Authors: Christopher Hoskins
I’d
decided to avoid the road at all costs when I chose this driveway, and with a
look to the sun, still high in the afternoon sky, I know I’ve got time to make
it in and out—through the half-mile of dense woods and alongside the
street—before darkness falls. Even then, I’ve got a flashlight tucked
away in my backpack for good measure, but I don’t plan on using it unless
there’s a
serious
emergency; there’s no way I’m about to be stuck out
here and shining a beacon in the middle of the pitch-black woods.
The
ground underfoot is still damp with spring showers, so it’s ideal for stifling
my movements. Further and further from the driveway, the trees become denser,
and their fallen branches grow more abundant underfoot. And suddenly, what was
once a stealthy reconnaissance mission becomes tainted with the snap and crack
of sticks. I try to kick some out of the way before my feet connect with the
ground, as I simultaneously swat at low hanging ones that scratch my face and
tangle in my hair.
But
where I avoid one sound, I make another.
My
movements—slow, methodic, and only partially muted—carry me through
the woods, and I make sure to keep sight of the road through the surrounding
trees as I push forward.
My
wooden stake doubles as a walking staff. It sinks into mossy, water-sodden
spots on the ground, and it gives caution to the knee-deep muck that I dodge along
the way.
I
see a bright spot ahead—what looks like a clearing and a place to wring
my soaked socks before I tackle the second-leg of my journey. It invigorates me
to pick up the pace, even at the risk of making undue noise, until the sounds I
make draw movement from in front of me. It’s the first I’ve seen of any since
parking the car, and I throw myself against the closest tree and freeze.
I
didn’t get a look at whatever it was before instinct took hold and I ducked
from view: it could’ve been a person; maybe an animal; or even one of
them
.
I can’t say, and I can barely help but peek around the tree for a second look
at whatever it was. But I don’t. I wait for it to make first move, instead.
Man, animal, monster, whatever it is, it can’t stand there forever. And if it’s
anything but a person, it doesn’t have the sense to stand as silent or as
motionless as I am right now.
But
it does, and seconds pass. Then minutes.
There’re
no sounds.
And
there’s no snap of branches or any movements from afar.
Whatever
it is, it’s as still as me.
And
so I look.
My
head presses sideways against the rough bark, and my bandaged shoulder aches
from the pressure of being pressed so forcefully against it. I lean into it
until cool air moves across the tip of my nose, and then I lean just a hair
further out, so my eye can discern what’s kept silent for so long.
I
see the backside of a person.
They’re
far away, and they’re dressed in a camouflaged green that blends with the
surrounding woods. Still, I see them there. Whether it’s the distance or just
my line of sight, obscured by overhanging branches, they look short—maybe
only four or five feet tall—another kid, I guess. I’m dumbfounded by the
first person I’ve seen in almost two weeks, and it’s all I can do not to scream
out and to let them know that I’m here: that they’re not alone; that
I’m
not alone anymore, either. But sensibility wins out, and I keep my quiet and
pull behind my barrier to adjust the pack and to regroup with a new plan.
Whoever
it is, I can’t just leave them alone. What if they need help? But, what if it’s
a trap? What if this is just bait for me? What if they saw or heard me coming
and this is one of Mr. Laverdier’s pawns, luring me in? Either way, I can’t go
back to where I came from, and I can’t stay here, either
. So I do the only thing I can do, and I
dart for the next closest tree, tuck squarely behind it, and I wait for a
reaction.
But
again, I hear nothing.
I
crane my head around the trunk to take second look, but the figure in the
distance is unchanged.
Emboldened,
I move forward, two trees this time, and I pause only briefly at the first
before I scurry to the second and flatten against its back. And again, I look
out and around, and I see whoever it is, fall from their knees to flatten
against the ground. Camo-clad, I can barely discern them from the land they’ve
morphed into, and I don’t want to take my eyes of them and risk losing them
entirely.
