I jerked against the hands restraining my feet and wrists. Joel lay across my body and pinned me to the mattress. His cheek rested against mine. “Evie. Evie. Wake up. Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Steve hovered above my head holding down my arms. His spooked eyes met mine and he averted them. Eugene struggled to catch his breath at my feet. Joel’s face floated inches from mine, his eyes dark.
What had I done in my sleep to put those looks on their faces? My throat scratched. “You can let go of me now.”
Joel sat up and caught my wrists in his hands. He held them in front of me. Fresh blood dirtied the nail beds. When he released me, I touched my throat. Traced deep scratches in the skin. My shirt stuck to my chest, warm and wet with bile. The slaughterhouse stench burrowed in my taste buds.
My father’s eyes, open and waiting, fractured something inside me. Pain seared behind my forehead. Common-sense splintered away. I looked at Eugene. “Do you know how to get to the ravine at ol’ Paul Hurlin’s place?”
“I know it. Empties into the lake at marker L2. Good walleye catchin’ there.”
“Will you take me? I won’t find it on my own.”
* * *
We left for the ranch in my father’s boat before dawn. By the time the sun crested the skyline, we found my father.
Rigor mortis came and went weeks earlier. Sun-broiled skin hung on his body, stretched by the inflation of abdominal gases.
We rolled his body onto a gas soaked wood pile. Despite the decomposition, I knew it was him. His St. Francis medal still hung from his neck.
I stood over him, my muscles straining under the weight of my artillery and vest. My eyes burned and I willed the tears to come. But they wouldn’t. Just emptiness bubbling from my chest, forming a lump in my throat.
He told me once if forced to choose between his family and his god, God wins. My mother left before my sixth birthday. I never blamed him for putting her second to his god. After all, she left me too.
Eugene’s big hand squeezed my shoulder. “You gonna say somethin’, Evie girl?”
“I’m not a priest. He’d consider it blasphemous.”
He blew out a breath. “Your dad was a stubborn son o’bitch. But he loved you.”
I gave him a small smile, a bitter taste on my tongue. I wanted to feel grief. But hate consumed me. Hate for the religion that stole him from me.
In Catholic school, I questioned everything. My insubordination was dealt with by way of large doses of quality time with Father Mike Kempker and his flock of narrow minded nuns. Countless prayer candles were lit on my behalf. But the disconnect between my father and I didn’t ignite until high school. At eighteen, I received an ultimatum: participate in his Vatican regimen or face banishment. I chose the latter.
After my A’s were born, we began visiting my father at the lake. He never turned us away.
I couldn’t unearth his religious holdfast, but I glimpsed the contrition behind his weary eyes. It was enough. During those visits, we spent most of our time with Eugene. My time with him brought me the closest I would ever get to the paternal relationship I longed for.
Eugene’s hug brought me back to my father’s disfigured face. Petrified in peace. His woolly beard, made thicker by all the blood, hid his Aryan features. Everyone always said I looked like him. I knew it was our eyes.
I spun the thumb-wheel on my father’s zippo. “Vater, ich hoffe euer Gott ist alles was sie wollen”. I flicked the lighter into the pyre. “Good-bye, dad.”
* * *
Eugene steered my father’s Sea Ray deck boat away from Hurlin’s ravine. The plume of smoke shrunk behind the tree line. We breached the open water and Joel joined me in the back seat. He kissed my brow. “What did you say to your father back there? In German?”
I rested my head on his shoulder. “I told him I hoped his god was everything he wanted. Or at least I hope that’s what I said.” I let out a small chuckle. “My German’s a little rusty. If he heard me, I hope he appreciated the attempt in his parents’ tongue.”
Joel raised his eyebrows.
“I know. I still don’t believe in afterlife. But after following this visionary nightmare thing today, I have to wonder if there isn’t something.”
He wrapped his arms around me. “Of course there’s something. Look around us. The forest, the wind, the lake, the stars…you and me. That something is the very energy that connects us.” He rested his lips on my temple. “Everything happens for a reason, you know.”
On the way back, the stillness around us hovered like a miasma. Besides the plant life on the shore and wake behind our boat, life was scarce. There were no other water crafts on the lake to rough the water, no squawking in the trees by ruffled birds, no squirrels scurrying dry leaves. The silence lay like a dead thing between us. We exchanged uneasy looks.
Eugene docked in the boat house.
Joel hopped out. “Stay here while I clear the property.”
