The sound of thunder woke me and I found myself shaking from the memories that still haunted me. It was six months ago that I laid on that bed in Grimsby, but as I traced over the many scars inflicted upon me that night, I realized that some pains would never cease.
The sky was painted in dark clouds, rain would soon fall and we’d be ankle deep in mud, unless we carried on towards the town doubtfully named Janestown. I had only the old man’s assurance that we were headed in the right direction but Billy’s reaction had me wondering if we were headed in the right way, or into a trap he knew about. And if the boy did, in fact, know of a trap, I wasn’t likely to get a word out of him.
Billy was too young to make sense of the violence he’d seen, but going mute was a new experience for me, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Unlike the old man, who seemed to get on my nerves, the boy was a survivor where many other men had died around him, and yet he was still just that scared little boy that clutched on tightly to whatever he could for comfort. In this case it was the saddle blanket that kept him safe and secure.
“Hey, old man,” I whispered, prodding him with a stick he’d picked up earlier to walk with, “are you awake?”
No response for the old timer. “You’d better get up. I reckon the rain’s ‘bout to drown us. We should get packed up before that happens.”
Still nothing, “get up or I’ll be leaving you behind” I said, as I grabbed hold of his shoulder. The old man rolled over without resistance, his eyes a milky white. He was dead, and likely had been for several hours.
“Goddamn,” I muttered under my breath. I‘d asked for it, hell, I wanted nothing more than to be rid of the old man’s relentless stammering. Yet, I had a lump in the back of my throat that wouldn’t go away—a reminder of the horrible thoughts I wished upon the old man. It wasn’t the first thing I’ve come to regret in my line of work.
There it was, the first few drops but it would get a lot worse. There was a belief among the people of the land that the rain was the plight of angels, their cries drowning the ground below in sorrow.
I had a different theory. The rain was just a warning, a precursor of things to come. The angels weren’t weeping for their children, no; they were too busy worrying about themselves. When the great cataclysm happened, Heaven was just as shocked as the rest of us. The endless war had begun. Some called it Armageddon, and others simply refused to acknowledge its existence, sticking their heads in the sand and praying that what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them
That’s what the angels did, too, and I’ve been reminded often how well that turned out. The war was on our front doorstep and Heaven didn’t give a damn about us. To them, we’re all just causalities of war.
The downpour came and with it the reality I was trying desperately to avoid. Things were going to get a lot worse before they got better. I knew it and I’m pretty sure the old man knew it, as well.
There wasn’t time to bury him and the downpour put an end to any thoughts of cremation. I had to leave him; he’d be food for the creatures of the night, the ones that hunted without remorse or prejudice. At least he died a free man. Perhaps that was enough for him and he finally allowed himself to succumb to death’s embrace.
I had everything packed within minutes and Billy awake after being deprived of his comforting blanket. The boy wrinkled up his face and extended his arms toward me when I told him about the old man. His lip was quivering and the tears started shortly after. I lifted him onto Betsy, I made a promise to that old man, and I’d see it through to the end.
Billy tugged on my duster, his hands slipping on the oil slicked coating to get my attention, still refusing to speak a word. I didn’t need to hear what the boy had to say to understand, I was thinking the same damn thing.
“Don’t look back, boy,” I said, pulling on Betsy’s reins. “He’s in a better place now… and I reckon he’d be happy to see us on our way.”