A flickering lone light, with a frayed string for a switch, illuminated the small room as it hung fastened to the ceiling. Worn shoes littered the floor. Clothing draped upon old metal hangers coated in dust and rot. Garments that held nothing of value for their former wearers, yet still acted as food for the moths. There were boxes stacked about whose contents held things of the past. Years were written along the sides, ordaining them with swift black sharpie. The undead thing reached down and pulled the top from one of the boxes; revealing a small black tablet inside; the kind that school children used in combination with chalk.

Picking up the tablet, the creature took its boney, filed down finger and began to etch and scribe. The screeching was far worse than human nails on a black board. And even after all this time, the girl still shuddered and clenched her teeth when she heard it. Once finished, the animated remains flipped the tablet around so that the girl could see.

“Truth?” she read. Sighing as she said it.

“No. At one time that may have been possible, but not now. Not ever.” The somberness that trailed along with her explanation was proof that she indeed believed what she said.

A knuckled finger came up as the corporeal entity scratched its head, obviously thinking while it stood. After a moment, it reached over and used the sleeve of a hanging coat to erase the board. The cloth held barely enough integrity to remove the markings before eventually disintegrating. Beginning again, the being wrote and marked the tablet. Turning the board to face the girl, it shrugged its shoulders as it revealed the newly written word.

 “Why?” the girl breathed the word as she spoke what was written. It was such small word, but was now wrapped in painfully apparent complexity.

 “Come on Endo, we have been over this.”

There was affection surrounded in sadness as she spoke. In the beginning, when they had first met, she used the nickname all the time. But as the years wore on, and the bizarre turned into the normal, the moniker had faded. The girl could not remember the last time she had used it.

“I understand. You want out. But if I do as you ask, how will I ever be loved? Who will have me should they know you exist?” The shakiness in her voice seemed to cause the creature to hang its head. Lacking muscle, its skull swung back and forth on an unsupported neck, vertebral column clicking while it did. Finally, reaching out, the undead being patted the girl’s hand in comprehension. For it had always acted with compassion and never anger.

Removing the hand, the entity’s attention once again returned to the writing tablet. This time it took much longer to scrawl what it desired. As it made harsh movements with its finger on the surface. When finished, the undead being glanced at the girl and then down at the board, repeating this several times. Looking very uncertain as to whether it should allow her to read what was written. Finally, it slowly pivoted a corner, and swung the board around so that she could see.

On the tablet’s face, the girl noticed that the prior question had been crossed out. Below it, there were four shaky words.

“Want. Life. Please. Free.”

The girl’s eyes could be seen filling as she read them. And for a time it appeared that they may indeed spill. But they didn’t. Instead, the ocular tide pools eventually receded and a vacant compassion returned.

“I am sorry Endo. It can never be. Don’t hate me. Not you.”

It was the girls turn to reach out then. She stroked the side of the creature’s jaunty face with a lover’s affection. Exactly where the flesh of the cheek used to be and could be again, were its wish granted. To be freed and given life renewed. But, as they both had found, secrets age differently than humans. And bones were now the only thing that was left.

“Please, would you-“ she sputtered.“Could you still-“ continuing with a choke.“Can you do this for me?” she finally managed to ask.

Even without lips, the undead being’s jaw lifted ever so slightly. The girl knew that it was offering a toothy smile. So she smiled, leaned forward, and kissed the beautifully hideous thing’s forehead. Then, pulling her lips away and removing her hand, she reached up and grabbed the string. Jerking directly downward so as to break the circuit and cut the power to the bulb. Darkness descended and then surrounded the creature. All except for the slivers of light that wrapped themselves around the girl’s silhouette standing solemnly in the doorway.

The former corpse gave a haunting wave while it stood waiting. But the girl did not return it. For the closing ceremony had already concluded. And with the remaining light fading, she closed the closet door, and allowed the vacuum black to once again envelope her skeleton.

“BOOM!!!”

Sound comes first, and then the scented smell of black powder. Twins each. Acting in destruction. Birthed with the firing of her weapon. The ancient rifle doing only as it was asked.

