Carnage

“His brother. He was followed, then.” The man was cleaning off his knife with a white cloth.

Micah couldn’t speak. His mind was too warped with thoughts of murder and disbelief. His feet kept taking him forward, toward the carnage, toward the man with the knife and his brother’s presently lifeless body.

“He would not repent for his actions. A pity. He would have made a fine brother in the Rapturists.”

This was Micah’s only brother. His brother with whom he had shared his childhood. Their entire family, turned to zombies and slaughtered by his and Jerm’s own hands before they left town. His brother was all he had.

“Repent?” Micah croaked, barely sounding human.

“Yes. Raping a fellow officer. How uncouth.”

“It wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t rape? He told me as much. Ask that girl or her family. They’ll tell a different story. Your brother was marked by his sins. I merely carried him forward to his destiny.”

Micah wanted to cry, to laugh, to stain the world with this man’s blood. His feet took him forward.

“Will you repent, Micah? Do you repent for your sins?”

Never.

The man intended to slash Micah’s throat open, quick and clean. Micah’s arm moved in the way. The blade cut deep but Micah did not seem to feel it. He grabbed the man’s wrist with his good arm and bit down on his forearm. He screamed. Micah enjoyed that scream. He bit down through the flesh and the blood and the muscle until bone reached bone. He spit the flesh and the blood and the muscle from his mouth. The man screamed more. Micah enjoyed it too much to notice the fist meeting his temple. Or his brother devouring the chunk of flesh his own mouth had refused.

The man reached down for his knife with his good arm. Having a taste for his flesh, Jerm reached out hungrily and sunk his teeth into the other arm. Crucified by the teeth of the brothers, the man wept.

“God!” Whether he was calling for help or release, Micah decided on the latter. He tackled the man to the ground, his head cracking upon the rocks. Micah brought his boot down until his brains were ground meat.

Micah stepped back, fell back onto a large boulder and slid down. He watched his brother crawl forward, rip open the man’s gut, and feast on his innards. When Jeremiah was done feeding, Micah crushed his skull with a sharp rock.

Atonement

In the boundless light of Heaven, Zophiel did not “see” Kapara, but he sensed a shadow blanketing the angel’s once innocent demeanor. His soul was somehow tainted.

“Kapara, what is wrong?”

“I’d rather not say,” Kapara sighed.

“We’ve been known each other in other forms since before existence.”

“Then you should know, dear Zophiel, that my mind does not change itself with each dawn or dusk.”

“Very well. But whether you say it to me or not, God knows your heart.”

Kapara focused his gaze upon Zophiel; with that taint obscuring Kapara, Zophiel felt a nakedness he hadn’t felt since…

“I miss Lucifer.”

“My friend. Those words are false and dangerous.”

“What does it matter? You said yourself that the words I say to you mean nothing. They are a reflection of what already marks my soul.” These words only brought more attention to his darkness. It pulsated with its own light.

“Yes, but…”

“Do you remember how beautiful his light was before his fall? His soul lit up existence, he was that pure.”

“And yet he fell. That Lucifer is no more.”

“But what if we could forgive him, Zophiel?”

“You know him! Who he was. His pride. He would never believe! Never atone for any of it!”

“We never gave him the chance.”

There was silence in the void. Kapara’s darkness pulsated under Zophiel’s eye. Kapara understood his silence.

“God will forgive you.”

“Only when I forgive myself.”

Zophiel tore open the fabric of reality and tightening it over Kapara’s form, smothering him. He wound existence around the angel like a cocoon, covering his soul completely. He existed within Heaven but hidden from everything, forcibly taken from the light and yet surrounded by it. Only God would hear him now, the angel banished and silenced.

Hindsight (revision)

I don’t know why we thought it would be safe up here.

We fled to Canada around the same time that Celine Dion and Tom Cruise were both said to have flown up here. The celebrities mixed with T.V. programs and word-of-mouth all encouraged people to start heading north. Pretty soon, the Canadian government had to close off their borders. We heard they shot anyone who tried to come across, but that didn’t stop people from coming in after the folk had it in their heads that Canada was the place to be. Zombies started cropping up everywhere after that, even the animals. In hindsight, I suppose we should have tried to drive someplace else, but it’s hard to fill up a tank of gas when you ain’t got no money.

