The Dark Roads (20 page)

His heart raced, adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream, as a second pair of boots joined the first. Richie’s hand was gripping the handle of his weapon so tightly that it hurt.

Pain. Pain would help him to stay in all of this. He knew that stress brought the attacks on, which would be much worse than usual for him just now, but pain would keep him awake. He squeezed the handle tighter, feeling his hand cramp. His finger was wrapped onto the trigger of the gun and he was ready to use it. His vision, though already limited, began to fuzz around the edges.

The first pair of boots was close now, inches from his face, but the second had stayed back a few feet. Richie thought the second man was a little too far away. If he'd get just a foot closer, Richie would be at the advantage. He soon realized that the ideal was not going to happen. He would have to go at them as they were.

Richie breathed deeply, trying to keep his mind and body under control. He felt a tremor in his left shoulder, wondered how long he’d really been laying in that position, and suddenly lost sight of everything in front of him.

The world changed. One moment he was looking at the badly abused pavement as two men stalked toward him, the next was filled with the image of his bathroom mirror. He was glaring at his own reflection, the old version of him who’d been clean, civilized, blind, even with the possession of both eyes, to the way things would soon be.

“No!” he shouted at the mirror, “Not this!”

His fists balled, the impotent way his mind seemed to function provoking a rage in him. He couldn’t be here now. This was the dream and he couldn’t let this happen. Desperation was the only true feeling in that moment.

The mirror disappeared, his vision changing to the one-eyed focus, and he saw the boots flash in and then out again. The mirror. The pavement. His reflection. Two worlds were mingling in his vision, creating a sickening double vision that left him nauseated and confused.

Richie pawed for some grasp on reality as the mirror solidified, but felt only the radio from his bathroom in his right hand.

He looked at the object he’d picked up from the dream counter with a stumbling idea forming in his mind. The next moment was filled with the sound of breaking glass as he pulled back and threw the radio against the mirror.

“The night is real!” he shouted as the glass shattered, revealing the real world at the very last second in which survival could be had.

Just as one of the boots raised to nudge his shoulder, Richie spun toward its owner, his leg becoming trapped below the rest of his body, and fired one barrel into the man's stomach. He pointed the unspent barrel at the other man, who'd been badly caught off guard, and put a shell into his chest. Both went down, but neither was dead.

Richie scrambled for the dropped weapon from the first man, an aluminum baseball bat with a dented barrel, snatched it from the asphalt, and clubbed the first man quickly. The second man was pulling himself away, his own weapon still in his hand. Richie bludgeoned him with the bat, leaving him as dead as the first.

The aluminum bat fell to the pavement, discarded so that Richie could reload the shotgun and go to his friends. The bandana he’d tied over his forehead was drenched with sweat, but still working to keep his eye clear. His hands were shaking marginally, but that would not stop him from running.

***

Elvis was bleeding badly, so badly that he didn't know if he could move at all. His leg was a blaze of agony and blood. He was having trouble staying aware of what was going on, couldn't be sure if he was even still being targeted by their enemies. He was growing desperate. He didn't want to shout for his friends, couldn't even be sure that he had a shout left in him, but he didn't have much of a choice. He knew that his shouting might make the feeders aware that there was at least one more of his group in the area, but he would need help soon no matter the cost.

"Buddy!" He yelled as loudly as he could manage, "I'm hurt Buddy!"

No one responded. Elvis was sure that the gunfire was louder than
he
could be. He wanted to close his eyes. Elvis was tired and hurting and nothing would be more pleasurable than to just shut the pain out.

He glanced down at where he was sitting, noted that there was a sizeable puddle of blood beneath him, and laughed. He looked to his waist, thinking that maybe he could tie the leg up with his belt, but he'd stopped wearing a belt long ago.

He laughed again, before tears began to fall down his cheeks. He wished for his friends, wanted to talk to them one more time. He shook his head at how stupid he'd been. His eyes closed.

"Elvis has left the building," he whispered as he coasted away.

***

"Two more left," Buddy said to himself, "Got all but two."

He was out of ammo, having left a clip behind when he'd made his run, and didn't know what to do with the
nothing
that he had left. He thought about trying to go back, but wasn't sure if he'd be able to get out from behind his hide in a secretive fashion. The shooters were still pouring their guns out on the vehicle by which he hunkered, and even two men shooting was enough to make him think twice about making a run for it.

"Fuck," Buddy said, "What now?"

Richie answered him with soft quick footsteps. Buddy looked for his friend, noticing the form running down the center of the road, using the lack of attention that the two men were paying. He was closing, the coach in hand, and would be upon the last of their attackers soon.

Buddy, hoping that he could keep them looking his way, untied one of his boots and yanked it off. He threw the thing behind him, toward the cannibals. They took the bait, turning at the movement and continuing to spend what seemed like an unlimited amount of ammo.

Buddy stayed in his crouch, hoping to hear the coach roar. When he did hear the gun, fired twice behind him, it was the last weapon fire of the evening.

"Elvis!" Richie yelled, "Buddy!"

"Here!" Buddy shouted, immediately thinking of homeroom attendance in high school.

"Elvis!" Richie hollered again, "We're clear!"

There was no response. Buddy rose to his feet, his legs turning to pins and needles as he let blood flow to them again. He pointed to where Elvis was hiding. Both Buddy and Richie ran to it.

Their friend came into sight a little at a time, his feet splayed out in front of him. They could see the blood on the ground as his midsection came into view. When the rest of Elvis was revealed, both men fell to their knees beside him, Buddy feeling for a pulse.

