Z Children (Book 1): Awakening (24 page)

I moved though.
Shaking my head vigorously to clear my vision, I stumbled forward, swinging the
gun erratically in front of me like a baseball bat with the thick wool blanket
draped over my left shoulder. The moving gun made contact with something and I
shook my head again, this time, the stars cleared and I could see. The bullet
had done its job… mostly. The girl was on the floor, unmoving; the top of her
head was a pile of soggy mush. Everything from the eyebrows down was intact,
her expression frozen in disbelief. The effect- mind mush crowning a perfectly
fine face- was strange, almost a Picasso on the canvas of my Dad’s bedroom
floor.

A groan called
my attention from the girl. Mrs. Alice was writhing on the floor, grabbing at
her crotch… where her crotch used to be. The height of her granddaughter,
standing there in front of her when I’d loosed the shell, had been perfectly
positioned to decimate the little girl’s head and then enter her grandmother’s
pelvic region. Seeing Mrs. Alice damaged like that was way worse than if she’d
actually been dead. She had been my friend. I could feel the tears, hot and
salty, running down my face. I was tired of crying.

I should finish
it; put her out of her misery.

But I knew I
couldn’t. I didn’t have it in me to slam the gun into her face until she ceased
moving. I didn’t have it in me to go downstairs and get the machete, kill her
that way. So I left her there, alive, but not alive, to waste away in Dad’s bedroom.
And I knew that decision would haunt me.

***

The stupid car
lasted me all of a good hour, and then it sputtered, coughed, and died in front
of the South Gate strip mall a few minutes outside of town. I sat there, in the
car I somehow knew would never crank again, and I decided I just didn’t give a
damn about anything. I just wanted to slump down in the driver’s seat, munch on
stale saltine crackers, and forget everything.

About halfway
into the sleeve of salty cardboard, my gaze locked onto the international
market. I’d been there once on a class trip to taste food from all types of
crazy places. Tamales, yellow curry, borscht… so many delicious things, just
the thought of them made my mouth water. Course, there were also the nasty-ass
things, like calf’s tongue and fermented soybeans. The soy had looked like
someone had snotted all over a perfectly good pile of sprouted beans and had
tasted like fungus-laced, sweaty gym socks.

Movement
deterred me. I couldn’t see clearly through the big glass store front, but
movement meant danger now. So, I resigned myself to finishing the stupid
crackers and drinking soil-tinged well water from the milk jug. I didn’t even
try to think of what to do next. I just sat there, continuing not to give a
damn.

When I was
finished with the crackers, I licked at the last of the salty residual goodness
on my lips and fingers, then I cracked the car windows and leaned back fully
against the threadbare driver’s seat. The sunlight beat down on me, amplified
by the windshield glass. It felt good, I was almost a cat sunbathing, not a
care in the world. I soon found myself dozing, entering and exiting light
daydreams laced with fearful imaginings. The last time I closed my eyes, I saw
my Dad’s face, he was hugging Mom again.

That woke me up
completely, drove away the drowsiness. He’d want me to survive.

Wiping a bead of
sweat from my forehead, I sat up and stretched. I was ready for the sun to set
now, to blanket the world in cool moonlight so I could sleep for real, curled beneath
the ratty wool blanket that had hidden the gun which saved my life. I would
never lose that blanket now, now that it was my good luck charm, my security
blanket. My big girl security blanket.

That’s what I
was. I wasn’t a little girl any longer and I wasn’t a grown woman.  

I was a big
girl, living in a big, crazy-ass world.

I stretched one
more time and picked up my backpack to see how badly the toaster pastries had
gotten crushed during my panicked departure from the house. Opening the package,
I sighed unhappily. Inside the thin silvery sleeve, was a collection of
unrecognizable strawberry, breaded bits. How the saltines could have survived
intact, but the pastries look like they’d been through world war 3 was a
complete mystery to me.

Tilting the bag,
I placed a corner in my mouth and inhaled a mouthful. I coughed, the crumbs
hitting the back of my throat unpleasantly. Leaning forward, I grabbed the milk
jug handle and prepared to take a swig. That’s when I saw him in the rearview
mirror.

