The Need
Going into the gravel curve the man stomped the Ford's gas instead of the brake. Gunned the engine and met the wilderness of elms head on. His head split the windshield, caused a warm moisture to bead down his forehead, while visions of a razored edge parted flesh and a female screamed.
Blood flaked off in scabs as the man balled his hands into fists. Remembering the Need he could no longer contain.
From behind, light chewed through the night and into the Ford. The man turned his head into headlights that tattooed his eyes with black green spots til he seen the red and blue blinking from above.
The cruiser's door slammed. Boots crunched gravel. The man watched the headlights blackout the features of the approaching figure in the driver's side mirror. His right hand gripped the wood stock of his Marlin Lever Action 30/30 with a night scope in the seat beside him. The Need bounced a fever in his brain and he opened the door.
Reserve Officer Cooper keyed his mic.
"Moon, you out there?"
"Just finished with those kids at the Mill."
"Close to Wyandotte Road?"
"I'm a few minutes away whatcha' got?"
"Looks like Brady Basham sampled some of his home brew again. His Ford's head-on into a mess of elm bout a mile up from 62 on Wyandotte Road."
"Shit. Crazy bastard ain't supposed to drive this time of night. I'm on my way."
Cooper shined his Mag-Lite onto the blue tarp over the bondo-patched Ford's bed. The driver's door swung open. A shadow crunched gravel. Cooper questioned, "You alright Brady? Need me to radio an ambulance or give you a lift to the..." His Mag-Lite reflected a bone tight face stitched with every angle of rage imaginable.
The barrel of the 30/30 rifled an orange flame. Separated marrow and flesh from Cooper's right shoulder. Felt as though he'd been stuck with a fifty-pound pick axe. His light clattered to the gravel and he followed.
The man levered the empty brass to the gravel. Stood over Cooper listening to his lungs wheeze from asthma-induced-shock. Cooper tried reaching across his chest for the Glock. The man pushed the barrel into Cooper's left shoulder. Pulled the trigger. Earth and bone exploded. Cooper jerked and wheezed. The man levered another empty brass. Knelt down. Laid his 30/30 beside Cooper, whose blinking eyes met the man's blank stare. Cooper's mouth began to foam like keg beer as he gasped, "Why you doin' this?"
Wordless, the man unsheathed his razor-edged skinning knife with his right. His left pressed into Cooper's foaming scream. The Need tightened the man's grip around the knife. Pressed the blade between skull and ear. Faces stained by war screamed familiar tongues within the man's mind. He parted ear from skull like cleaving an apple into two halves. Just as he'd done in the mountains. Cooper thrashed into a limp outline. Just like those faces had.
The Need made the man's insides all pins and needles as he picked up the ear. Added it to the others. Sheathed his knife. Grabbed his 30/30.
Behind him the radio attached to Cooper cracked with a static voice, "Cooper, Brady alright?" The man heard an engine roar in the distance. Saw the tree tops lighting up like roman candles as he disappeared into the woods.
Tires skidded to a stop. Moon stepped into the dust of headlights. Seen the outline on the road.
"Shit!"
Moon's fingers met Cooper's neck. He'd a racing pulse. Moisture spit from his forehead. Moon keyed his radio, "Officer down. Still breathing. Bout one mile up from 62 on Wyandotte Road. Need an ambulance ASAP!"
Cooper's right shoulder had a railroad spike sized opening. Shot from four to six feet Moon guessed. Cooper's mouth foamed over like Alka-Seltzer and down into the neck of his county browns. Moon thought Cooper's left shoulder looked as though some son of a bitch had opened it with a small stick of dynamite. Close quarter shot. Then he noticed all the dampness where his left ear used to be.
"Son of a bitch! You hold on Coop."
