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.

Why?

My family has always liked my stories. And I grew up in a no bull-shitin’ family. If it was good, it was good. And if it was bad, well it was bad. Plus, I have a hard time connecting with my Mom. I think we are just too alike. So because I enjoy writing and feel that I have a knack for it, I have taken to putting thoughts on digital paper again. To say “I love you” to those I have a hard time saying it to. And as a simple, yet effective therapy.

Really? Therapy?

Well, yeah. Writing is therapy for my mind as it is caught in Anxiety’s web. And the more thrashing my mind does, the more it becomes entangled.  Anxiety that is based on wanting to control and keep safe. An impossible goal. Which is something that I have always struggled with. The wanting to hold on, the desire to keep and protect. But after death entered my world, my mind was left split. It still wanted to love and shelter those around it, but it now knew that it never could. That life would do what life wills.

And here enters the anxiety attacks. And please understand something, I am an insanely logical person. I analyze data and build structures for a living. So if you were to ask my opinion on anxiety attacks pre cataclysm, I would have arrogantly said.

“People need to get their shit together” and would have believed it too.

Where I find myself now, is in a pretty humbled place. I understand with authority that the mind is insanely powerful. That it is beyond our comprehension and may always be. That grief and fear can turn physical, and some of us now must work hard to not allow it to do so.

Sounds insane? Yeah maybe, but it is real. No doubt it is as real as anything in this world.

To reference what I wrote above, writing takes my mind off the web of control. It stops the fear with the understanding of the following.

-No matter how much I want to keep my loved ones safe, I can only do so much
-The web can’t hold me if it is not recognized
-I have to do what everyone else does, and let it go

Writing helps me let go.

Finished with her canteen and handkerchief, Gerty places them inside her pack. Zipping the pocket closed. She wraps her arms through the straps and stands in one fluid motion. Setting her cap on her head, she then bends over and picks up her rifle from where it was resting on the ground. Carrying it against her shoulder, her dry, chalky hike down the butte begins.

Walking through brush, carefully stepping to disturb as little as possible, she subconsciously takes in the desert. The smell of dry rotting wood, as it lies fallen baking in the sun. Insects buzzing through the air searching for water. Ground Chucks running rapidly from cover to cover, their little limbs flailing against the soil on which they move.

She finally starts to glimpse the body of the one she shot. From this distance, she can see that it was once a beautiful male. As she gets closer, more details start to emerge.  A bit of the left ear is missing from an obvious scrap. Sap and grime cling in clumps to the fur. An open wound, glistening in his chest, where her bullet had struck clean. Blood slowly seeping from the body and into the sand beneath, which is always thirsty for moisture.

Kneeling down next to the animal, Gerty sizes it up. Guessing that it is somewhere in the neighborhood of ninety pounds. No fat, pure muscle. Awestruck, she begins to run her hands over the coat. Golds, browns, and blacks cover most of the body. As her hands explore, she feels the tendons beneath, growing tight from rigor. On to the muzzle, her fingers lift lips that reveal sizable teeth. The damage resulting from a bite would be painfully destructive. Using the canines to gauge his age, she figures that he is about 4-5 years old.

It is then, that she spies the hair around the scruff. It is matted and thickened in a way that demands to be reviewed. Running her fingers along the neck, she feels some form of weaving underneath. With noticeable alarm, she stumbles upon a small lump and her mouth starts to dry. Pulling out her knife, Gerty trims away the tangled excess. After a time, when most of the hair around the area is cut short, she finds what is entwined beneath. A collar and tag wrapped around the dead animals neck. Hesitantly, Gerty flips the metal over between thumb and index finger. “Buddy” could be plainly seen engraved on the tag, which held the shape of a bone. Inscribed directly beneath the name, was the address and phone number of the owner who had left him.  As if burned, Gerty stumbles back. Truth acting as heat in it’s severity.

One time when she was young, Gerty had been walking in the forest with her Great-Grandmother and their German Shephard “Belle”. An hour into their walk, a black bear had stumbled out onto the trail. Belle had moved to place herself between the bear and those she loved, while a low guttural growl rose in the hollows of her throat. The hair on the dog’s back could be seen as evidence, standing on end, proving her discontent. Sniffing for a moment, the black bear’s head bobbed and weaved. And then, with no explanation, turned and left. Once the bear was out of sight, Gerty turned to her Great-Grandmother and with fear still resident in her voice asked.

“What would we have done? If the bear had attacked?”

And her Great-Grandmother,  a woman who had lived through a depression, looked down at her and said “We would have run. People are more important than animals, even dogs. Don’t you ever forget that.” And remembering this, Gerty continued to stare dumbfounded at the body before her.

For almost two weeks, she had been hunting them. On plain, on butte, and on hill. Spending her day with justification as her guide. As she tried to picture these dogs as wild beasts. Ones with no home, that were cared for by no one. But here, before her, she was confronted with obvious history. This kill had been fundamentally the same as the others, but yet it’s difference felt unequivocal. And there was no escaping her thoughts, forming in their speculation.

Buddy probably slept on the children’s bed. He barked to guard the family he loved. Without being asked, he would die for the family he loved.  But as times grew tougher, his unconditional love was not enough. The family no longer had the money to afford the comforts of their lifestyle and still provide for their trusty companion. So they loaded him up, drove out into the desert, and threw his ball as far as they could. And while he obeyed, they left. Not looking back. Buddy would return to the spot of the throw, faithfully, ball in mouth.Waiting long, he would whine and pine. Trying and failing to understand the betrayal. Only the eventual instinct to go and quiet his increasing hunger. And as more of his four-legged companions were brought and discarded, their appetite would grow too. Abandoning Gerty, to the job of cleaning up the disowned.

Returning her knife to her pocket, she set down her backpack and rifle. Then grabbed the camping shovel strung to the pack’s side. With great heaves she began to dig up the hard igneous ground.  Laboring to open the sorry dry earth, for this poor dead animal. Resolute in her conviction to bury the dog. To recognize that he had been, and always will be, valuable. Even if no one could see it, not ever her.

Damn us she thought Damn us and our selfishness

And the hole grew, and grew, and grew.

“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.