It was a man.
Walking towards the car. I panicked, not knowing what to do. I briefly thought
about throwing the door open and running for my life. But
they
were out
there… those killer tots and deranged adults. Grabbing the wool blanket, I did
the only thing that made sense.

I dove down,
crouched against the floorboards, and I covered myself with my security
blankie.

6

THE
DRIFTER

The road I traveled on was poorly
maintained. I found myself counting the potholes as I avoided the crumbling edges.

Five… six…
seven…

Ranger was
running parallel to me; he preferred the terrain to the hard road. Perhaps the
dry land reminded him of being overseas. He was panting heavily. It had been a
while since either of us had had water. We’d been on the move since first light
and the sun was now at the eight o’clock position in the sky.

I paused my
silent counting of potholes to fill a small, collapsible bowl with water for
Ranger and then I took a long draught from the drinking hose clipped to my
collar. I’d need to refill it soon; find a water source and purify at least a
gallon to keep my body, and Ranger’s, operational. Water wasn’t my only need.
It was close to that time; that inevitable time I dreaded. A trip into some
town, full of people, full of that dirty thing called civilization. I’d almost
rather be overseas again. Almost.

My entire life
was contained within the large, faded tan pack on my back. Everything I owned
squashed into a tiny little living space. That was the best description of my life-
a tiny little living space, my head not large enough to contain all the
memories and images. That’s why I kept moving, kept trying to expand the
horizon. Sometimes, I felt drawn back in- back to what I used to be. But I kept
moving. I didn’t want to be that man again.

Trying to find
relief. Any sort of peace. 

I used to have a
comfortable home, a beautiful wife, a nice car, but the hunt had changed all
that, changed me, down to my very innards. I hadn’t planned on breaking, on
losing myself in the landscape of central Asia, on gunning down an innocent in
Kandahar, or being blown up by an IED outside Kamdesh along with my service
dog. Orders. I’d always followed orders. 

A mandatory
psych evaluation had followed my last deployment.

Anti-social, the
doctors had said, PTSD, combat-related stress disorder, unlikely to
re-integrate into society. I’d tuned out most of the shit-laced psychobabble.
I’d tried to explain- you can’t train a person to think, eat, and breathe
terrorism and then expect them to jump back into a competitive civilian work
force. Half the people I encountered now didn’t even remember the reason we
went to war. I was antiquated, a non-entity, a tool of aggression. I couldn’t
even imagine sitting behind a desk, selling timeshares to clueless Americans
seeking an escape to the Caribbean, because the United States wasn’t the best
fucking country on Earth. They hadn’t been where I had been… they hadn’t seen
what hell was like, or they’d never want to cross borders.

I’d been on the
road for two years now, Ranger at my side. That was the one good thing about
all the shrapnel embedded in my body, the IED, the whole damn thing. Ranger had
been hurt too. So when I’d been medically retired; they’d retired Ranger with
me. He was the only thing I trusted, the only thing I believed was real. It was
a bond not easily broken.

Texas was nice;
I liked it better than Oregon. The terrain was relatively easy on my knees
here. More people bothered me here though; someone was always pulling over to
see if I needed a ride or food. They never lingered. Every once in a while, I
would find myself in an actual bathroom, faced with an actual mirror. It was
never a pretty sight. I had let my hair and beard grow long; rejecting the
high-and-tight discipline I’d been trapped in for so long. It was a crow’s nest
of salt-and-pepper and my face was heavily wrinkled and a little too tan. If my
family passed me in the street, they wouldn’t recognize me.

I was even less
of my former self now. No longer the thirty-eight year old, clean-cut father
figure and exemplary soldier. I was a nomad, a ghost. If ghosts had canine
companions.

I didn’t mind
being alone all the time, aside from Ranger of course. It really was better for
everyone. I wasn’t the happiest person to be around. There was too much blood
under the bridge to be carefree and bubbly.  I truly felt like I could
live my entire life without another minute of human contact.
If I could find
a way to avoid this, I would. I’d just keep walking.

