Bitterwater Tales

The Bird – Part 03

I had a bro who got a bottle to the head once. It cut him clear to the skull, leaving his scalping hanging off his head like some bloody hairy mat.  It never healed right and to this day he’s got a wicked looking bald patch on his head.

I dodged the dude’s wild swing and he comes at me again with all the energy in the world. He’s a drunk, but he’s fast. His breath comes out labored and reeking of rotting teeth and cheap vodka.  He slams into me and we go crashing into the wall.

The bottle smashes against the wall and he proceeds to try to pummel the shit out of me. Fists are something I can handle. When someone comes at you with a weapon, those are different times, but when it’s down to fisticuffs, I’m all in.

I grab the guy around the neck and begin punching him. Again and again.. He’s weak now, barely swinging and there’s blood all over my hand.

He’s till fighting though, he kicks and my shin rings out with pain. I let him go and he comes back with a solid punch to my ribs. Then he’s on top of me, like some crazy monkey, tearing at my hair and screaming at the top of his lungs. He wraps his arms around my neck and tries to choke the life out of me.

I do what I gotta do and throw myself onto my back. There’s no wall to stop me, but the shrine of vodka bottles are a cushion. I hear the crash and crunch of glass bottles and I hear the dude give a little gasp of pain. His arms loosen around my neck and I roll off quickly

My neck’s hurting and my head’s aching from where he was puling my hair, but when I look down at the dude I see he’s got it worse.  A dozen shattered vodka bottles stopped his fall and I’m pretty sure plenty of them didn’t break cleanly. There’s blood pumping on the dirty floor and I’m getting butterflies in the stomach.

I just did something fucked up. I killed him.

Those words are like a sledgehammer to the head. No other thought can come into my brain, no other image besides that poor fucker lying in a pool of his own blood, vodka bottles embedded in his back and into places I don’t even want to know.

I do the only thing I can do. I freak out and run.

There ain’t nobody in the halls when I tear through. I suppose if they hear yelling screaming and fighting, sticking to their own business is the safest thing to do. I race to my car, jump in, and get the fuck out of dodge.

I get back to my apartment and polish of three cans of cheap beer in a minute before I’m feeling a little calmer.

The scene replays itself in my head, instant slow mo, high def kind of imagery. I can see the guy being torn up by the bottles, I can hear his heart beating slower and slower, until it finally stops. I can almost see that last breath coming out of his lungs.

I drink more and shakily head to my bedroom.

As I’m heading to the sack, I hear a tapping on my patio door. At first I try to ignore it, but it gets louder. I walk to the patio door and sitting outside it is the big ass bird. It’s looking at me with those big black eyes and bobbing it’s head.

I’m heading toward drunk, but the thought of what the bird is worth is still in my head. I open the door and the bird walks in as if it knows the drill.

“Hey birdie.” I say.

“Hello, Nicholas,” the bird says.

I stare at the bird, I guess it’s the talking kind of bird. More money in those?

“Good birdie.”

“Your gift to this world shall be death,” the bird says.

I stare at the bird and I freak the hell out.

The Bird – Part 02

The dude’s a drunk and I don’t make jack selling booze to loser hipster college kids and degenerate dickwads. It ain’t a difficult decision to come to. I need to eat and this guy’s got something he probably stole from some other bastard. I figure it’s going to a good cause, maybe a new car… or rent.

The dude doesn’t come back for almost a week.

I watch as he pedals up, the big bird sitting on his shoulder, it’s beaky face near the guy’s ear as if it’s telling him something. I wonder if those birds can be taught to mimic words, there was this girl I used to date who’s ma had a parrot that could do that. Annoying little fucker.

The dude comes in, looking just as bad as he did the last time. Now he’s got a bit of reek on him, guess being a drunk means bad hygiene. The bird’s looking neat and clean though, bright feathers, bright eyes, and big as all hell. It’s got a big beak and I wonder how hard it can bite. Is the thing attached to the guy? I shake my head; it’s just a bird.

