Anonymous
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Water splashed over the wanderer's face with the qualities of a baptism, the wind rustling leaves and playing god with the spindly, sickly trees surrounding the shallow creek in southern Monroe County. The sun slowly set past their line, the thousand year old formation standing tall even throughout these dreadful times. The wanderer thought to himself what it must take to survive for so long, and then remembered - he had. It was eleven and a half years since the Oculurubrus ended the world order as they all knew it, human civilization being pushed to the brink of collapse, survived only by fledgling nation states and small communities of survivors dotted across the world's surface. One such community was the settlement of Monroe - a settlement of which this wanderer was a part of, and had been for the past two years. He had headed north to look for peace in Canada, finding 'peace' in upstate New York instead. And so he sat on the bank of this creek, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette made of scavenged tobacco and a page of the bible, reflecting on his time in the wasteland on that peaceful autumn day.
His horse, Stonewall, drank from the creek just a ways down, standing vigil over the shabby camp the wanderer had established earlier that morning. A place to stay the night on his latest excursion outside the safety of Monroe, only to be packed up and replaced the next day. A somewhat fitting metaphor for the fragility of human life, he thought - but not for long. He was hungry, and he had been tracking a deer for the past few hours. It was evening, and he had tracked the deer down the creek. He established camp and prepared his supplies for the hunt, a bundle of long lasting homemade pemmican accompanied by a hand crafted bow and arrows. The march began down the creek, carefully following the animal's tracks - quietly stalking his prey. He stuck to the tracks like glue, becoming more and more fresh as the minutes turned to an hour, an hour gone by without any sign of the beast. It took him a while longer to pick up the trail again, catching sight of the creature another mile or so down the creek. He readied his arrow, raising the bow and drawing the string back. He was never the best shot, but it was an easy one to make - the deer was drinking from the creek, sticking his head up every few seconds to check for danger, presumably. A thought crossed the wanderer's mind, a thought of how hard this deer must have tried to stay alive - a thought discarded after a few seconds as he released his arrow, sending it straight into the deer's neck. It collapsed on the ground, writhing in pain as the wanderer checked his surroundings, cautiously making his way over. He pulled his knife from it's leather sheathe, finishing the deer off as a final act of mercy to the poor beast. He hauled the deer up onto his horse, tying it down before mounting the brown and white piebald saddlebred, his closest friend for many years and his savior in more than a few situations. The journey began back to his makeshift camp.
Everywhere around him, he saw reminders of the season - trees bare without leaves, clustered in orange piles on the ground below. The creek seemed barren of fish, but he thought to try for some - better than the pemmican he had brought along, at any rate. Returning to his camp, he hitched his horse to the post he had drove into the ground, leaving the deer secure from the insect population atop the beast. Night fell, and the noisy crackle of the fire permeated through the clearing. He had managed to catch two smallmouth bass, pan fried over the roaring fire they made a hearty meal for the wanderer. His goal was to bring the deer back to Monroe - fresh meat was becoming sparser and sparser, and a full sized deer could bring a much needed morale boost to the settlement. The wanderer shared his fish with Stonewall, reading from his worn copy of 'The Authentic Life of Billy, the Kid', he ate in silence, the crackle of the fire and the gentle run of the water the only audible sounds in the darkness of the night. So, when he heard the far off laughter of a group of men, it was clear as day what was coming for him. He snuffed out his fire, tucking the book back in his satchel and quickly finishing the rest of his meal. He sprung to his feet, pulling the sawn off pump action shotgun from his horse's saddle - fully loaded, for use in emergencies. He unhitched Stonewall from the post, leading him down the creek slightly into some better concealment, laying in ambush in some solid ground above the camp. The wanderer waited.
And waited.
And waited, but the sound of the group didn't come any closer than they did from where he first heard them. He collected his horse, his things, and opted to set off for Monroe in the middle of the night - when he heard a man scream, begging for his life. He was stricken with a guilty conscience, opting against all good judgement to head towards danger, instead of taking his quarry - the deer - back to Monroe. With a sigh and a tug of his horse's lead, he hitched Stonewall to one of the relatively concealed trees - leaving the beast with a few pats and a stroke of it's mane before prowling through the ankle-high water, heading towards the disturbance. He kept himself low to the ground as he approached the scene, the glow of a low fire becoming more and more obvious as he approached. He kept the shotgun close to his side as he looked over the situation. Two men in front of one, the third clearly the victim. He'd seen it all before, but not from this angle. They had strung a rope around his neck, having tossed it over a strong branch of the tree they stood under. One of the men held onto the rope, tugging it upwards in intervals - lifting the victim a foot or so off the ground each time, holding him there before releasing, letting him catch his breath. The wanderer relented, considering heading back to Monroe one last time - before he was betrayed by the man he was considering saving. The victim called out to the wanderer, begging for help - alerting the two bandits to his precense. Cursing under his breath, the wanderer stepped out - sawn off pump action in his right hand, it's sling draping low. He raised both up to shoulder level as he slowly approached the alerted bandits, looking between the pair of amateurs calmly.