When I caught up with him on the shore, we bandied glares. Then he glanced at the boat, where Eugene and Steve waited. “At least someone listens.”
We set off up the path toward the house, scrutinizing everything within the periphery. The small vineyard, the lawn around the house, the circle drive, the woods fringing all sides. No tracks in the dirt. No suspicious noises. The property was free of threats.
Halfway to the house, twigs cracked around us. Foliage rustled. A growling hum erupted and entered my chest. Aphids swarmed out of the surrounding grove from every direction.
Drool stretched from disfigured mouths. Claws snapped in our direction. At least a dozen blocked our path to the house. Their numbers grew.
“Back in the boat,” Joel shouted.
I raised the carbine, pelleted the nearest two as I retreated. They didn’t slow.
Joel did the same, running with me, screaming between trigger pulls. “Start the boat.”
The motor rattled, drowning out Eugene’s shouts. More rounds fired. More unsuccessful hits. We had to get out of there. I spun toward the dock.
A sea of green bodies swallowed the entrance to the ramp.
Cheek against the stock, I exhaled and squeezed. Empty brass sprayed around me. The aphids in my scope ducked and darted. Most I tapped just jerked under the volley and continued chasing.
Pop, pop…pop, click. I hit the mag release. Tilted the carbine. Knocked the mag loose. Only four aphids down. All head shots, just like the one that broke into our home. Was that the only way to kill them? Destroy the brain?
“Aim for the head,” I yelled.
He grunted, fired off continuous rounds.
They were quicker in daylight. They could see us, dodge our bullets. And a head shot was the most difficult, especially on a moving target. That boat looked farther and farther out of reach.
I reloaded. The decibels of repeating trigger pulls rang my ears. Gunpowder chased my inhales. Carbine in high ready. Exhale. Squeeze.
His empty mag dropped at my feet. “Jesus…fuck…what’ve you got?”
Two M4 mags. Plus the twelve rounds in my USP. “Seventy-five.” Only a fourth of our predators were down. Some were dragging themselves back up. Maybe thirty, forty still alive.
“Make ’em count.” He clicked his mag in place.
The carbine tapped my shoulder, buffered by my vest. The barrel was hot. Clinking echoed around us as our missed shots ricocheted off the house, the shed, the Rubicon. Christ, their daylight reflexes. Seventy-five rounds should’ve been enough, but only one in ten bullets found its target.
The bugs forged ever closer. He screamed, “I’m out.”
I was down to the pistol. Five aphids remained, moving in from the tree line. I had about that left in .40 caliber rounds. I took a step toward the survivors. He grabbed my vest and tugged me back to his side.
“Joel.”
His jaw clenched. I was a better shot. He let go of my vest.
I swiveled back to the fast approaching aggressors and swallowed. Twenty yards. The pistol felt awkward in my hand. I adjusted my grip. It was not the time to be a candy-ass.
I bared my teeth and charged. The bug nearest to me lunged. I sidestepped its claws and Joel pistol whipped it. Its head dropped back. Orbs pointed to the sky. I shoved the barrel into its chest and filled it with lead. It fell against me and slid to the ground. I resisted the chance for a double tap and blinked through the spray of bug guts plastering my face. Joel beat another aphid with dull thuds.
Double jointed legs shot out of the bloody pile before me and knocked me off my feet. Shit, I hadn’t shot its head. Joel wailed my name. I unsheathed a knife from my forearm and sunk it in the bug’s eye. It sagged to the ground.
I climbed to my knees. Met two more. Plucked the blade. Plunged it into an eye socket above me. A sticky discharge clotted my fingers. It, too, fell on me. I shrugged it off. Drew the pistol. Aimed for the eye of the other one. Fired.
It screamed. Dark matter burst from its head. Its eye socket stared, hollow and leaking.
The remaining two hovered over Joel. He dodged them with nimble Jujitsu rolls and redirected their force with a swift arm. But his jabs waned. His kicks slowed.
“Hey,” I screamed.
The aphids ignored me. Joel jumped on one’s back. It shook and knocked him free.
I holstered the pistol. Gripped a blade in each hand. Lanced my left bicep, quick and deep. Enough to lace the air. A gush of fire burned through my shoulder. The blood welled. The aphids turned.
Man must evolve for all human conflict
a method which rejects revenge, aggression and retaliation.
The foundation of such a method is love.
Martin Luther King, Jr.