“Hey, dude. How’s it going?” I ask when he sets the crumpled bills and cheap bottle on the table.

He just looks at me, blank look and wafting that sour smell.

“Hot out, ain’t it?” I say, scanning the bottle.  “How’s the bird handling the heat?”

No answer. The bird’s looking at me though, it’s head bobbing up and down.

“Yeah, bro. Have a good day.”

“The fuck was that?” Roger asks.

“Just being nice to the guy.”

Roger laughs.

Finding out where someone lives isn’t all that hard. Especially when that someone’s got a big ass bird perched on their shoulder all the time. I ask around in a few spots and some of the local bottom dwellers know the guy, they point out where he lives and it’s all golden after that.

The place is a shithole, but then again the way I figure it, the drunken bastard ain’t living it up in some mansion. He’s poor, he’s a drunk, therefore he’s got to be living in some squalid pit.  The place smells like a barn, piss and shit, it’s got a haze of meth in the air and dogs barking from behind cardboard thin doors.

I get to Sebastian’s place and the door is ajar. I can hear someone talking inside so I chill in the hallway for a bit. The talking gets frantic and I can hear Sebastian yelling, nonsense words.  Those are the first words I’ve heard from the guy since I began working at the liquor store.

I figure I should leave then and there, but I hang around for a bit, listening. He’s yelling at someone and going on about death, damnation, and forgiveness. I didn’t figure him for a church going fellow, but I’ve seen stranger.

Things go quiet after a bit and I stand at the door, waiting for anything. Then I hear a noise. Snoring.

The door opens easily and I walk into a small cramped studio apartment. The room reeks of old booze, sweat, and there’s trash all over the place, in one corner there looks to be a small shrine dedicated the memory of all the previous consumed bottles of cheap vodka.

Sebastian’s lying in the middle of the room, like he’s the axis on which all the trash in the room circulate. I spot the bird sitting on a peeling counter top. It’s big eyes stare at me as I pick my way across the trash. Sebastian’s snoring up a storm, half drunk bottle cradled in the crook of his arm. He’s going nowhere fast.

“Hey, there little buddy. You and me, we’re going to make some money.” I offer up my arm to the bird and it just looks at me.

Of course the damn thing won’t cooperate. So, I grab it and tuck it under my arm. The bird’s heavier than I thought. As I make my way to the door, the bird gives out a squawk that drps me to my knees.

It’s like knives are shoved into my brain and set on fire. I yelling out clutching my head and collapsing in a heap on the trash covered floor. The bird hops away, feather ruffling and still squawking.

I look up to see Sebastian standing above me, crazy eyed look and  holding the bottle by the neck, ready to bash my head in.

THE BIRD – PART 03

The Bird

By: Alex Claw

Roger and I tended to share the same shift at the store.  Spending near nine hours a day with someone tends to make them your friend, Roger was a good enough fellow, a bit too book smart, a bit too up in his head, and a little too faggy when it came to manning up and doing shit. I guess that’s what you get when you grow up in a white collared suburban hellhole.

We were working one night, Roger in the back hauling stock and I out front, manning the register, when this dude comes in. You see these guys every now and then, they’re not complete bums or lowlifes, but they’re folk who can’t seem to get their shit together and have that look of near homeless wafting about them.  This dude had that look, his clothes were rumpled, his eyes red rimmed, and his face had that dull blank look of someone who’s hung over and needs more drink in him.

I never know how these dudes do it, but they see to always have enough cash on hand to buy a bottle of something everyday. This dude, his name was Sebastian, was a regular and every other day he’d come in with enough cash to buy a cheap bottle of vodka and then head off. What se t him apart from all the other bottom dwellers I see often in the liquor store, is that he had this bird with him, a big blue bird that perched on his shoulder.

The damn thing was always there; it’s blue head moving about all slow like and yellow-rimmed eyes staring at everything. I don’t know where the dude got the bird from, but every time he came into the store it’d be perched on his shoulder, looking at everything.