The plain-faced woman had been patiently lying on her stomach. Atop the high arid butte, staying still, four hours long. Doing her best to give credence to her instincts, allowing them to lead. She was surrounded on three sides by juniper trees and sage. The trees had at least fifty years of growth, not that you could easily tell. They didn’t get the water like the western part of the state. So their stretch to the sky was ever stunted. The limbs however still offered blessed shade from the sun’s burning. And for that, she was thankful. High desert summers were not the kindest of environments.

On the fourth side was an open view to the valley below.  Which was where she was facing, still bedded, holding her weapon. She looks through the scope and takes stock of the damage dealt. The lens brings her close, and she can clearly see the remainder of the scrawny pack scattering. Leaving the carcass that had attracted them. She glimpses the Alpha briefly, as he falters and then falls. Dust and sand rising in granular tan wisps from the collapse.  After a moment, when all is still, she pulls her eye away.

Shuffling her rifle to one side. She pushes herself up onto her knees. Rubbing her chest and bosom. Hoping to increase the blood flow back into the parts that have gone without. She then reaches up and pulls off her netted sun-scarred cap. Wiping her forehead with the back of a tanned hand.  Hot wind from the south begins to blow the loose wisps of her hair about her face. This causes a wilted sigh to escape her lips.  Moving towards the backpack at her side.  She removes a tattered blue starred handkerchief, a bruised metal canteen, and an old radio. Clicking the radio on, she uses her thumb to depress the talk button while saying

“Gerty to base, Gerty to base”

The crackle and hiss of white noise was her only response, washing away her voice. After a minute, she says again.

“Gerty to base, respond”

She waits several moments, when finally the smacking of lips and the chewing of words can be heard saying.

“Gerty, this is base, what’s your status?”

Chewing continues before the click of communications ceases. Her stomach growls at the sound of food being consumed.

“Rifle fired, potential kill, headed down to confirm, over”

“Roger that-” the sound of tongue juggling the food stops the speaker for a moment, then he finishes “-stay safe”

“Copy base, Gerty out” and she clicks the radio off and sets it inside her backpack.

Unscrewing the canteen’s stiff cap, Gerty places the handkerchief to the open top and allows the water to seep and dampen it. Adequately wet by her judgment, she pulls the fabric to her forehead, neck, and head. A sigh of relief escapes her lips, as she sops the heat that is radiating from her body. Bringing the can to her mouth, she takes several long, hard pulls. It travels over and down her chapped lips and parched throat.  Feeling the cool crisp flood eventually fill her stomach.

Dropping the container from her face, Gerty squints through heat waves and sun blur. From this distance, she can barely make out the area where the animal should lay. Normally a feeling of pride or accomplishment would root. But her mind meets only the oily sense of lingering disgust. As it wanders through thoughts on how she came to arrive here.

“Gerty!” Denton had yelled to her from his office.

“Yeah Dent?”

“Get yer ass in here, would’ja?”

She had been using their GIS system to map last known locations of some of the local wildlife. It was important that the animals appear accurately as they track them throughout the year. Being right in the thick of it, she hated to stop. So with some reluctance, Gerty had risen from her desk and walked over to her supervisors’ office.

Rounding the corner and entering the door, she found Denton Jeffries, a lanky man of about fifty, hunched over a freshly printed map. Holding a small stained paper with coordinates in one hand, the other had been using a sharpie to mark the locations. Sensing she was there, he didn’t stop, just kept on placing points on his map.

“Come and take a look” he ordered

Gerty walked over to the table and looked down. Already displayed, were pre-printed deer and elk icons indicating the whereabouts of the herds.  She also noticed other images representing different wildlife. Wolf, cougar, bear, were just a few that stuck out.  Denton’s red markings were the only visual representation that felt awkward. And after studying the data for a couple of minutes, Gerty finally asked.

“So what exactly are we lookin’ at?”

“Domestics” came the one word response.

