallow grave, two bodies embracing in dirt, white and bloated and decomposing as worms and other insects burrow through dead flesh. He sees their mouths stiffened, lips curled into everlasting smiles. The smiles mock him and his existence but also thank him for releasing them from the cruelness of life.
Man darts forward, falls to his knees and regurgitates, brown sputum trickling out of his mouth like burned syrup. Hound races to his side, eager to see what is happening and Man pushes the beast away.
Then his head begins to ache, his brain cavity filling up with darkness, as if some omniscient being is injecting a hardy dose of eternal despair in through his ear.
Man falls to the floor, sits cross-legged and watches as the dog goes in for another look. He closes his eyes and holds his head.
And laughs raucously as though someone has told him the funniest joke. Then he cries just as crazily; he's looking inside himself. He sees nothing but a swirling centrifuge of his inner cosmos, a vortex of emotions sucking in a dark cloud, spewing lightning bolts of guilt with precision and pain.
He shakes his head, slaps himself until it passes.
Two minutes pass and he’s calm. The storm has passed, the earthquake of his soul is over. He fully expects the aftershocks.
He opens his eyes to see Hound licking the sputum with enthusiasm, as if it's the best meal the dog has ever consumed. He knows not why this is still happening. That’s what the cutting is for. Each scar designed to purge him of his deeds. Pain for pain. Blood for blood.
Man struggles to his feet and wobbles towards the step. Sees the burned out cigarette lying on dry dirt. He sits down and sips the coffee to relive his mouth of the awful, coppery taste of vomit. He thinks back to when these synoptic thunderstorms were common place. Occurred on a weekly basis until his mother took him to the doctor and he was prescribed some pills. The little capsules controlled his outbursts and up until the lights went out he was free from the irksome toll that they took on his life.
It took a while for the first storm to hit him. A few months at least. And since, they’ve become more frequent, although he couldn’t say how frequent. If only he could remember the name of those pills. His mother would always throw away the packet. He was not an easy child. He knows this. He grew up quickly and soon disassociated himself with the comforting reliability of his parents. From an early age he sought independence, learning to cook for himself, bathing and dressing himself. As a result his mother and father grew further from him. It was around the time his father started to drink every day. But as soon as those outbursts began he was delivered quickly back into their control. Without them he would have no prescription, no pills. Without them he would succumb to the mind storms of pain. He and his mother grew close once again but in Man’s juvenile eyes, his alcoholic father could no longer redeem himself. No matter how hard he tried. His father was a relic of an earlier time, a period of Man’s life where although he pushed his parents away, he wanted nothing more than for them to pull him back in. It was a time that primed him for the harshness and chaos of the New World. A time that taught him when and where to decide who and what he would trust.
He just wishes that he could remember the name of those pills.
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Horses grunt and hounds bark in a fast paced dash across grassy fields. Men shout to each other, egg each other on as the beasts between their legs and at their sides move speedily, muscular statures, hair covered, glimmering with each stride.
The riders, eight of them in total, slow down as they approach a forest.
‘We should go around it,’ one of them says. ‘Too much vegetation. The horses will struggle.’
‘We should split up,’ says another. ‘Four in there, four out here.’
‘If he’s in there, I want you to flush him out,’ says the man who leads the band. ‘Chase him to the other side and we’ll be waiting.’
‘Why don’t we just kill him when we find him?’
‘Don’t even try it! He’s dangerous. He’s skilled.’
‘I can take him.’
‘No! No, you can’t! You four, go in on foot. Flush him out and we’ll catch him on the other side.’
Four riders dismount without any more protestation, hand the reigns of their horses to the other riders. Two of them have shotguns. One a pistol. The other, a crossbow. Failing these they have an assortment of knives, machetes and hatchets. They move slowly, together in a line, into the dark mass of wilderness. They’ve three torches between them, six in total, but won’t use them unless they have to. Batteries are a rare commodity, not to be wasted.
As they crunch the growth beneath them they hear the clattering of hooves in the distance, smashing against brittle earth. Their leader, a man called Smith, is certain their target is nearby. He claims he can sense his presence. And if anyone has a right to such a claim, it is Smith. He and his target’s fates were intertwined by loss and death. Like it or not they are both bound by the laws of nature, the simple and ancient act of vengeance. They are bound together until one of them dies.
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Man is woken by the cries of a baby girl and the broken snarls of the balding Hound. Man counts to himself, out loud and closes his eyes. Slows his heart rate for what he knows is coming. Fate? Destiny? No, he knows such things don’t exist. Not anymore. Not in this New World. It’s nothing more than bad fucking luck, and it is forever chasing him. Now, in this shittiest moment, with multiple foes descending on upon him, he knows he has little chance of winning. He must try to play the long game, survive for as long as possible until the time comes to exact his revenge. No matter how much it hurts him to not end it.