Sebastian set his bottle on the counter and beside it tossed a few crumpled bills and a lot of coins. His hands were shaking and he was a looking a bit on edge, these guys were always on edge, their buzz wears off and they need more in them.

“Big nigh, huh?” I ask, scanning the bottle and scooping up the change.

The dude never talks, not even the stupid small talk we’re told to say. The big blue bird stares at me, those black beady eyes reflecting the neon lights from the beer signs and florescent lights overhead.

I hand back a dime and the bottle and the guy’s  out of the store like he’s being chased.  I watch him as he hobbles on his bike and pedals away, the bird on his shoulder bobbing up and down, looking like some kind of bike pirate.

“Hey, Nicky.” Roger says. “That your buddy Sebastian?”

Roger’s hauling a case of Johnny and I figure trying to punch him in the nuts there isn’t the best move.

“Yeah, yeah, and his little birdy buddy.” I snap back.  “Bet the little fucker tastes good in some BBQ sauce.”

Roger sets the case on the counter and begins setting out bottles. “Dude, you ever get your hands on a bird like that, better you sell it than eat it.”  He says.

“Oh, yeah? Those little fuckers go for a penny?”

“I looked it up a few days back, but that bird that he’s got is a rare kind. They call it what they call a Hyacinthine Macaw.”

“The hell?”

“Hyacinthine Macaw. They’re these rare ass birds from South America. They go for a nice handful of cash.”

“Oh, yeah? How much?”

“Ten grand or more.”

My jaw near drops. “No shit? For a fucking bird?”

“Yup. Don’t know how that dude got it, but from what I can tell, it’s a Hyacinthine Macaw and they go for a lot of cash.”

I look out the store window, down the street and shake my head.

“These drunk got all the luck.”

Roger laughs and sets out bottles of hooch.

That’s when I decide to steal the bird.

THE BIRD – PART 02

The Band – Part 03

“Inorganic, non sentient.”

“Sobal and Sift are on it.”

I can hear another woman praying, a staccato patter of words as her hands dance across the control board, her brother’s out there.  I feel for her and grip my beads harder. The gods might hear and they might bless the day or they might choose to ignore it. That was their.

The room was filled with deathly silence as the minutes stretched on. Out in the cold dark of space, there would be fighting, there would be fighters flashing through radiation, asteroids, and dodging particle weapons, the contrails of exhaust and heat, the flash of kinetic energy trails.

“Contact eliminated.”  There is a sigh of relief. “Sift’s kill.”

I rub my eyes and look at the scans once more. There is nothing out there, except our ships, our fighters.  I run my fingers through the charm once more, this is the moment I always fear. This decision that always make me wake in the night wondering if I have done wrong.

“I’m labeling it clear. Get the other ships down.” I say.

The women nod once again, solemnly this time. Their children and loved ones are on those ships.  If I’m wrong, they’ll all be dead.

I can’t be wrong.

“Ships are landing.  Fighters are on standard patrol. Everything looking quiet.”

I nod and stand up straight again. “We’ll rotate in thirty.”

Our ship never lands, too much depends upon the scanners and readers.  We’ll stay up while the rest of the band settles down, grabs resources, fast grows some greens and proteins, then we’ll move again. It’s never too safe to stay in one place, there is the organic that was killed, and they’ll be more of them out there.  There always is.

I settle down before one of the scanners and watch as my loved ones settle down upon the planet. Peace and plenty for now.

The Band – Part 02

“Get someone on those prints,” I tell the women.

There was something out there, hiding, waiting, ready to attack.  I shivered slightly; knowing in moments one of the men might die.

“Jestin is tracking.” A tech announces again. I close my eyes.  The head tracker and warrior, of course he’ll go first.  I send a prayer out, for the safety of my husband.

“Torren is breaking off, he’s following Jestin.” I feel that cold feeling. Why? He had nothing to prove, he is already seasoned and his father does not need his help.  I cast a desperate look at the scans; they’re coming slow and unsteady. Too much interference, too much rock in orbit, too much radiation, too much dust.  We need to get high up, out of the plane, but to do that is to broadcast our presence.

