The road to revenge starts with a single bullet

Life years after an apocalypse has ravaged the earth, and a young boy seeks to avenge his mother's death at the hands of raiders.

Short story
Thomas WIlkerson

The smell of sawdust on the wind mixed with the ever present odor of sweat, creating a concoction of pleasant aromas that swept across the landscape like god was breathing down the back of new york’s neck. The breeze flew past the burnt out homes, past the smoke trail blazing from one end of the horizon to the other, and finally past the figure sitting on the lonely marble torch that used to be the statue of liberty, but that was in a time long forgotten. The sudden gust blew the hat from the figure's brow, making the rawhide string attached to it go taut around his throat. But he paid it no mind; the light felt good on the hard planes of his weather beaten face, almost as if he had never felt the Sun's rays kiss his skin before. As that hard and lean face drank in the sun's rays, the light showed that this man was no man at all, but a boy of no more than 15.
As the breeze with the smell left him, it reminded him of home and in doing so bringing fresh tears to his eyes. He scrubbed the feeling away with hands caked in dirt and sweat, and so he set on. He did not bother to place the hat upon his brow again, and so the world saw the 15 year old boy with the long brown hair, curling slightly at the ends, framing the almost beautiful face. The face with its sharp angles and edged jaw which others had called handsome. It was not the hard face or the lean body clothed in jeans and an old T-shirt that was disconcerting, it was his eyes. Those blazing eyes that were the color of coffee, the deep color of chocolate with a splash of hazel. Those eyes were not a child’s eyes, but that of a veteran. His eyes showed that he was someone who had seen evil incarnate and walked away with that darkness imprinted on them. He slightly lifted his hand to his left brow, feeling the looping scar which slid across his flesh like another would prod a blemish or a pimple. The scar had sent him on his suicidal mission to the end of the world, otherwise known as America.
He sighed, as the feeling left him with only ache and loss in its wake. But he did not give in to the temptation to lay down and die in the comforting embrace of the warm sand. He moved on, crossing the buried buildings and in doing so working up a constant sweat that made his skin glisten red, as if he were perspiring blood. The sun continued to beat down upon his brow, forcing him to lift his arm and pull the stopper from the neck of his waterskin with his teeth. And as he lifted the water to his cracked lips with the crook of his arm, he dimly thought of how this would be his last drink for however long it would take to get to a town, which made him internally sigh once again. The last of the moisture swirled in his mouth, for he could not bring himself to swallow the life-giving substance. And on and on he went, until the sun had started to kiss the horizon, marking the end of another grueling and disappointing day. Taking one last look around, he surprisingly spotted a cottage, pitiful and ramshackled like all things in the world.
Making his way to the door, he quietly knocked again and again with the impatience of a child. “Fine! ‘Esus stop it I’m comin!” He stepped back from the door, listening as the many locks were clicked into place and the tumblers rolled into position. The door swung open to reveal a man with long gold hair that traveled down from his small face to his scrawny knees. In his hands, an old relic of a shotgun that looked more suited to be a cannon, and as he stepped into the dusky night the smell of tobacco wafted to the boy like an old lover.
“What do ye want boy?” The dry twist of a man asked, his eyes darting to and fro looking for others, and finding none, settled on the young man in front of him.
“I was wondering if you had room for me to stay the night, and to share your water if you were to be so kind.” The boy’s voice was as smooth as silk and twice as comforting, like a warm body being pressed against the lonely old man on a cold winter night. The voice twirled through his hair and whispered things to him that made him ache for conversation with another human being. His hands shook with a sickness as he saw the boy's silver smile in the moonlight. Both walking inside, the man shut his door with a thud, relocking the tumblers with a precision that would have seemed beyond such an old hermit.
"You can call me Jack," the boy said, as he looked around the house, taking in the single room with its small stove settled in the corner, the lamp slightly tilted on its desk, and the straw mattress pushed against one wall.