"My brothers!" The wanderer exclaimed, wearing a jolly smile on his face as the two looked on in confusion, one brandishing a knife - the other a lead pipe wrapped in barbed wire. "Beautiful night for a lynching, ain't it?" He carried on, getting closer and closer with each word - the bandits seemingly dumbstruck that they had been found by anyone, let alone observed for such a period of time. "Don't worry, boys. Boss-man sent me down here to question this feller, has some beef with him. We're on the same side, here!" The wanderer exclaimed, the two bandits looking between each other in confusion - questioning it between themselves. The wanderer took this time to strike, tossing the shotgun to the ground, pulling his knife from it's sheathe. He charged the one in front, with the pipe, tackling him to the ground. Couldn't have been more than nineteen, and when he looked up at the wanderer, face covered as it was, all the man on top could see was a scared boy. It didn't stop him from driving the knife straight into the boy's carotid artery over and over again, the other bandit watching in terror. As the wanderer pulled the knife out of the boy's neck, arterial spurt having covered his fire-lit face in blood, the knife wielding bandit charged from his previous spot near the rope. The victim watched on in horror and anticipation as the wanderer sprang to his feet from the corpse, kicking up some dust in the process - dousing the fire. The wanderer took a few steps back, the bandit mindlessly lunging at the man before him - jabbing the knife towards his stomach. He deftly dodged out of the way, adopting a stance - getting ready for the fight to come. The bandit looked on in rage and fear, pulling a second knife from a sheathe behind his back. The wanderer was, for lack of a better term, outgunned. He kept his left arm close to his chest in guard as the two fighters circled one another, resembling a gladiatorial bout of ancient Rome. The two gladiators kept their eyes locked on one another, anticipating the other's move. It came in the form of a feint, the wanderer feinting left - the bandit taking the bait. The wanderer dragged the knife across in a slashing motion as the bandit moved in to take advantage, leaving a gash over the latter's lower abdomen. Taking advantage of the pain, the wanderer charged the bandit - intent on tackling him to the ground as he did his friend, but finding less success in the attempt. The two men wrestled in front of the victim and the corpse of the young bandit, the older, more seasoned bandit using his additional knife to poke a hole in the wanderer's side, just below the heart - narrowly avoiding a swift, embarrassing death. He couldn't let it end here, all those years of fighting, experience, just to die to a two-bit thug. Finding a second wind after taking the wound, he sent a headbutt straight for the bridge of the bandit's nose, knocking him off guard momentarily. He thrust the blade of the knife into the man's stomach again and again, twisting and pulling as he did - turning his insides into mush, releasing his intestines on the ground below. The fight ended with a push, sending the mortally wounded bandit crashing back into a large rock behind them, both of the knives he had used falling to the ground, landing with a thud. The wanderer looked on at both dead men - little more than boys, but they knew what they had gotten into when they did.
Sheathing his knife, he half-heartedly held his hand against the stab wound in his left side, making his way over to the fear-paralysed victim on the ground. He looked over the sorry excuse for a man, questioning why he had even bothered saving him. He looked around, considering his options - a meak "T-thank you..." escaping the victim's lips, eyes wide with terror as he looked on at the slaughter that had just taken place. The wanderer was not so easily won over, however, and he took over where the bandits had left off - grabbing hold of the rope on the ground. He pulled the victim to his feet with his free hand, holding him by the collar as he yanked on the rope, tugging him off the ground. "Give me one good reason not to leave you swinging from this tree, right now." The wanderer barked, holding the victim above the ground for a few more seconds - letting him strangle before letting him fall down onto the ground, winded. The victim looked up at the wanderer with teary eyes, shaking his head "I have nothing, I swear! I-I-I don't know anything!" he desperately screamed, but alas - the wanderer was not so easily pleased. He yanked the rope up once more, bringing him higher than last time. He let the man hang suspended for a few more seconds than before, leaving him purple in the face by the time he let go of the rope. "What'd these guys want with you?" The wanderer asked, lowering himself down to the victim's eye level. He grabbed hold of the man's hair, yanking his head up so he could look him in the eye. The victim spluttered, begging and pleading "I don't know, I don't know - please! Just .. please!" he carried on, the wanderer, again - not satisfied. He looked around, letting go of the victim's hair before looking back at him. "You know, these fools - they ain't got a clue. I can make this night a whole lot worse for you. I just saved your goddamn life and you ain't willing to give me nothing for my trouble?" The wanderer reasoned, resting his hand over his knife's hilt - bleeding from the wound in his left side. The victim pondered for a moment, the visible hesitation being picked up on by the wanderer - a fatal slip, if you will. "I don't -- I do--." The victim started before the wanderer began to unsheathe his knife. "Fine, fine! Fuck!" The victim acquiesced, sitting up. The wanderer stayed crouched, sliding his knife back into it's sheathe. "There's a... There's a stash, a few miles from here. Me and my family... We work for their boss, I found where they keep their supplies, they wanted to find out what I knew. Please, just .. let me go." The victim pleaded, having made a mess of his trousers. The wanderer looked on, seemingly apathetic - though pity was his inner emotion. "Where." He asked, pulling a folded map of the county from his satchel. He unfolded it, slicing the victim's binds. "Point." He ordered, the victim pointing to a spot on the map. The wanderer marked it, replacing the map in his satchel before slicing the victim's leg binds. "Get back to your family and get the hell out of here. I see you around again, i'll finish the damn job." He ordered, clearly not too pleased the man he just saved had got him stabbed. He got to his feet, the victim thanking him profusely as he pulled the noose from his neck, shakily getting to his feet.
The wanderer collected his shotgun from the dirt, looting the bodies for any valuables - taking a journal from the younger bandit and a collection of rings from the other's fingers along with half a bottle of Jameson whiskey, making his way back to his horse. He applied a quick field-dressing, using a few scant sips of the precious Georgia moonshine in his flask to sterilize his wound, suffing until he got back to Monroe. He packed his camp up, climbing up onto the beast known as Stonewall, beginning the journey back to Monroe with a fully grown deer and a mission.
Continued in part two.
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