Yeah, not just us. A lot of folk who came up didn’t have a penny to their name. And even if they did, there’s not a lot of housing to go around. Some folk tried to build their own houses, buying materials from the city and cutting up the forests. BC residents have had a huge escalation in break-ins, robberies, and murders. A lot of people have died just for some squatters to have some food and shelter. Of course, the military has been cracking down on this, too, but there’s only enough of them to protect the richer burbs. For our own protection, I suggested to Sarah that we live in the truck. She agreed.

We came up in my ‘04 Silverado. Bought her brand new. Now, she’s all dented up from stray deer and moose attacks. So far we’ve been lucky with ‘em, but you never want a run-in with a moose. Run into one going to fast and your car’s totaled. Unless you’re driving a tank, it’s done. And if you’re stranded out in the wilderness with no car, well, you’re a dead man.

One day, driving down the rode, I saw one just standing there, its ribs all exposed and its face torn away. You see something like that, it’s hard to believe at first. Your reaction times slow a bit. I swerved out of the way, lost traction and almost hit a tree. After that, it was hard to get back on the road, what with the snow and ice. Lucky for us, the moose was so eaten up, one leg barely had any muscle holding it together. It was pretty much limping at us but fast enough. When you start looking at the skeleton of a creature, all the parts underneath that make an animal tick, then it starts looking less like a living being and more like a monster: eyes filmed, teeth rotten, ribs scraping at the passenger window. We almost didn’t make it that day. I know my wife still has nightmares about it most days, though she won’t admit it to me.

Sarah keeps me sane. She keeps the night watch because she says she has better eyes ‘n me. She says she likes to go to sleep watching the sun rise, which I’mm sure is a relief, but I think she’s simply too afraid to sleep at night. I can’t blame her. I have trouble sleeping sometimes, too, knowing that those creatures are out there. But if I wake up dead, I wake up dead. Man’s gotta sleep. And I trust her to keep me safe, wake me up if anything goes south.

It’s weird we didn’t think about the animals. It’s Hollywood, I guess. We always think of zombies as being people, you know? Then again, who thought zombies would be walking around at all! At least people would never stand the cold, but all the deer and wildlife out here have coats that just shed the snow like it was nothing. I hear people farther up north have to deal zombie polar bears. I don’t envy them, though they’re becoming more frequent down here. Depending on the amount of decay, those sonsabitches can rush you up to 40 clicks. And I’ve only heard rumors about the mosquitoes in the Bayou. They say on the T.V. that it’s just one big dead zone down there. I guess it could be worse, but it definitely could have been better.

Sometimes I think to myself that we’re being hunted here, that everyone sitting still is just waiting to die. At least we got this truck, though it doesn’t do us much good with no gas. If only we’d been smarter with our money a bit… ah, what’s the use of worryin’ about the past? You know what they say. Hindsight’s a bitch.

Fish

The fish are hungry, but so are the people of Guadeloupe.

Every morning, I go down to the shore with my harpoon and kill the fish wriggling around on the beach. I don’t know why anyone was ever worried about overfishing, there are so many of them. It is as if the ocean itself were one large rotting body creeping up onto land. I wake up before the first light and there are already people fishing for the first pick. Most only have sharpened sticks or knives.  We all have families to support and protect and it’s too dangerous to go out fishing in the ocean. Sharks normally don’t attack humans, but zombie sharks have been known to jump aboard fishing vessels and take whole crews out that way. We stick to the beach, even though it’s not much safer. Zombie sharks, among other zombie sea creatures, have also been known to beach themselves in order to look for food. Great whites can catch a morning forager off guard if they’re not paying attention. They may not seem fast on land, but those beasts are pure muscle. One time, a marlin was found as far inland is Caraque, flopping around in someone’s backyard. And if they are not found twitching in the streets, some get into people’s swimming pools and into lakes and streams. Zombie fish are single-handedly destroying the wildlife on the island.

When the outbreak first began, we didn’t even think to eat zombie fish. Back then, we thought it might infect us somehow. Our fears were rational, but we did waste a lot of potential food. Now, zombie fish are part of working class survival. The morning foragers start the day by spearing all of the fish on the beach. They pick out the freshest ones and throw the most decayed back into the sea. The smell is horrendous. It saddens me to think that I used to fish off the shore here, that anyone did. Sailboats and schooners used to dot the horizon. I had my own boat, the Jolie Sirene. Used to catch mahi-mahi. I’d even take tourists on board sometimes when I was needing a little extra money. Now she’s tied at the docks, rotting away like everything else around here.