“Why don’t you get me some water good sir, and I will see to making myself comfortable.” There was no question being asked, his voice was soft and edgeless, pulling on the man’s mind like a fishhook and setting him to work without thought. He went outside, crouching behind his house and pumping water into a bucket from an old faucet that had been the only reason he was alive. The water filled the bucket, sloshing and pooling around his feet as he made his way back inside. Walking through the door, he saw that the boy had taken off his shirt, revealing a lean body that shined with sweat in the dirty light, making him seem to have a second skin of shadow that gripped the handle of an old revolver. The man shivered, and let himself set the bucket down as he sat down himself. Looking at the boy, he wetted his cracked lips and said, “is this my last conversation on this earth?" Chuckling, the boy said "yes sir it is."
The lead slug tore through the man's throat in the blink of an eye, dropping him to his knees and sending him into a state of perpetual shock. And as blood leaked through his fingers, the boy laughed. That laugh made the man reel back in surprise as the howls and hoots shook the boy’s body. He looked at the looping scar that flashed silver in the lamplight, the scar that was a warning to the world of what the boy really was. He looked into the grinning boy’s eyes and saw the dark madness seething underneath his skin, it was almost like solidified anger was ready to burst from the confines of his flesh. Scrambling back in horror, the man tried to say stop, that he was sorry for whatever he thought he did, but he never got the chance, for the part of his throat that would have shaped his words was splattered across the stove. The second slug tore through his stomach and loins, slamming his intestines through his back and making acid spill from his gut like an old mossy wine. He would have screamed if he could, but the only sound that escaped his lips was a wet crackling sound that crawled across the floor and settled in his ears like fuzzy spiders. The third bullet took him in the mouth, making his teeth explode into shrapnel, and disintegrating his jaw in a burst of blood, bone and lead.
Jack sighed a contented sigh, feeling a sense of euphoria enter him as death swirled around him with the familiarity of an old friend. And as he drank the dead man’s sweet water, he smiled with the sense of satisfaction and fullness glowing in his gut like a good meal. He cleaned up the house, after burning the body and wiping off the blood, as he searched for anything that could be useful. Upon finding the old man’s blunderbuss, he swept it up in his arms and cradled it with him like a small animal as he settled down on the straw mattress. Making himself comfortable, he cuddled his new toy as the dark finally settled over the land, smearing a thick blanket of shadow on the world that could not hide the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh.
The air was crisp and clean, smelling of fresh linens that were hung out to dry in the sun. Laughter swelled in his chest as he ran to and fro with the light heart of a child, imagination quickening his step. The makeshift house came into vision, a peaceful existence with nothing to worry about except chores and the occasional storm that rattled the old skyscrapers encased in their sandy tombs. His mother was in the kitchen, cooking them dinner with the windows open to keep an eye on him. As he frolocked amungst the dirt and wind, he smelled the cloying scent of carrots, onions, and beef being cooked. She was short, with long dark hair and startlingly blue eyes that seemed to look into you and idly flip through your mind like an interesting book. But those eyes were not happy, they were frightened, very much so. And as he turned to see the approaching riders coming from behind him, the silver glint of a knife seared across his face, leaving him screaming and crying on the ground as they thundered past on horses that smelled of s**t and hay. He did not remember much of what happened next due to the searing liquid pain swimming through his brain, he barely remembered the riders torching his building with his mother still inside, the laughs and snorts as casks of whiskey were passed around, but then suddenly he was brought to crystal clarity by a hand grabbing his hair, pain crawling across and digging into his scalp like fire ants.”