Stay in the rocks, keep low, live.

“Contact. Jestin and Torren are in contact.”

“Type?”

“Organics.”  I clench the beaded charm.  Organics, thinkers and creatures that aren’t human.  They are always ready to fight.  They have tech and they are not unorganized.  One in the area means there might be more.  Some can be scared off on occasion, a show of force, but I know this is not one of those. I pray.

“Status on the others?” I asked, forcing my sight from the scanners.  They will be fine, they will kill this creature. I can only hope.

“Nothing. They’re reporting there’s nothing, the moon seems clear.”

“Jestin reporting.  They’ve killed the organic.  Torren’s kill.”  I see the way the young tech smiles. Torren’s her man now; I’ll have to speak with her mother. Arrange something; gifts, food, and weapons, those are always welcome

I let go of the charm and stand up straight. “Status?”

“Light damage to the fighters.  Nothing that can’t be fixed.”  Repairs are always difficult, there is never enough parts, there is never enough resources.

“Jestin’s saying we can salvage the organic’s ship.”   I nod.

“Tell him to bring it in.” Waste not want not.

“Get the men down there, double check it, clear anything out.”  The women on the bridge nod quietly, they are all tired, they are all worn and they want to be with their men and their children.

“Contact.” The cry comes out.

I grip the beaded charm once more and my eyes fall upon the scan readouts, fear pounding through me.

THE BAND – PART 03

The Band

By: Alex Claw

Humanity had spent the last ten thousand years thinking they were the top of the food chain, that their weapons and their thinking ability was unmatched.  They had assumed that they were at the top, they assumed that nothing could hurt them.

That myth was shattered when mankind attempted to settle the vastness of space.

One thing we did not know, one thing that never crossed out mind, was that in space, we are at the bottom of the food chain.

Space is not lifeless.  It is not empty.  It is filled with species and creatures that defy what we think of as life.  We had assumed biological, organic, food eater, air breather. We were wrong and we suffered for it. There are great things to fear in the darkness of space, terrible things that the mind of humans cannot comprehend.

We had thought we were gods. We had thought we knew what made the universe move and how to control it. Our arrogance blinded us and our world was scoured because of it.

Our ships pull into orbit around the dull red moon. We are hungry, we are scared, and we flood the space with our scan waves.  We cannot be too careful now; we have already lost fifteen in the last three months.

Our band is only two hundred strong, three small ships that hold all the life, the seed, and the knowledge that we have brought from the end of the mother planet.  We are not the only ones to remain, there are other bands out there, but we haven’t seen any in years.  We are alone now, we are on our own, and space is not filled with friendly creatures.

I stand upon the bridge, my fingers drumming the side of the monitor, staring at the scan read outs, holding the charm hanging from my neck. My husband and my son are out there, the vanguard of men sent to clear the way, to fight whatever is out there. There’s always something out there.

A sensor begins chiming and I feel that cold pit in my stomach, fear pulsing hard and strong. It makes me sick and weak, but I am used to it, now it’s the sign that I’m still alive, that there is more to fear out there than this.

“We’ve got prints.”  A tech calls out. She is young and her children are hidden on the other two ships, waiting in the darkness, hidden by nets and ghosts. Usually they managed to keep them safe.  I look at the beacon monitor.  My husband, my son. The only ones left.

“Arm what we’ve got,” I say.

THE BAND – PART 02

What The World Hasn’t Taken – Part 04

I was the better tracker and hunter, but he was the better fighter.  He came at me, fast and vicious.  Instinct and muscle memory kicked in. flashes of memories of the days he had spent teaching me to use the knife, teaching me to fight men bigger than I.  Flesh slammed against flesh and the blades found no purchase. It was a messy fight.