But once a month
I had to drift back into a town, find a UPS store, and have my disability check
mailed to me. I tried to plan it right- stretch the cash out as long as
possible. I hated the occasional stays in hotels, they cost too much, but if I
couldn’t find a truck stop with showers… well, even I needed a little hot water
to rinse away the road filth.  Most times, I didn’t even stay the night.
After I was cleaned up, I’d hit the road again to wherever. The hotel beds were
too soft, too strange. I slept better on the ground anyway, underneath the
night sky. The critters kept me company. I knew it was odd, to never really
know where you are. Most folks would be put-off, geographically disoriented,
lose their mental footing. But I wasn’t most people. Sometimes, I didn’t even
feel like a person.

I felt like an
alien, like my body wasn’t my own, just a cage to keep the bad shit at
bay. 

Looking up from
the ground and the potholes I’d long lost count of, I saw a truck in the
distance. That meant there was a person. I didn’t ever feel like talking to
anyone, but I needed water and farmers out here always had a gallon or two on
hand. But just the thought of human contact sent my senses into overdrive- like
there was some big bad waiting for me around the bend and I was defenseless. That
sensation would come and go, sometimes without reason.
Just keep moving. One
question. One answer. That’s all. You’ve been through worse.
I looked down
at Ranger for assurance that everything was okay, but the dog had sensed it
also and I instinctively reached for my holster which wasn’t there anymore.

The closer we
came to the vehicle, the more uneasy I became. And I wasn’t the only one.
Ranger was now protectively at my side, the fur on the back of his neck
standing. Always trust an animal’s sense over your own. They feel things on a
whole ‘nother level. Only a noob would ignore his dog.

I hadn’t
realized I’d stopped walking, my body half-turned away from the vehicle. I
wanted to travel back in the direction I’d come. Solitude made me safe. Being
on the move made me safe. If I stopped… something would come after me. If I
settled down… something would happen to me. It would be Kamdesh all over again.

Too many
missions. Too many trigger-pulls. Too many orders followed.

Civilians didn’t
understand. They thought the episodes were triggered by the obvious- fireworks,
a truck backfiring, murder on the news. But, more often than not, it was the
quiet that awoke the part of me I tried to forget. It was an invisible stimulus
that triggered a memory, triggered my body to remember and react.

Shaking my head
vigorously, I started walking towards the truck again. This time, I
concentrated on my footfalls instead of potholes to keep myself goal-focused.
Get
water, get to town, get money, get the hell out.
Don’t let your guard down.

Do. Not. Let.
Your. Guard. Down.

The truck was
only a two hundred yards away now. Nothing unusual about it- a newer Ford,
maybe diesel, with rear dually wheels and a ‘Farm Use’ plate. Just a typical
Texas agricultural truck. As I moved close enough to touch the bed, I noticed
the driver’s side door was ajar. A length of cloth- it looked like burlap,
maybe a feed sack- trailed from the bottom of the door opening.

“Hello?” My
voice cracked a little; I hadn’t used it in nearly a week.

I could see the
driver’s head through the rear glass. The person wasn’t moving. Sleeping? The
truck was pulled over. Maybe he’d cracked the door for a breeze. I scanned the
area around me out of habit. Nothing but me and the dog. There should be
something.
The call of a bird, the rustle of leaves as a snake slithered. But there
was nothing; just a vacuum of silence interrupted occasionally by the low
rumble of a warning growl.

 “What is
it boy?” I didn’t look down at the dog, my eyes re-trained on the truck. Ranger
looked up at me with those eyes and I nodded. That was all the direction he
needed. He padded away from me and toward the cloth hanging from the semi-open
driver’s door. Sniffing at it, the volume of his growl increased. I knew what
he smelled. Because I smelled it too now.

Death.