“What do we ‘ave ‘ere boys?” The thick voice slurred like porridge. He finally opened his eyes, and saw the scene before him, a scene he would never forget as long as he lived, and aye, he would live a long long life. The grass was stained red, his family’s cows and chickens littered the ground like dolls, with eyes wide open and necks slick with blood and saliva. But that was not what he was drawn to, he was drawn to the figure in the window of his smoking ruin of a house. Mounted to the wall by spikes through her hands like the blessed man jesus, was his mother. Her lively eyes that had been so intelligent just moments before were still and glassy, with no soul behind them like empty windows. The walls were painted in scarlet hues of blood, her flesh sizzling as the fire finally overtook her, the building crumbling down into the sandy gorge that had been his home as the smell of burning hair filled his nostrils. “Whats ‘te matter boy? Where’s momma?” The tears filled his eyes, blurring the world and distorting the image of the man’s face. But as he cried and shook with the effort of being held up by his hair, he saw the face of his mother’s murderer. He was dressed in a rawhide jacket, with a leather thong tied around his neck and thin gold spectacles resting on his nose that stood out from his weather beaten face. The tan skin, the blazing grey eyes, and the perfectly white, straight, smile seared into his mind like a hot poker. He screamed, letting his rage, his sadness, his loneliness, and his brokenness overcome the man’s strength. He felt his hair tear from his head as he pulled away, lurching across the bloody ground, and he lunged toward the man. The man was in some ways his creator, for he had been born again in his unholy womb of ash and burning hair. But he did not get to tear out his eyes, nor did he get to cut away that searing smile. He did not see the uppercut as it streaked through the air, hitting him square in the jaw and making blood run from his mouth in a river. The man cleared his throat with a phlegm filled cough, he said “boy, your mother was a w***e, and who knows who your father is. You're gonna wear out countless pairs of boots on your way to hell for her? Be my guest, I’d love to see you again someday and maybe you’ll be the one to put me down.” The man got to his feet, giving one final look at the boy before walking away in a cloud of dust and bone. The boy crawled after them, leaving a trail of blood that would span for miles. And as he crawled, he whispered out his future in hate filled words as the darkness of unconsciousness resulted in the stillbirth of his soul. "I will find you. Neither god nor devil can keep you from me.”
A slight noise made Jack slip out of the doors of sleep, propelling him back into the world in a burst of adrenaline. Sliding to his feet half naked with the blunderbuss, he swept his gaze around the room with his finger on the trigger. Motionless as a statue, he listened, tasted, and smelled for the intruder in his new home. He relaxed as he smelled wet fur, and upon relaxing, a dog entered the house through the unnoticed doggy door. Crouching with a popping and creaking of tendons, Jack swept his hand along the dog’s back and listened to the soft whimper of approval from the animal. The dog was not the sort you’d usually find, for it was not crippled, hungry, or scared. It was a German Shepard with brown and black fur that was matted down with water, with a soft muzzle that nudged Jack’s hand as if looking for approval from a master. “Shush, shush boy. It’s ok I’m here.” Jack cooed to the dog, letting his hand soothe the matted fur while letting his voice comfort the lost pup. “What’s your name boy?” The dog barked in response. “Well I can’t call you woof now can I?” Upon finding no colar, Jack took a handkerchief from the dead man’s table and tied it around the dog's neck, giving him a green bandana to mark his ownership. Standing in the dim shade of the shack, he said “I’ll keep you around, and if you survive long enough to have earned a name, I’ll think about giving one to you.” And with that Jack took his shirt, the man’s water, and his new friend with him as he continued to trek out across the sandy hills.
It was only a few miles away when Jack found a civilization of sorts, and as he crested yet another hill he saw a skyscraper protruding from the sand, people clustered around one of the many shattered windows. He stepped down from his crest, and immediately fell when the loose gravel didn't hold his weight. And with a not so manly cry, Jack was flung gaily down into the sand, rolling over and over toward the building. FInally coming to a stop, Jack waited with his eyes screwed shut as the dizziness faded from his sun-sickened mind. Looking up, he saw that he was surrounded, men and women wearing leather jackets and bandanas stood in a half circle around him, while the dog sat next to Jack. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” The voice rasped from one of the hidden mouths. “The name’s Jack, I just was wondering-” upon standing during his introduction, two of the leathers (for that was what Jack had temporarily named them) pointed rusty 1911’s at his head, while the others pulled out an assortment of shivs and spears. “-If you were friendly, and if you would be so kind as to let me share your shelter.” The leathers relaxed at his words, certain that a boy of no more than 15 was not a suicidal bandit or clever enough to kill all of them. “So, May I come in?” The tallest one, who seemed to be the leader for he carried a shotgun, said “yeah, as long as you keep this level of niceness I’ll let you in.” Smiling, Jack replied with his thanks, and so they headed down into the dark.