We grappled and struggled, we shove one another around, and we bent back limbs and clawed at exposed flesh.  I head slammed against the now cool stone, his knife raked against my ribs, his knee smashed into the small of my back, his hands clung grimly to my neck.  I had his blood on my hands from his shattered nose and torn lip, I had my knife and he didn’t.

Maybe he hadn’t lost all his humanity; maybe he didn’t put everything he had into it because It was me he was fighting. Maybe somewhere in him he knew why I was fighting him.  I knew from the beginning I would lose and I did not mind.  The world had taken so much from me and it had begun working on my last possessions, my thoughts and beliefs.  They were all that I had.  If I died, then I would have at least not lost the last things I possessed.  I would have made my last bit of defiance.

Toad’s last breath came as a ragged gasp. I could see his dark eyes; they held surprise and fear.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He didn’t say anything, instead the light died from his eyes.

I sat there and stared at the black sky. Then I felt the blood seeping from my own wounds and saw it matted against the rags of my clothing.

I smiled sadly, knowing my own time was up.

Toad was heavy, but I managed to drag him back to camp. He didn’t deserve to be left there, where the last bit of nature hadn’t touched. He was a product of the new world and he should be laid to rest where it could reach him.  I did not bury him; instead I set him upon the ground near the campsite.

Then I sat down and watched the sun begin to rise and waited for death.

When the sun rose, Death did not come for me, instead the large man did. He made his slow way up the trail that had been left behind, my blood and Toad’s dragging. He moved into the camp, fear and dread creasing his face.  It took courage to enter a strange camp, to leave behind what you loved and investigate a new trail.  I sat upon a rock, stained red from my own blood. I could see him looking around, wondering where the others were.

“I’m alone,” I said.

He came forward then, glancing at Toad’s body.

“You’re dying,” he stated.

I simply smiled.

He looked at Toad.

“Be safer next time,” I said. “Smoke travels.’

Understanding filled his eyes and he crouched before me.

“Let me help you,” he said.

I shook my head. “I’m dying. Let me die.”

He closed his eyes and nodded.  “Then I will sit with you,” he said.

I nodded mutely, my throat too closed up to say anything.  He sat upon the rock beside me, giving no care to the dark stain that was my blood upon it.

“Take everything in the camp,” I said. “Have it all.  Keep your family safe.”

“Thank you. You are a good man.”  He set a hand upon my shoulder.

I smiled once more and Death came for me.

What The World Hasn’t Taken – Part 03

“Where have you been?” Toad asked.

“In town. Looking around.”  I replied.

“You smell the smoke?”

I nodded.

“You scope it out?”

I nodded.

“Who are they?” Toad asked.

I looked back into the darkness that was the town.  I took a breath. “A family,” I said. “Two adults, two children. Father, Mother, and two kids.”

Toad was quiet for a bit, I could hear his thoughts. The need for survival, the knowledge that competition needed to be stomped out, this was their area. This was where they had carved out their survival.

“We take them. You and me.”  Toad said. He was cracking his knuckles.

“No,” I said.

“What?”

“No. Leave them be. Let them move on.”

“We can’t.”

“We have enough food, we have enough supplies,” I stated. “Let them be.”

I could feel Toad’s eyes on me. The shock of my statement vibrated through him.  I had told him no. I had said I would not fight. Those were sins in our small world.

“We kill them.” Toad stated. It was not about supplies now, it was not about protecting their area, it was about killing for the sake of proving a point.  I shook my head.

This would break us, I knew. This would destroy the trust that had been built up over the years. How many times had Toad saved my life? How many times had I saved his? There was no one I’d trust more at my back in a fight, there was no one who would offer up their meager half of whatever to me and I to him.  This was all that remained of friendship and family in my small world. Yet…

“No,” I said. “Leave them be.”

Toad stood up, standing close. I could feel his breath and I could feel the anger coursing through his limbs.  I was going against everything established. Sometimes it wasn’t about survival, sometimes it wasn’t about foods, and sometimes it was about making examples. I knew this, he knew this, and it was all that had allowed us to survive where others hadn’t. Be hard enough to live in a brutal world.