Moon turned around with his hand on his .40-cal. H&K. Shined his Mag-Lite into the woods. Nothing. He searched inside the Ford. Near empty case Milwaukee's Best on the passenger's side floor. Empty bottle of Old Forrester. A large black canister on the duck-taped seat, a spot light. On the dash an empty ziplock with traces of ice crystal. Meth. Moon thought to himself, Brady ain't no damn tweaker.
He shined his light on the blue tarp. Pulled it back. Flies buzzed into the night. Fresh meat engulfed his inhale. Three outlines. Two doe. Poached and gutted. One human. Flesh like worn out rawhide. Hair like moss. Colored like spent charcoal bricks. His eyes beat into slits. Flattened cartilage replaced his nose. Like Cooper, Brady was missing his left ear. Two fingers to his neck. Unlike Cooper he'd no pulse.
One dead. One living. Only God knew who was responsible.
Whoever did this was on foot. Which direction, he guessed downhill. Easier travel. Whoever it was he'd just missed. He keyed his radio, "Earleen?"
"Go head Moon."
"On top of the downed officer we got two poached doe and a fatality. Brady Basham has been murdered."
"I'll radio a county unit."
"That and wake up Detective Mitchell and County Coroner Owen. Radio Sparks, gonna need his canine. My guess is the suspect is on foot. Armed and dangerous. Also, send a county unit to Brady's home. He's a daughter stayin' with him. Let's hope she's still breathin'."
Moon flashed his Mag-Lite to check on Cooper. Noticed the glitter of brass beside him. Kneeled down. Warm shell casing from a 30/30. Probably the caliber that bored out Cooper's shoulder.
Lungs burnt and leaves crumbled beneath each step. The man's eyes adjusted to the night with the 30/30 strapped across his back, dodging trees standing. Jumping over the fallen. He heard sirens. Kneeled down behind a rotted tree. Watched an ambulance and two cruisers from the woods, their flashing lights parting the shadows up Wyandotte Road.
The man's heart beat like a mule kicked—hard. He sat catching his breath. Remembering Brady picking him up with a case of beer. A fifth of whiskey. The man'd been up for days numbing the Need. Brought the last of the Meth and his 30/30. Drove the Ford. Brady couldn't see after dark. Brady's brittle arm had held the spotlight over the fields they slowly passed. Until light reflected eyes. Shots rang out. The deer dropped. The man'd field dressed each. Blood steamed and colored the weeds. He used his hands and knife, carving their insides hallow.
He'd driven back to Brady's graying cabin to split the deer meat. The daughter had came out to the Ford. She'd prepared a late night breakfast. Inside the man sat at the kitchen table uninterested in nourishment as Brady shared a bottle of Boones Farm with him. The daughter began to flirt with the man. Tickling the man's neck with her long nails painted the color of a tongue. The man tried to ignore her leaning in front of him while setting a bowl of white gravy down. A bowl of towel-covered biscuits. A platter of bacon. Her Great Lake blue eyes staring with shoulder length hair black as burnt wood. Her shirt loose. With toffee colored cleavage dangling.
Brady's palm wrapped around her arm. He jerked her from the table. Dishes clanged and broke onto the hardwood. Brady worked her toffee features into a flaming acreage of red clay.
The Need from the mountains painted the man's insides black as ink. Alcohol and drugs no longer numbed it. He drove his fist into Brady's kidney from behind. Turned him around by the head of his hair. Eight-balled Brady's vision. Pancaked his nose. Dug his hand around his turkey neck. Squeezed. Bones gave way within his grip. The daughter kept screaming for the man to stop. Brady went limp. The man had done crossed over to that other way of being. Unsheathed his knife. Sliced ear from skull. That's when he felt four tiny prongs of steel break the flesh of his back. She'd stabbed him with a fork. He backed her into the sink. Lips pleaded while eyes watered. His palm drove her nose into her brain. He did just as he'd done in the mountains. Collected a trophy from the slain. A left ear from Brady. Then his daughter. Loaded Brady in the truck with the two doe. Grabbed the Old Forrester from the floor board. Finished it. Then everything went black until he found himself on Wyandotte Road pressing the gas instead of the brake. Meeting the elms head on. Having visions of what he'd done. The Need whittling through his insides.