And
now that we both know the other’s here, we’re at a standstill. I’ve already
concluded that whoever it is, they aren’t some kid. I also figure that they’re
like me. Or at least, like I am right now—four days from now, it could be
a totally different story; especially if I don’t get to that camp, to Mom,
Catee, and to the cure I hope is waiting there. But before I can get to any of
that, I’ve got to get through this: this one person who stands in my way.
And
one of us has to make first move.
I
rummage the ground for a rock, a stick, or something heavy that I can chuck
their way and get a reaction.
I
come up with a good-sized stone. Smooth, it fits neatly in the palm of my
hand—like it’s been waiting for me all along. And with reservation, but
fueled by precious time wasted in the sinking sun, I give it a chuck to the
clearing. With a soft thud, it hits the ground and bounces twice before it
comes to a stop.
Still,
there’s nothing. No reaction at all. And it gives cause to wonder if whoever it
was, didn’t shimmy away while I was caught in the distractedness of my first,
human discovery since ascension.
“Hey
… ” I speak loud enough to be heard from where I’m at, but not so loud that
distant, attentive ears might hear.
“HEY.”
I repeat my frank salutation with added emphasis, and hope to garner a
response.
“Listen,”
I start, after getting nothing. “I’m not sick. And I don’t think you’re sick,
either. My name’s Damian. What’s yours?”
At
first, there’s nothing in trade. But then, as I peer around the tree, less than
twenty-yards away, the camouflaged figure begins to rise. I see one arm lift,
and a hand plants into the ground. Then the other. And when the two push up, a
torso rises and rises, until it stands at monolithic proportion that’s
unmistakable.
“Damian!!”
Mr. Laverdier venomously hisses my name, but I’m already hunkered back behind
my tree. I hope I haven’t given my hiding spot away and that he can’t discern
me from the surrounding woods.
“Damian!
Get over here! Get down! It’s not safe!!” His words cut through the hanging
limbs, and he’s a target for me. I reach into my backpack for a knife: one that
I can whip through the air, lodge in his throat, and silence him forever with.
I select a chopping one: its got good length and solid weight, and of those in
my arsenal, it’s most likely to sail with the distance and speed I need to take
him out with one, well-placed throw.
With
its hilt firmly gripped between fingers and thumb, I leap out to aim for where
he last stood. And I whip it through the air with all the might I can muster in
my bandaged arm. It flies perfectly and, like I’ve practiced the shot time and
time before, it moves end over end, like lightning, his way, but it misses its
target by inches.
I’m
back behind my tree by the time it hits the ground, and I hear him speak
again—from the ground, based on his muffled voice. “Damian! We’re on the
same side! I know you don’t want to believe it, but we are! I’m sorry for the
bad blood between us, but this has all gone too far. We need to stop it! We
need to work together! Like it or not, you
need
me, Damian!”
“I
need you all right!” I yell back in the same hushed projection of voice. “I
need you dead!”
“But
what about Catee? What about your mother??” he asks, and baits me with the only
weaknesses I’ve got left.
“What
about them?! What have you done with them!? Where are they?!?!”
“I’ll
tell you everything you need to know, Damian. But you’ve got to trust me. I
only want to do what’s right and fix what I’ve done!” he pleads.
“Fix
it? Fix it! What can you do to bring back my dad? And how are you planning to
piece my sister back together again? How the fuck are you planning to make
things alright again,
Pastor Dave
??” Sarcasm drenches the title that
he’s bestowed upon himself.
“I
can’t, Damian. I can’t do anything to bring them back, and I’m sorry. I can’t
begin to express how deeply sorry I am for the harm I’ve done to you and to
everyone’s families. I can’t take back what’s happened, but I can try to make
it right again. I can help you to salvage what’s left—and there’s Catee,
too. I was wrong to interfere the way I did. I know she cared for you, Damian.”
“Cared?”
