Chapter 24 – Dirty Bullets
On the first day after his exposure to the corrupted handgun, Bobby found himself compelled to return to the forest.
He walked all day, exploring in an ever-widening corkscrew fashion. He kept moving but never got far from home.
He saw none of the other kids.
He didn’t get hungry, or lonely or scared. Instead, he studied the forest, as if he were mapping it with his mind. He noticed every patch of brush, every rise and fall of the mountainous terrain. He watched the birds and the squirrels, and listened to their chattering, but didn’t attempt to translate it.
Late in the afternoon, Bobby noticed that the bronze shell casings had tarnished, accelerated by the oils in his hands, as he fondled at least one of the six cylinders almost constantly.
After returning home, Bobby approached his father, asking if they had any polishing products in the house.
Predictably his father asked, "What for?”
Bobby showed him the bullets.
Bobby's father felt his chest go tight. His breath caught in his throat. He looked at the naked shells. He felt consumed with energy and invigorated, just by the sight of the items in his young son's hand.
After a moment, Mr. Dunkirk didn't even know what it was that he was looking at, but he couldn't look away.
Bobby's arm grew tired. He lowered his hand.
His father stood in a daze, calm, quiet and distant. Bobby had forgotten what it was he'd asked his father for. The boy turned and left him in the hall.
A few moments later, Mr. Dunkirk snapped out of his trance and went to his own bedroom, overcome with fatigue.
Back in his bedroom, Bobby set the shells on his windowsill and settled in, watching them with mute fascination, as his father had. They seemed to speak to him; only he couldn’t say just what the message was.
Monday, June 29, 2308
On Monday morning, Bobby woke, dressed, ate breakfast and slipped out of the house. His father's car was already gone.
Bobby wandered down into the canyon, the bullets secure in his pocket.
Before long, he'd found a couple of the other neighborhood kids and shown them the shells. Together, they stood the shells on the bottom of the slide and took seats around them.
A pair of moms soon noticed their children and friends all sitting, staring at the foot of the slide.
They drifted over to investigate the strange phenomenon. By the time they were close enough to recognize the bullets, it was too late. They had entered the shells' sphere-of-influence and took seats on the wood-chip covered ground with the children.
Bobby noticed their arrival and considered the implications. He wondered if the adults would try and take his bullets. He wasn't afraid the other children might, but the presence of the two parents unnerved him.
A few minutes later, Bobby rose and picked up the bullets.
Several of the children rose with him, smiling, but not speaking.
Bobby smiled in return and walked from the slide toward the tree line a short distance away.
The crowd of children and adults followed Bobby from the playground into the overgrown forest.
They made their way down the pathways, wandering from gully to glen, until Bobby found a large, shade-ensconced rock.
Bobby climbed onto the rock as his disciples settled themselves around it.
Bobby stood the six brass shells on the smooth surface of the broad stone. It took him a moment to align them, but none fell or rolled away.
For the remainder of the afternoon, Bobby and his group communed with the debris - metallic flotsam, infected with a power never before encountered by modern men.
Mr. Dunkirk grew angry and irritable after his exposure to Bobby's bullets. He left meetings early and snapped at his staff. In the middle of the afternoon, he cancelled the remainder his schedule and rushed home.
Dunkirk arrived and asked after his youngest son. His older children, Evan and Anne hadn't seen Bobby, but guessed that he'd gone out into the forest. Mrs. Dunkirk was not at home, so Mr. Dunkirk decided to go looking for his son and those fascinating bullets.
Martin exited through the kitchen and down the tiered balconies at the back of the house. He stopped at the landscaping shed at the edge of the property. He hefted an old fashioned short-handled sledge. The ball of the hammer was a bit smaller than his fist, a heavy chunk of metal attached to the stout wood handle. It felt right in his hand.
Martin proceeded down into the darkening canyon. It took him the better part of two hours to stumble across Bobby and his silent entourage, sitting in the dark of twilight. He'd walked past them twice.
Quite certain they were alone; he came forward. No one turned at his approach. Bobby, facing his father from atop the rock, never even raised his eyes from the bullets.
Mr. Martin Dunkirk lifted the hammer high and brought it down with a thwack into the head of the woman to his right.
In her mid-forties and significantly overweight, Rhonda Tremaine's lifeless body fell to the side, her shattered skull pulling away from Martin's hammer with a sucking sound.
Martin raised the hammer again, bringing it down on the second woman. Younger, more attractive, but just as dead, Michelle Larson crumpled to the ground. Four more times that night Mr. Dunkirk raised his hammer, crushing the skulls of the children.
When he finished, Bobby raised his eyes, meeting his father's. In that single glance, it was clear that Bobby was the master of the bullets.
Martin could worship, but only with Bobby's permission.
The bullets would not permit any harm to come to their master.
The hammer slipped from Martin's grasp. Mr. Dunkirk wanted to sit with Bobby and the shells, but the corpses were in his way.
Bobby watched the reflections of moonlight on metal as his father carried the corpses to a narrow ravine a short distance from the glen.
Almost narrow enough to straddle, Martin dropped them and watched them tumble and crash forty feet to the bottom. Then he collapsed the sides of the defile around them, filling in the makeshift grave.
Finally, Martin joined his son in their silent communication with the infected bullets.
They were pleased with their ministers.
Bobby would remain their caretaker, seeking out converts during the day, and Martin would return at night, to keep the congregation small.
It worked for almost three whole weeks, until a previously planned family vacation upset their applecart of murder.