Richie watched him, his vision blurring. Buddy began to lightly slap his cheeks, repeating his name over and over again. Richie knew, almost without checking, that Elvis was gone. The blood on the ground, too much blood, was the dark red of arterial blood. The pale peaceful look on his face would be the one that Richie tried to keep out of his mind for the rest of his life.

"Fuck me," Buddy croaked, "Jesus."

Richie didn't speak. Words wouldn't do justice to what he felt just now, not even if they were used to say goodbye to a friend that had always been there. He touched the pocket watch against his chest and wished that this was the dream instead of a dreadful reality.

"We need to bury him," Buddy said, "I don't want to leave him in the sun, okay?"

Richie nodded, still unable to speak. They would take care of their friend as best they could. They would protect him from the sun.

***

They spent most of that night digging. They had one small spade that Buddy had always used to bury rats and Richie's pocket knife. Mostly they loosened the dirt with their tools and scooped it by hand. It was hard work, but they were determined. By three a.m. the grave was mostly dug, a copious pile of soil standing just to one side.

Amanda came to them from time to time with water, a steady stream of tears mapping clean streaks through the dirt on her face. She stayed away for the most part, tending to Elvis as best she could.

Amanda cleaned his face and hands, making sure to wipe away any trace of blood that she found. There was a lot of it under his fingernails and she'd had to borrow Richie's pocket knife to scrape them. His clothes were dirty, one side of his shorts terribly matted with his life's blood, but they had none to replace them with. She never broke down during the task, but there were times when she felt her heart break open for her lost friend.

Richie wished that he'd learned some song from Elvis that he could sing or hum, but he hadn't put in the time to do such things. Elvis was supposed to always be there. It was an unfair world that had taken this man from their company and he cursed it for such cruelty. There had always
been
Elvis, therefore there should always
be
Elvis.

Buddy stayed silent. The others couldn't read his thoughts, but Richie had known Buddy for a lot of years. He knew that guilt would be the primary emotion as it was for Richie. Either of them could have done something different or predicted the way it would all happen. Either of them could have saved their companion, their brother, if they'd just thought a bit harder. Hindsight, as always, is 20/20.

When they laid Elvis into his grave, just a hole somewhere in Canada, neither of them cried. They said very little as it would be impossible to express the depth of this loss. The dry dirt spread across Elvis' chest with each handful, both men reluctant to scoop the soil onto his face. When, finally, there was no choice, Buddy was the one to cover Elvis' features. When they'd enclosed him completely, Richie let out a sob, a wretched one so full of pain that Buddy could no longer hold back his own tears. Such loss could never be expressed through anything less than the weeping of men.

It only took them an hour to finish burying Elvis, who had walked this earth with them for so many years. It was such a short time that Richie couldn't believe that they were finished. He looked around them, hoping for some way to mark his grave appropriately. Nothing stood out.

"Can you draw something in the dirt?" Buddy asked quietly.

"It won't last for long."

"Nothing ever does."

Richie nodded, sitting down off to the side of the grave and picking up his pocket knife. He began to draw.

Buddy watched him, reluctant to leave before the job was done. He saw what Richie was making for Elvis, his tears darkening the soil from time to time as he carved the image into the earth. Buddy smiled, knowing that it fit, knowing that Elvis would laugh about it from where ever he was now. He added some of his own water to the soil.

The two men, who once were three, walked away from a freshly turned mound of earth. If you saw the area from their level you might be able to make out the image that served as a gravestone for Elvis, but you would know immediately if you saw it from above. An acoustic guitar, more detailed than you might have thought was possible, was painstakingly etched in the ground along with the name "Elvis".

***

Goodwin, AB

May 15, 2021

9:46 PM  80*F

Buddy and Richie walked with the ghost of Elvis down a two-lane road still many miles from the border that separated Canada and Alaska. Their eyes were always searching, looking for threats, looking back for the friend they'd lost, and searching again.

Both men were scarred, one who now only had one good eye and a ruined patch of mottled skin on the left side of his face, the other with a thick burrow that went from the middle of his left cheek to his jaw line. Buddy hadn't felt the graze of the bullet when it'd found him, but he would always have the reminder of the battle, and the loss, etched into his skin for all the world to see. They shared one other scar, but it was upon the earth rather than flesh, a small plot where a good man lay, protected from the rays of the sun.

They were quiet company for the others. Amanda, Dylan, and Abby stayed behind them, allowing plenty of space for the grieving men. Amanda was one of them, had become close with their fallen friend, but still she remained an outsider to the true friendship the three men had shared. She held nothing against them for that fact. No ill feelings existed. She understood the depth of their love for one another, brothers in truth rather than blood.

Amanda's night was spent hand-in-hand with Abby. She did her best to keep the girl moving without much complaint. When her tears came from time to time, they were silent and not fretted upon.

Dylan was quiet and brooding, but required nothing from the others, so nothing was offered. Abby looked to him once in a while with a shy smile. He returned it each time, but looked pained as she glanced away.

Richie's mind wandered from the road, slipping along the cracks of sunlight in his mind. He thought about the last sleeping venture he'd made into the dream, finding Benny in his quiescent world. Would Elvis haunt him now, waiting at his kitchen table with a beaten guitar in hand?

It was peculiar that he saw Elvis that way now. He hadn't even known that his friend could play the instrument until recently, but it had become a descriptive part of his picture of the man he'd called a companion for so many years.