I spit back. “What do you mean
cared
?” The tense of his verb choice
doesn’t go unnoticed. “Has something happened to her? Because if something
did—
“Damian,”
he interrupts. “Enough of this. Let’s lay down our weapons and talk like men.
Let’s call a truce, for now. And if you’ve still got bad feelings for me after
all’s said and done, I’ll let you take your revenge. I’ll gladly let you do to
me, what my work did to those you loved.”
“She’d
better be okay!!” I repeat.
“Damian.
Please. Just step out. We can’t stay here much longer! It’s not safe!”
I
pause long enough to consider the options at my disposal, but they’re few. As
confusing as it all is, Mr. Laverdier’s here, alone with me, and he alone has
the answers I need. No matter what, I have to go to him. “Fine!” I yell out.
“But I’m not putting down my weapons. In fact, I’m arming myself even more,
right now. And if you say anything I don’t want to hear, I’ll slice your throat
open without thinking twice about it,” I declare.
“I
can agree to that, Damian,” he says, still flush with the ground ahead.
“Throw
your weapons this way, or I’m not moving anywhere!” I yell.
“I’m
unarmed.”
“Bullshit!”
“Damian,
I’m unarmed. I’ve got nothing. Please. Believe me. I’ll do you no more harm.”
A
tough spot’s even tougher when it comes to having faith in someone who’s
entirely faithless. How am I supposed to believe this isn’t just some ploy of
his to get me in the open so he can blow my chest wide-open, and at pointblank
range? “I don’t believe you!” I yell. “Stand up! Show me!”
Without
hesitation or added delay, he does. Hands in the air, he turns a slow circle
and stops to face my direction. He gives himself a pat down, too, but that
doesn’t mean whatever weapons he had before aren’t laying and waiting in the
grass below.
“Fine!
But I still don’t believe you!” I yell. “One wrong move, and my next knife goes
right between your eyes!”
“Very
well, Damian. I understand the terms.” His words sound more and more like
someone who’s grown tired of a nonsensical back and forth, so, as much as it
pains me to, I believe him. Against my better judgment, I step from behind my
tree—my stake in one hand, and a long kitchen knife in the
other—and begin slow steps toward him. “Don’t you move until I get
there!” I order.
“I’m
waiting right here, Damian.” He speaks with his hands held high, in a symbolic
show of submission. “Just relax. Try and take it easy.”
“Take
it easy, my ass,” I mumble, more for me than aloud for him. “I’m going to relax
when this is done and you’re dead.”
Bushes
and branches claw at my legs and arms. They reach to hold me back as I push
through the remaining underbrush to reach him. On autopilot, I don’t think, and
I don’t feel. Doing either might stop me from making this bold move toward a
man who I was scared to even make eye contact with, just months before. Now
I’ve got mine trained on his like heat seeking missiles. One wrong move, and
it’ll be his end.
I
stop a few steps shy of him, shadowed by his towering frame as it eclipses the
sun. Its rays cast a light around his head and it gives him an ethereal glow
that’s entirely misplaced and wasted on his vile countenance.
“Speak
while you still can.” I’ve dropped my knife, and I’ve got my white-tipped spear
just inches from his throat. If he makes one misstep, I’ll jab it through to
the light.
“Damian,
your stick isn’t necessary. I’m of no threat to you. You and I are on the same
side now.”
“You
and I will never be on the same side, asshole!” I can’t help but scream as I
lean forward to graze his throat with the jagged point of my weapon.
“I
wouldn’t do that, Damian. There’s a lot you still don’t know. There’s a lot
that’s happened that you couldn’t possibly begin to understand on your own.”
“Well,
start talking! Where’s Catee!? Where’s my Mom!?”
“If
you’ll just put down your weapon, I’ll begin, my boy.”
“I’m
not
your boy.” The white tip pushes forward and dimples his throat, but
he stands firm. “I’m nobody’s
boy
anymore. You took my mom … you killed
my dad … and as soon as I get what I need out of you, you’ll pay for it. I promise,
you’ll pay.”