“We will.”  Toad said.

“No.”

“Then I will.”  Toad pushed passed me, disappearing into the darkness.

I crouched on the ground and wrapped my head in my hands. They would die. The image of the woman and child in the locket came to mind. The thankful smile of the man I had killed surfaced. The image of the four curled up before the fire, limbs entwined and embracing one another.

They were like an abomination. But I knew I could not stand by and let it end there.

I stood up and followed Toad into the darkness.

Toad was a good hunter and sneaker, he could move without disturbing dust and making noise. He could make his way to places where people didn’t assume someone could go into, he was good at that. I was better.

It was in the untouched courtyard that I caught up with him.  He stood there, facing me, his shoulders thrown back and a knife in his hand.  He would do what he intended and at that moment it did not matter if he had to cut through me to do it.   There was harshness to the new world that brooked no compromise.  One compromise led to another and another, then it led to death.

At his heart, Toad was a survivor. He did so by not allowing competition take what little he had. If that meant striking in the dark, from hidden places, and coming upon them unawares, then all the better.  I knew what would happen. I knew it and although it filled me with a sick dread, I stepped forward and challenged him, forced him to choose survival or old friendship. He was a survivor.

“For these folks?” He asked.

“Not for them, but for what they are.” I said.

He did not understand, I knew that.  I felt a pity for him then, the world had shaped him too much. He had lost that last bit of mercy and with it the last bit that made us truly human.  I wasn’t much different, but that smile, that picture, and that image, they had tugged something loose.  I realized what I was losing.

“Just leave them be. Please.” I begged one last time.

He would not do so and he did not bother responding to the plea.  He stepped forward and I drew my own blade.

What the World Hasn’t Taken – Part 02

The moon was near gone, but there was still light, pale and dim, barely enough for me to pick out the trail.  The wind whispered through dead grass and shook old leaves off trees. Something howled in the distant, a lone cry in the night.

The thoughts would not leave my mind. The dead men, their shared blue eyes, and the hate that filled the third man. Were they kin? Were they that lost and almost forgotten bond called family? I didn’t know, but something in me wanted it to be so.

The picture of the woman and child were lost in the darkness, but the gold gleamed warmly in the blue light.  I could still remember the happy faces of the long dead family.  One of the men had been a father, a husband, along with being a brother.  It didn’t seem right they had to die. They had kept the mule alive, they had seemed cautious; they hadn’t been the ones to start the fight.  Then there was that smile, the smile of a man who was thankful.

Thankful to die when all else he loved had died.

Were they good people?

What did that make me?

Bad?

Evil?

I did not know. There were things that had to be done to survive; there were hard choices that brooked no hesitation.  I had faced those choices and I had chosen life. But now… after all these years, what was it all for?

Dark skies, hard sunlight, an empty belly, and dead people’s blood on my hands.  Good people dead.  Bad people dead.  Scared people dead. Was there a difference then? Did a good person dying make things worse than they were?

I stared at the sliver moon, wondering.  The night brought dark thoughts, when the mountains were devoid of shape and color, when the sky was pocked with hard white, and the world quieted until only the sounds of your heart and conscience spoke.  These were the times when you shed your tears for lost loves, old hurts, misery and fear, the darkness swallowed it all, uncomplaining and all consuming.  It would never fill up with the misery of the world, a glutton for the pain of the living.

I stood up, shaking my thoughts loose.  I wish I were like Toad, living for the now and never regretting his actions. He knew the score and he knew what needed doing.

Seven years we had traveled the shattered world. We were brothers in atrocities, misery, and moments of sheer joy and happiness.  We had stood against the odds and we had fought back against the simplicity of giving up and dying like so many others had succumbed to.

Loose rock and broken gravel crunched under my boots as I passed through empty buildings with dark socket windows.  The air was rich with the smell of earth and the stonewalls were still warm from the sun. I crossed buckled streets, the asphalt cracked with  great rents and rusted lampposts toppled like sticks across glass humped shapes of old cars.  The air here smelled of old metal and faded rubber, a distant memory of roaring cars, honking horns, and the harsh smell of exhaust trickled from the back of my mind. I smiled grimly at those thoughts, they were far and few between these days.