We do what we can to get by, but it’s not healthy eating half-rotten fish all the time. A lot of people have sworn off eating meat altogether. I can’t really blame them. The appetite of the dead is enough to make the living a little squeamish. I, for one, would eat them than have them eat me. It’s a constant battle at the shores, like we’re trying to stave off Death itself, like we’re trying to push back the clock just a little longer. Long enough to do what? To live, I guess.

A Story To Prepare Your Children for Adolescence

Billy always popped his zits.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

His parents always told him,

“No!”

But he  never listened.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

“You could get scars!” they cried. “One day a monster will eat your torso!”

Billy paused a moment. This was a strange thing for them to say…

But he shrugged and continued popping his zits.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

One day, Billy had some especially large zits. He decided to pop them.

And he did.

One pop. Two pops. Three…

And a monster came out of his third zit! It had horrible gnashing teeth and claws like needles. Its breaths smelled of dead babies and its laugh sounded like tortured cats blended with virgin maidens thrown into volcanos!

The monster swallowed Billy whole, right up to his hips. The greedy monster did not chew, so Billy was still alive to feel the blood leaving his squirming torso and feel his skull crush inside the monster’s jagged esophagus until his last frightened breath.

Billy’s parents walked into his room the next day and saw the crippled legs and the pool of blood. “Why doesn’t that boy ever listen?” his mother said, hands on hips.

“I don’t know, honey. I don’t know,” his father said. “I guess he’ll never learn!”

And they laughed and closed the door behind them.

Eight Stories about Ironing (Revision)

Iron

Iron (n.): a handheld device used to steam press clothing and eliminate wrinkles. Despite the name, modern irons are made with a stainless steel sole plate, so as to keep irons durable and rust-free. In modern usage, the term “iron” is often used as a metaphor to describe the process of leveling out an article or spirit using any tool regardless of whether one actually uses an iron to do so. The ultimate goal of an iron is to flatten.

Baba Yaga

In some versions of the folklore surrounding Baba Yaga, she irons out the path behind her so no one can tell where she’s been. I just made this up.

Janet

Janet hated doing laundry but she loved to iron. As soon as her husband threw off his shirt or tie upon returning home, she would snatch the bits of clothing and begin ironing. She never kissed him when he walked through the door. He never got so much as a “Welcome home, honey.” Janet’s husband hypothesized that she did this because she is a neurotic bitch with a withered vagina. Her therapist thought the same thing, though instead he told her that she was trying to gain control over her life by ironing clothes. She needed to get out of the house, maybe volunteer or take dance lessons. Janet wonders if this was all true, even the part about the withered vagina (though no one said a thing, Janet is actually very perceptive). She decides she’s going to take up the hobby of ironing more. You see, when Janet irons, all traces of her husband go away. Gone are the scent of his sweat and cologne; gone the cardboard dust aroma from the storage room in the office; gone the smells of his secretary’s unwithered vagina. Gone.

Inventors

The inventor

Iron Age

Philosophers and historians say that time is cyclical. Or it repeats itself. The Dark Age and the Iron Age repeat themselves in one form or another, as do the Inquisition, the witch trials, and the Red Scare. I don’t know about such things. I’m not a philosopher. Or a historian. But I do repeat myself.

Confession

I was taught to iron on an 8×8 inch square of fabric. This did not prepare me for ironing out oddly-shaped clothing with thick collars and obtrusive sleeves. It did not prepare me for bumpy buttons and embossed patterns. Nor was I prepared for burned clothes and burned hands. It also did not prepare me for heartbreaks and hangovers and sucker punches.  I remain unprepared for the fickle hearts of women and the affairs of men. My life is limited to this 8×8 inch of fabric and I still can’t quite get that last crease to go down.

Baba Yaga Again

I heard she kidnaps children, steals their bones and then irons out their skins to hang and dry outside of her chicken leg house. Okay. I made part of that up, too… don’t judge me. Look at yourself.

Paul & Susan

Paul always did it himself. Started his own company. Self-made millionaire. Business trips on his own coin. Ironed his own clothes at the end of each day. One day, they found him at the front of the hotel, smashed into pavement and surrounded by broken glass. His death was documented, photographed, and he was filed away in the morgue.