It had a
distinctive odor. Metallic, sweet, and disturbing. Oxidizing blood and
putrefaction. Urine and shit, because dying wasn’t a clean, sterile affair. It
was messy, disgusting. You die and when you die, dignity goes out the window. A
body, lifeless and spent. It was something I was familiar with, something from
a different place and time.

Ranger’s teeth
were around the material now. He began to back away and the door opened, fraction
by fraction, as his efforts dislodged the prone man from his truck. This wasn’t
a natural death, even from a distance I could have seen the victim’s throat… or
absence of it. When the body hit the asphalt, the head lolled to the side, held
on by only an inch or so of sinewy neck muscle. 

The man couldn’t
have been more than mid-thirties. Lean and strong, wearing text book farming
gear. This guy could have defended himself, but something had taken him off
guard, caught him in a moment of introversion… or he’d been killed by someone
he trusted explicitly.

That’s why I
didn’t trust people anymore. Explicit trust would get you dead quicker than any
makeshift explosive.

So, who would
this man trust?

I profiled
quickly, my brain working through the possibilities.

Wife. Farm hand.
Child. Dog.

Dog.

I looked down at
Ranger, the only thing I believed in without qualification. He was a Belgian
Malinois, a veteran soldier, one of the smartest I’d ever met. We’d worked
together for years until the Army put us both out of commission. He had saved
many a soldier’s life, including my own, over the course of his brief career-
until that IED. Damn dog was a fighter; vet said the injuries should have
killed him. But he had healed, the stress fractures eventually repairing.
Nothing would bring back the fur on his front body though. The burns had been
too severe and they marked him now, melding into one textured continent of scar
tissue.

If it had been
the farmer’s dog, suddenly gone feral or rabid, I wouldn’t want to put Ranger
in peril. At forty pounds, he could probably take down most larger breeds on
skill and speed, but if something happened… rabies or worse… I shook my head to
dislodge the disturbing thought.

No. I wouldn’t
lose the dog. I considered myself alone, because Ranger was part of me, part of
my makeup. I couldn’t even sleep without the damn dog across my body- like we
were still in Central Asia, like there was still the chance we’d be assaulted
in the middle of the night. Ranger was at my side again, pushing into my leg as
if he sensed my uneasiness. “It’s alright, Boy. I’m alright.” His head roughly
pushed into my hand and his tongue licked my palm affectionately. “It’s
alright.”

But it wasn’t
alright. Ranger had smelled something. A breeze had brought it to him,
something that I couldn’t smell. Something different than Ranger had ever
encountered. Something deadly. Ranger turned to face the bed of the truck,
putting himself between me and the unknown threat; the front of his body
lowered to the ground and his lips retracting from bared teeth.

At once, I
realized what had made me so wary of the truck before I’d known the driver was
mutilated and lounging in the front seat. The large expanse of tarp in the bed
was lumpy, pulled hastily over a mound that I could not place. It wasn’t a hay
bale, farm tools, produce. Just a mountain range of smallish peaks.

The hairs on the
back of my stood up and my pulse quickened. I breathed deeply several times,
forcing my heart rate to slow. Gross motor skills took over as I dropped my
pack and deftly pulled out a tan spray-painted pistol. Chambering a round, I
motioned for Ranger to move back and I began to inch towards the tailgate. Fear
was there, like a sour taste in my mouth; fear was always there, but I’d learned
to channel it through years of training and experience. I also wanted to stay
alive. Mortality was a fierce motivator.

The tarp in the
back of the truck moved minutely. If I hadn’t been focusing on the dark green
material, I would have missed it. I didn’t know what waited for me beneath, but
my gut said it was bad news.

My trigger
finger itched, but I knew from experience- confirm before the kill. I’d watched
innocents fall too many times. Finding the tailgate latch, I pulled upwards and
was greeted by a click. I let the gate fall noisily downwards, wanting to
startle whatever was in the truck bed. I expected the farmer’s dog, or a
full-grown murderer, or an animal. I expected something that made sense. So I
brought my right arm up to take the brunt of the assault I knew was coming, gun
ready in my hand, mind ready to see details quickly and be decisive.