I stood upon the weed-covered steps of some unknown building. The streets were clear and the courtyard before me hadn’t been ravaged by nature yet, its progress never ending, but it was a struggle for it here.  I sat cross-legged upon the steeps, breathing in the darkness and feeling the fading sun warmth seep into me.

The smell of smoke hit me hard and fierce.  Fear flooded my body, twitching me into action. I rose up and scanned for the exit, there were others around. That did not bode well for me or them.  The night still held sway and if I were lucky, I could leave without being noticed.

I began to slink into the shadows, hiding amongst the darkness, but something stopped me. A foolish and reckless abandon filled me, a need to know suffused me. Instead of walking away, I moved toward it. The smoke smell was faint, but noticeable. The earth, old rock, and metal smells were everywhere, but the smoke smell rose above all that. It was an unnatural smell, it was the smell of people.

I moved slowly and quietly, my boots making no sound and my breathing barely a whisper of air.   The smoke smell grew stronger as I neared what looked to be a half destroyed apartment building. Stone blocks and rusted metal lay piled at the base of the building, harsh edges highlighted by the dim moonlight.

My heart was pounding fiercely in my chest. My thoughts were crowded with how foolish I was being, yet I ignored it all and continued forward. The stone and metal gave way to me, the rocks did not shift, and there was almost no noise from my progress.

They had hidden themselves well, boarded up doors, blocked windows, traps strewn about to warn and to catch the unwary.  They were the work of someone good at what they did; only I was better at avoiding them.  Smoke had to exit somewhere; it was a dichotomy of survival.  Do anything and you’ll give yourself away, don’t do anything and you’ll die.  Fire was one of those chances you had to take, make fire, cook food, boil water, and you’ll live longer.  Don’t, then you’ll die of food poisoning or some bacteria in the water.

I had seen many people die from that.

The vent was small but the smoke poured out hot and burning. It smelled of pine and cedar, of old newspapers and plastic, it smelled of meat and metal, of people surviving the end of civilization the best way they could. I crouched before it, squinting my eyes against the smoke.  The hole was small, but it provided a good view of what was within.

No stove, simply a small fire building in the center of the room, burned down to near embers, but still flickering with stubborn flames.  It cast light upon the figures huddled around the flames, all sleeping the rest of the exhausted.

A part of me screamed to attack, this was a opportunity that rarely came around. Coming up upon a group that thought they were safe. They probably had food; they probably had items that would be needed.  I had the upper hand, I had surprise on my side, I could kill them all before they knew what happened.

My hands shook and my mouth filled with saliva.  I felt a sickness creeping from my stomach, the burning of bile and disgust.  The faces of the three men flashed before my eyes, blue eyes, matted beards, a thankful smile, and the dead family in the locket.  I shook and sat back from the vent, my breath coming in barely controlled gasps.

There were four of them. A large man by his shape, a woman, and what looked to be two children.  I sat back and breathed slowly. A family.

I stood up, swaying slightly and moved on.  I felt like an intruder, a voyeur that spied upon something that he shouldn’t be spying upon.  The sleeping figures, the small huddled figures, the protective arms wrapped around each.  I knew I should not be there, I should not have looked upon them, I should not have followed the smoke.  Leave them be.

I skidded to the street, shin cracking against a slab of concrete. My breath came hard and shallow and the shaking in my limbs would not stop.  I had wanted to kill them, not because of what they had, because of what they were.

The world was kill or be killed. The world was hard and it was unforgiving. There was death and there was pain at every turn. This was a hard, cruel, and futile life. What were they to defy that?

They were something that was supposed to be dead and gone.

They were something that should be destroyed.

The last bit of good in this world.

They should be snuffed out and extinguished.  Let the darkness and the madness have the world.  Let the good die and the lover perish.