Susan didn’t want to be young or sexy. She just wanted her face to be perfect. She hated stubble and the texture of a burning log in the fireplace. She went online and looked for porn of people wearing masks. Her favorite was comedy and tragedy masks, but those are hard to find. She read about Paul in the newspaper and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Susan got Botox and didn’t have to worry about choices anymore.

The Ghost of Iron

The ultimate goal of the iron is to flatten. There is a mass grave – a surplus of irons that have done their job and gone to rest. Their ghosts still haunt us, clinking on chains woven from Jacob Marley’s skin. Every year, they come to this very spot, bury their faces in the ground, and howl into pillows made of dirt.

Dishes

“When the stars threw down their spears  and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb, make thee?”

“Hellboy.”

“What? God,  Theo! You scared me.” Vera hadn’t heard him over the clatter of washing dishes. The man was like a little ghost walking around the house.

“I’m sawry,” he said in that baby voice she hated. He pushed up against her. He was already hard.

“Please. I’m trying to do the dishes.” She was hoping that he would take a hint and help out.

“You can do them later,” he purred. Apparently, she would have to be more direct with him. But why did she think otherwise?

“This brewing company is messy and smelly and you and Josh don’t help by leaving your shit all over the place. Either help or get out of the kitchen! Comprenez vous?”

Theo shrank back. “But of course, ma petit tigre.” He rolled back his sleeves.

“So, what do your comic books have to do with Blake?”

“My comics? Oh. Right. That poem is in one of the Hellboy comics.”

“Do you know what it means?” They both stopped swapping dishes for a moment.

“I suppose… I figured it was that God created Hellboy. That he created devils alongside everything else.”

“Tres bon, ma petit agneau! At least, close enough. Blake wrote that poem about a tiger, kind of a musing on why God created this ferocious beast that kills God’s supposedly most precious creatures.”

She hands him a big bowl to dry. “And?”

“And what?”

“What’s your point? You always have a point.”

They stopped again as Vera thought. “I was just wondering if the Rapturists, crazy they may be…”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.”

“What? I’m not allowed to think now? Is that it?”

“No. You can think. I’m okay with thinking. It’s just…”

“Look. I’m not going to run off and join a cult. I was just thinking about… moving?”

“Moving what?” She could hear the increasing fear in his voice.

“I know you haven’t thought about it. You and Josh love this little world you’ve created, but I keep thinking about the rest of the world.”

“What about the rest of the world?”

“Think about it, Theo. We have enough alcohol to pay our way on a fishing boat, I’m sure of it! We could go to France! Or Monaco! Or Guadeloupe!”

“Why would you want to go to Monaco? Or Guadeloupe, for that matter? What’s even there?”

“Something! Something else! Why is everyone so sold that moving up north is the answer? We’ve walled hundreds of thousands of people in here who are afraid to step off their own front porches most days! You want to know what’s in Guadeloupe? Freedom! Freedom from our own damn fears!”

“Say you’re not crazy and you could get to Guadeloupe. Then what? We’ve set up a life here, Vera. We’ve got a steady income. We’ve got friends. We’ve even got a poutine stand down the street!”

“You think this is a joke?” Vera slams the plate she was scrubbing crashing into the others. “You know what’s a joke? You’ve got beer, a deadbeat business partner, a best friend who runs around the streets playing detective, and you can keep your damn poutine!” Having dried off her hands on a dish towel, Vera threw it in Theo’s face.

“She’ll get over it…” Theo mumbled to himself, but he couldn’t shake this feeling like he had air trapped in his lungs that he couldn’t expel. And all he was doing with his life was holding his breath.

Eight Stories about Ironing

Iron

Irons are handheld devices used to steam press clothing and eliminate wrinkles. Despite the name, modern irons are made with a stainless steel sole plate, so as to keep irons durable and rust-free. The term “iron” is often used now as a metaphor to describe the process of straightening/leveling out an article or spirit using any tool, spanning from tangible to emotional to metaphysical.

Baba Yaga

In some versions of the folklore surrounding Baba Yaga, she irons out the path behind her so no one can tell where she’s been. I just made this up.