Shock acting as a lasso, encircled her lungs. Causing her to shudder while sucking the air swiftly between cheek and gum.

“Really?”

“Yuuuuuup.” Denton’s bottom lip popped as he said it. Still placing strokes on the map.

“Local reporting?” she asked hopefully.

“Nah, it is verified. I sent Lawson and McAdam out on Monday and this-” waving his index finger about the page in indication. “-well, this is what they came up with.”

Rising from his stoop, Denton capped the pen and turned to her continuing. “The fellas counted over nine-teen different packs with approximately twelve to fourteen animals in each”

Gerty whistled a long, low, note. Astonished.

“Dent, I know I ain’t been here that long. But this don’t seem all that regular.” she said.

“It’s not. This is the worst I’ve seen.” Which was quite a statement.  At least coming from a man who had lived through so much. Denton’s time with the Bureau of Land Management was the stuff others only dreamt they would experience in their career.

“Gerty, I hate to ask this, but they are starting to compete with the local game. We need you to head out and-” He looked down at his feet, emotion stalling his request as his words seemed to catch. For coming across like an old hard-ass, Denton had more heart than people knew, and hated the thought of killing. Always saying he didn’t have the stomach and that he was meant to ‘organize and appreciate’. It was interesting to see someone this weathered, acting in such a way.

“Oh, I getcha.” Her voice spilled in soft acknowledgement. Sparing Denton from having to further his request.

“I’d do it myself, but I’m headed to Portland for our-“

“How long should I pack for?” She interrupted. Not allowing him to finish his explanation.

With obvious relief, he answered.  “Bout two weeks I reckon. Full gear.”

The conversation, she recalled, had wrapped itself around details from that point forward. But she remembered wondering if she would be able to do it. Now, twelve days and thirty-two animals later, she was keenly aware of the fact she could.

They talk of the baby to be, of the life that is living and will breathe. Of the girl growing in the woman this very moment. They dream of what she will look like. What she will smell like. What she will taste, touch, and feel like.

And the elderly man looks and listens of them. While gripping his splintering cane and sucking the cream from his dentures.  He comprehends what most don’t, the history and the making of it. And he is envious of the couple’s grand new stage. Of the cycle they now live. Politely jealous of the joy that is written so plainly.  He misses it, the love, the warmth. So apparent, so alive. The future still unset casting out rays of hope.

The old one knows, of what is to come. The love and the loss. The first giggle and tear. He still smells the diapers, as they fill with baby waste. Which in turn reminds him of his own. Disgusted with the garment he himself must now wear.

“One hell’ofa turn-a-round, this ol’ life” the elderly man mutters. Habit causing his tongue to flick out and lick the drool, as it tries to trail down a ravine-like wrinkle in his chin.

He hears the laughter of the children and feels the thumps of their feet. Running to Christmas morning. To the tree and the presents beneath. The bike rides, the classes, the dances, and the driving. He sits and remembers.

Like soap suds coasting on wash water. Floating over top of their purpose. Some of his memories are not exact, for his mind grows ever weaker. But the thoughts still contain enough color to show the meaning.  More subtle indication, than a placement of exact time and space. Not that anyone cares but him. Not that anyone dares to care.

Closing his eyes, he envisions the black Oldsmobile with a lone painted star. Which carried the clergy, who held the letter, that opened the news, to the death of his son. This was not a shy recollection, this was a wave. That easily washed and swept his heart along. The ache from the loss, the anger from the theft, it was enough to break him even there. Sitting on his bench.

He remembers her, the feel of his wife. The shake of her laughter or the shudder of her release. Through sex and lust. Through pain and pleasure. Finally revealing his inner most self, his fragile heart. Chancing and succeeding at a true, great love. He remembers her.

Looking at the couple still walking in their happiness, he whispers out “Once, you and I were them, but now they are us”

And the old man uses his crooked cane to pull himself to his feet. Then raises his hand and kisses his worn wedding ring. Still firmly set on it’s finger. Gimping forward he says “I love you Marie” to the one he hopes still hears.

For it is his only hope left. That love still listens.