Man jumps out of bed, runs to the window and peeks outside. Torch beams flutter up and down like Hollywood floodlights, signalling the big event of the evening. He counts six torches but knows there will be more. By the side of the bed sits his karambit and hunting knife; propped up in the corner, next to the wardrobe is the shotgun. Two shots, enough for two men. They know someone is here. Emma’s cries and Hound’s barking has given them away and for a second he hates them for it.
Shakes his head, remembers that she is nothing but a baby and Hound is nothing but an animal. Man will protect them both. If he can.
Hound scratches at the bedroom door, eager to join the commotion. Outside a chorus of dogs begin to sing and Hound bounces on the spot, his tail down, barking loudly, communicating with his four-legged brethren.
Man gets his weapons, opens the door and watches the dog sprint into the blackness. Man runs to Emma’s room, looks in and sees her writhing in the blankets, a tiny human form in distress.
‘Stay there, baby girl,’ he whispers. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He closes the door and makes his way down the stairs.
As he hits the corridor he ducks down, under the predatory beams of light that penetrate the windows. On his belly he crawls to the kitchen, retrieves his rucksack which was sitting on the table. In it are four tins of soup and three tins of fruit. Over the hearth hangs the calf’s leg, one he was maturing. He fills four bottles with cooled rainwater and grabs the leg. Hushed voices are distorted through the windows and walls but still he recognises them. He recognises the voice belonging to Smith.
‘He’s here, lads,’ says Smith, louder than the others. ‘I know he is.’
‘He wouldn’t have kept a baby, boss,’ offers one of the hunters. ‘It could be someone else. Innocents.’
‘No, it’s him. You know what he’s like. Don’t kill him if you can help it. That’s my right and I’ll be fucked if I let any of you take it from me.’
A grumbling of agreements; Man moves back to the corridor. Hound is scratching the back door, barking as other dogs respond. He holds Hound, opens the door and slams it shut. Locks it. They’ll think he’s ran out the back door, over to the barn or past the chicken coops. Man listens, the voices raised, the commands from Smith for his men to check the back door. The voices quieten as they move to the other side of the house. Man sees a solitary shape, a brave or stupid hunter. He follows the shape from the kitchen, round to where the back door is. The other men seem to be moving away from the farmhouse, the sound of hounds and men scrambling for their prey. They are all aware of his skillset. And they should be wary. Very wary.
The figure approaches the door and shines his light in through the window. Man creeps under it, watches the handle turn to no avail. Man goes into the rucksack, retrieves the television cord lead and ties Hound to the banister behind him. The figure’s face presses against frosted glass and in the dim light it looks dark, evil. Man quietly unlatches the door as the figure tries to shout to the search party. He sets the shotgun to one side. Too cumbersome, too loud. He feels for the curved blade and loops his thumb through the circle. The figure tries the door again and it opens, his torch beam illuminating the corridor and the savage and crazed Hound, bearing his teeth and frothing at the mouth. The light illuminates everything. Everything apart from Man, who lurks in the shadows. The figure sees that Hound is tied up, releases his own beast and they clash. Hound is the bigger dog. Man is sure of a victory. They tear at each other with yellowed, bloody teeth. The figure laughs and steps in.
Man moves quickly, a feline deadliness in his steps. The karambit soars in the darkness, like a silvery hawk, the tip meeting the flesh just under the figure’s chin. The blade penetrates up into the mouth cavity, rips the tongue in two. Man drags his arm backwards, drawing the figure off balance as the metallic clunk of a crossbow fires a bolt wildly down the corridor. Man hears a canine shriek but cannot stop to look. He withdraws the karambit and watches the figure writhe silently on the floor, desperately trying to hold his torn mouth together. Man takes out the hunting knife and places it at the base of the figure’s skull. He kneels on the butt of the knife, pressing the knife though soft tissue and bone, cutting the spinal cord in half. The figure stops writhing and Man withdraws his blades. He turns to see Hound standing proud, a crossbow bolt protruding from the other dog’s chest. A lucky shot. A lucky night, so far.
Man drags the figure inside, turns him over and unloops the crossbow from around his arm. He loads a bolt into the slide and primes the bow. The torch rolls around on the uneven floor, flashing Hound in the eyes. Man retrieves it, turns it off. He knows it will come in useful.
Hound pounds on the floor, turning his grizzled neck to chew at the television cord. Man unties it from the banister, holds the dog at arms-length and creeps silently upstairs. What’s left of the dog’s hair stands on end but he remains quiet. Man knows that if the dog barks again he will put a knife through his skull.
Together they reach Emma’s room, open the door to see her figure wriggling around in the bedsheets, her cries simmering to a few wet blubs. Man looms over, reaches down to grab her and smells baby shit. No time for such trivialities.
Using one hand he swaddles her in the blanket, ties it around his back so she is close to his chest. If nothing else he can use her as a shield. No one he knows of would shoot through a baby to kill another. But Man knows that Smith is no man. He has changed, grown wild with the idea of vengeance, feral with a twisted sense of evening a score. If Man and Smith meet it will be a brutal fight.