Janet

Janet hated doing laundry but she loved to iron. Any chance she would get, she’d iron. Sometimes as soon as her husband threw off his shirt or tie, she would snatch it up and begin ironing. He hated this and thought it was because she was a frigid bitch with a withered vagina. Her therapist thought the same thing, though he told her that she was trying to gain control over her life by ironing clothes. Perhaps this is all true, even the part about the withered vagina. All Janet knows is that when she irons, all traces of her husband go away. Gone are the scent of his sweat and cologne; gone the cardboard dust aroma from the storage room in the office; gone forever the pine tree he brushes up against on the way to and from the driveway and the smells of his lover’s unwithered vagina.

Iron Age

Philosophers and historians say that time is cyclical. Or it repeats itself. The Dark Age and the Iron Age repeat themselves in one form or another, as do the Inquisition, the witch trials, and the Red Scare. I don’t know about such things. I’m not a philosopher. Or a historian.

Confession

I was taught to iron on an 8×8 inch square of fabric. This did not prepare me for ironing out oddly-shaped clothing with thick collars and obtrusive sleeves. It did not prepare me for bumpy buttons and embossed patterns. Nor was I prepared for burned clothes and burned hands. It also did not prepare me for heartbreaks and hangovers and sucker punches.  I remain unprepared for the fickle hearts of women and the affairs of men. My life is limited to this 8×8 inch of fabric and I still can’t quite get that last crease to go down.

Baba Yaga Again

I heard she kidnaps children, steals their bones and then irons out their skins to hang and dry outside of her chicken leg house. Okay. I made part of that up…

Paul

Paul always did it himself. Started his own company. Self-made millionaire. Business trips on his own coin. Ironed his own clothes at the end of each day. One day, they found him at the front of the hotel, smashed into pavement and surrounded by broken glass. His death was documented, photographed, and he was filed away in the morgue.

The Ghost of Iron

Nobody uses iron anymore. Everything is stainless steel or synthetic or both. Even irons are being replaced by steamers and lifestyles that can afford wrinkles in clothes. But their ghosts still haunt us, clinking on chains made of Jacob Marley. Every year, they come to this very spot, bury their faces in the ground, and howl at the earth.

Blockade (Revision)

“Wake up, shithead.” Jerm punched Micah in the shoulder.

“Ow! Fucker.”

“We’re in New Mexico.”

“So?”

“So, take the wheel. I’ma get sumthin’ to eat.”

“We almost there?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Jerm, you still mad?”

“I dunno, dipshit. Only happened a few hours ago. Don’t know how you get your beauty rest, Micah. She was human.”

Micah clenched his teeth. “Did what I had to. You remember Barbara?”

” ‘course I remember Barb. Nicest fuggin’ lady on the planet.”

“Bit by a fuggin’ little mosquito. Turned into a zombie.”

“You think I don’t remember that, Micah? We killed just about everyone in the God damned town! I don’t care if you’re the prodigal doctor, Mike, but Barbara was an old fuggin’ lady. Maybe Jaclyn–”

“I couldn’t take that risk! It’s done, Jerm! Drop it!”

Jerm bit down on his jerky stick and stared out the window. He wondered for a moment if he was dead and Hell was actually one big road trip with your older brother. Maybe they’d never get where they needed to go.

Micah cleared his throat. “We did what we had to… I think about what we did that day all the time.”

“I know, man. I know. Don’t worry ’bout it. Let’s just get to Albuquerque.”

Everything looks the same on this highway anyway. It’s all shrubs and dust. He and Micah tried turning on the radio but there’s pretty much no reception out here. Place is a shithole. Jerm always thought maybe he’d get into trouble and have to leave the state, but he never thought he’d be running from zombie skeeters.

“Shit!” Micah slammed on the brakes.

Jerm got thrown against the dashboard. He hadn’t buckled up.

“What the fuck, man!” He had been trying to take a nap.

“Blockade.”

“What? Run it.”

“They have guns!”

” ’swhy we need to run it.”

“Jerm, I ain’t dying for you. I’m sorry. We can talk to these guys.”

“Yeah, and get our asses shot! Give me that!”

Jerm grabbed for the wheel and the car swerved off road. Micah pulled it back again. The car swerved back and forth until a shot rang out. Jerm smashed his head into the windshield. The busted tire made a few thuds before Micah slowed down to a full stop.

“Out of the car!” yelled a man with a rifle. “Let me see your hands!” Neither argued. The man signalled for some of his men to take apart the car. “What’s it look like?”

“Some food, sir! A lot of bottles back here. Looks like piss, sir!”