I walked away, automatically navigating through the rubble and making my way back into the hills. I needed to get back to camp, where there would be no thoughts on this, only on surviving the next day, a haze of instinct and work.

A figure sat upon a rock, not far form camp. Fear gripped me for a second until the familiar shape of Toad came into focus. Then dread filled me.

WHAT THE WORLD HASN’T TAKEN – PART 03

What the World Hasn’t Taken

By: Alex Claw

We stood on the shattered asphalt road, weapons drawn, and hearts beating that wild tattoo of fear and panic.  Our limbs shook, our blood pounded, and we knew that at any moment there would be death.

Even after all this time. It still filled me with that sickening dread, but then what else was new?

A half a second was all it took. One moment we stood facing one another, Toad and I against the three big men with hard faces hidden by matted beards and head cloths.  All alike, their eyes were bright and blue, glimpses of skylight in the mass of roiling black. Toad twitched and I fired our last bullet.

One of the men, the one with pale blue eyes dropped without a sound, crimson showering his mate and half his face disappearing from view.  There was no turning back now.

Toad moved, fast and deadly, like he always was.  His spear flicked and stabbed, shoving through the heavy padded coat and bleeding a man. That left the third, a man who watched his friends die and did not fear the same happening to him. Outnumbered, he still came on, a sickle like blade in is hands.  It flashed, glinting silver blue and wicked sharpness.

I backed up, Toad‘s spear lodged in the ribcage of the second man. He abandoned it and backed up; pulling out the bowie knife he always carried.  There wasn’t any anger or fear on his face; it was devoid of emotion with dead eyes, blank face, and moving with singular purpose.

The third man came at me, a snarl on his face and red bloodshot eyes filled with hate and anger.  We collided in an explosion of dust, sweat, and hoarse cries.  We tore at one another like animals, his knife fell away and we collapsed to the ground, clawing at one another’s throats, trying to choke the life out of one another.  A fist struck my back, blood welled from a razor sharp cut across my forearm, I bit his cheek, and kneed his stomach.

Toad appeared and we overpowered him.  The man staggered, shedding blood and staring glassy eyed at us.  Then he smiled, a bright white smile.

Then he died.

We pillaged their camp, the food, the weapons, the blankets, and the lone slat ribbed mule that carried their gear.  It looked at us forlornly, knowing its days were nearing the end and wanting that release.  I looked away and loaded my share, throwing aside trash and personal affects.

There was a locket, golden and etched with fancy lettering. Inside was a picture of a woman and a child, smiling, happy and pure. And dead. I tucked the locket into my coat and dismantled the tent they had.

The dead men hadn’t begun cooling yet when we abandoned the camp with our winnings, the mule hefting the bulk of the load and following along silently.  We headed toward the hills, into the hard territory that no one went into. We knew the routes and we knew the dangers, they didn’t hamper us.

“Nice haul.” Toad said, grinning.

“Suppose so,” I respond. “Three men dead.”

“They’d have killed us,” he explained.

“Yeah.”

The moon was a skeletal sliver in the sky, mocking in its aloof position in the heavens. Did it watch us all and laugh at the remnants of humanity scrabbling for some kind of life?  Did it speak to God and nudge his side, pointing down at the antlike figures wasting away below and chuckle?

I shook my head; there was only badness when thinking such things. Best avoid it. Best avoid the pain and the misery. There was always enough around without coaxing it with thoughts.

The mule was old and gamey, but it was food and it filled my stomach.  The bones crunched under my teeth and the salty marrow brought back memories of an old and long past time. I smiled for a moment.

Toad fell asleep, belly full and contentment on his face.

I wandered the camp, crossing sand scoured rocks and staring down at the mist-shrouded valley.  There were no lights. It had been a major city once, thousands of people, living, loving, existing. There were only skeletons there now.  Another dead city, another group of survivors slain for what they had.

Was there ever going to be an end to it?

WHAT THE WORLD HASN’T TAKEN – PART 02