Now, a dog's bark echoed through the woods where the man'd just ran. Lights opened the darkness showing Wyandotte Road in the distance. A spotlight prismed between trees in the woods. The man's mule-kicking heart returned. He stood up. Ran for the dim light at the hill's bottom.
Growling teeth broke tendon and muscle. Working up and into the man's hamstring. Paws dug into the man's arms and shoulders. Fought him down onto the dew within shadows beneath the humming quartz of the old shack's yard along highway 62. Pain was mute as he rolled with the 30/30 strapped to his back squeezing the canine tight to his wiry frame. Smothering the attack like an anaconda to its prey.
The man pinched the fur of the canine's neck and snapping jaws between shoulder and ear. While unsheathing his blade with his right. The razored edge parted fur beneath the neck. The tip drove up into the canine's brain.
Four legs attached to a mound of fur lay silent as he removed its left ear.
The Expedition braked to a stop on Wyandotte Road. It's spotlight shinned upon the wet grass. Showing the man who stood in his gray t-shirt and desert fatigues stained by red. Arms and face chiseled like ice. Hard and cold. His blade sparked in the light. Red and blue strobed the darkness behind Sparky and Moon who'd stepped from the truck. Were within 40 feet of the man when Moon drew his .40-cal. H&K. Recognized the man, hollered, "Drop the knife Wayne."
Sparky shined his Mag-Lite down at his canine in the distance whose outline was unmoving.
"Crazy bastard killed Johnny Cash."
Moon raised his .40-cal. H&K. Pleaded.
"Don't make me do it Wayne."
Wayne dropped the knife. Turned his back. Half limped then ran. Felt an explosion nick his left shoulder as he crossed highway 62. Heard a man yell, "He cut off my Johnny Cash's damn ear!"
Wayne heard several more explosions but felt nothing. He leaped over the guardrail. Down into the steep darkness of a hillside. Tree limbs painted his body with welts. Faces flared up in his mind. Men in caves. Restrained.
Wayne splashed into warm current. Hit the flat rock bottom. Pushed to the surface. Gasped. Floated down the river on his back like a leaf from a tree. Ignoring his splintered insides. His bruised and bloody outsides. Remembered how it started with a man. A farmer similar to his father forced to join the Taliban. He begged. But the US soldiers in Wayne's eight man unit sliced the man's elbow flexers. Doused him with fuel. It wasn't gathering Intel. It wasn't even winning the war. It was abusing their control. That's when Wayne lost his. Blacked out. Woke up with a pile of left ears in his lap. The Need in his brain. Every man in his unit, one less ear and dead. The Afghan men, restrained, eyes rattled by fear but among the living. Wayne switched sides. Knowing the US routes in and out of the mountains. Began ambushing US soldiers. Watched how the Taliban gathered intel. By slow disembowelment. Followed by beheading. Methods preserved from medieval times. Condoned by holy men. He went from killing the bad to killing the good to fighting a war within himself for six months in the mountains. Trying to make sense of what he was doing. Of what he'd become. Until he realized neither side made sense. But it was too late.
It's what happened when a Southern Indiana farm boy scored perfect on the ASVAB. Could wield a blade better than a Filipino knife fighter. Shoot dead center for the length of cornfields. Had stand-up skills like Ali before the draft. Could track better than a bloodhound. Wayne wanted to serve his country. Use his God-given abilities.
Now, the river carried Wayne down through the dark valley and he remembered when The US found him. In an Al-Qaeda training camp. The US isolated him for three years. Wanted to know where he'd been. What happened over there in the mountains. They evaluated him as no longer psychologically capable to carry out his duties. Gave him an honorable discharge. A full military pension.
Wayne floated on top of the warm current, knowing it didn't matter where or how far the river carried him cause the Need would always be inside of him, waiting.
-END-