“Found a gun in the glove compartment,” another said.

“Good work. Confiscate that for now.” He turned to Jerm and Micah. “Mind tellin’ me who you boys are and where you’re going?”

“Dr. Micah Box. My brother, Jeremiah.” Jerm waved his hand. His head felt sticky and he was a little dizzy.

“You went to medical school?”

“Yes. I’m a physician.”

“I’ll be! Guess we lucked out!”

“If it’s not a problem, sir, we’d rather get going to Albuquerque.”

“Not a problem for me, son, if you want to become zombie chow. Albuquerque’s still getting cleaned out by our men. You’re in Moriarty now.”

“And you are?”

“Sergeant Baron Mash.”

“These are privates Richard Hatch and Arnold Ball. I like to call them ‘Dick’ and ‘Ball.’ Our sharpshooter over here is Corporal Mickey Taylor. We’re Border Guard. You stay with us, you’re Border Guard, too. We kill zombies. That’s it. We need more doctors, Micah. Someone gets bit, our policy is to shoot to kill, but people get sick and injured anyway. We’d be happy to have ya. Your brother handy with a gun?”

“Handy enough,” Micah says, looking over at Jerm. “Move your hand, dipshit.” Jerm takes his hand off his head. It’s bloody but his head’s not gushing. “You’ll be fine. There’s disinfectant in that bag your men took.”

Mash signalled for Ball to look through the bag and bring it over. Micah rummaged through it and took out some cottonballs and ethanol.

“See. We’re fine,” Micah whispered into Jerm’s ear.

“Yeah. Just keep your mouth shut and we’ll keep bein’ fine.”

“Hold still, you idjit!” Micah said aloud.

“Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, let’s get to camp. I’ll brief you on what’s been happening of late.”

“Guess we’re Border Guard now,” Micah shrugged.

“Yee-ha,” Jerm said without a hint of enthusiasm.

“Keep puttin’ pressure on that cotton ball.”

“Shut yer face!”

Army

“Heard through the grapevine that you were in Iraq,” Hatch said, trying to sound discrete.

“What’s wrong, Hatch?” Jerm asked “Worried I might outrank you and call you by your first name?” Richard Hatch. Everyone around Moriarty called him “Dick”, made funnier because his best friend was Private Arnold Ball. “What should I call you, then?” Jerm had asked him. “Ball. That’s my fuckin’ name, rookie.” Ball was a sensitive guy.

“Naw, man. Ball and I weren’t soldiers before the outbreak. I was just wonderin’ about the war and all.”

“You don’t think this is exciting enough? Bet you got war stories o’ your own.”

“Well…”

“Relax, Hatch. I was a civilian in the United States Army Corps of Engineers. Sent out into Iraq to build some schools is all.”

“Schools, huh?”

“Yeah. So, what’s up? You relieving me?”

“No. Ball. You seen him?”

“Shit break. Been a while now. Check the latrine if you want.” Jerm patted Hatch on the back and went back to his watch.

“Oh shit!” Hatch cried. “Oh Christ! Fuck!”

“What?” Jerm yelled. No answer. He went over to check on them, rifle pointed in the dark. “Hatch! What’s up?”

“He’s dead! Zeds got ‘im!”

“Zombies? Why the fuck?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Hatch, move over. Move! Hatch… that looks like a stab wound.”

“I don’t know!”

“Hatch! Calm the fuck down! I’ll watch here. Go tell Sarge.”

“But…”

“Fuckin’ go, man!” Jerm watched him go, sighed deep and turned back to his post. “Fuck!” he cried, not sure what he was looking at. It was a black bag over a man’s head. Before he could raise his rifle, he got popped in the jaw. The man wrestled his gun away and pointed it at Jerm.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could have. Yes?”

“Yes! Yeah!”

“I know who you are, Jeremiah. Dishonorably discharged from the army. That kind of thing follows you, you know?”

“Who..?”

“I’m a messenger. You’ve piqued the interest of a higher power, Jeremiah. You should be proud.”

“Fuckin’ feelin’ great.”

“You have leave in three days. Leave at 0600. Keep walking west of your barracks and we’ll find you. Don’t show and we kill you and your brother. Tell anyone, and we’ll kill you and your brother. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He walked away and tossed the gun. Aside. The man was gone before he could retrieve his rifle.

“Shit!”