Hey,
Writing a novel still involves some downtime. For the last year and a half, my book has consumed the majority of my creative thoughts. However, there are times I’ve done all I can do, and I’m waiting for feedback. I put this short story together during some of those downtimes.
There’s blood dripping off my hatchet. I’m watching it ooze off the edge and drip onto Lester. Fitting, I suppose, since the blood belongs to him. He looks shocked, laying there in the snow, pawing at his new chest cavity. I can see tiny bubbles foaming up by the wound, next to his sternum. It’s odd to think that just two minutes ago, he was relatively healthy and only slightly drunk. Now his arms are buried in the powder and he’s gone eerily still.
I didn’t mean to do it, not really. Honestly, I might be more shocked than Lester. I’ve never even seen a dead body before, at least not like this. The closest I can recall is my grandfather’s funeral when I was a kid. I can remember looking down into his casket and feeling the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his cheek. I couldn’t understand how it looked so unnatural, like plastic or wax. I had to know what it felt like. My dad slapped my hand away before I found out.
Lester doesn’t look anything like my grandpa. His cheeks are still flushed from the alcohol. Pretty soon they’ll turn blue, which coupled with his thin red beard will make for a unique color scheme. If I focus, I can still see fog escaping his open mouth. If it weren’t for the crimson snow, I might even think he was sleeping it off. I give his shoulder a quick nudge, just to be sure he wasn’t playing another trick on me. Lester is always playing jokes. Was.
My day wasn’t supposed to end up like this. It’s funny how life can change so suddenly. Just a few minutes ago we were drinking and talking and irritating each other, like we tend to do. Now, without any warning sign, everything changed. But of course, there were warning signs. Had either of us cared to read them.
I peek back over toward our cart. It’s toppled over in a snowdrift, but it doesn’t seem to bother the mule. If anything, she seems grateful for the rest. If it stays there for long, it’ll get buried under a sea of white. I can see a red trail cutting toward it, like a horrible little river. And all at once, I can see the predicament I’m in. There will be questions, that much is to be expected. But stained merchandise will be harder to explain.
I drop the hatchet and trudge over and grab the frozen ropes and lead the mule to higher ground to avoid any damning evidence. From here, Lester looks like a dark spot. I glance over my shoulder, even though I know I’m alone out here. There’s never anyone on these trails. It’s only ever been Lester and I. As always, the only tracks I see are the ones we’ve left behind, and even those are being erased by the wind and snow.
When we set out this morning, I had no idea my day would include killing a man. And in fact, aside from the dead body, my day was entirely ordinary. I ate my usual breakfast (biscuits and coffee), picked up the regular number of packages (twelve), and met up with the same man (formerly Lester) to make our little trek. We took the normal route, and per our unspoken agreement, Lester annoyed me to no end.
“Tell me why we do this?” I asked.
“Who else would?” Lester answered, as if that were all the explanation needed.
I didn’t bother to tell him anyone could do this job. Anyone at all. No special skills or knowledge required. And that’s precisely why no one else does it. But it was too early to get into it with Lester.
He hooked his finger into his leather pouch and put a wad of dip into his cheek. It made him seem puffier than normal. He made a loud sucking, snorting sound, and then hocked up a gob of whatever he’d dredged up into the fresh snow. He wiped his lips with his coat sleeve and then pointed a wagging finger at me.
“Gimme a swig, huh?”
I thought about how I might avoid giving him my flask, but excuses escaped me. Lester was always a greedy drinker, so I watched him like a hawk. I snatched it away before he could drink more than was fair. I caught him giving me a dirty look, but left it at that. For a while anyway.
We walked in silence for the next mile, which was a nice change. Usually, Lester can’t shut up. It’s always grievances about his wife, or singing the praises of bar girls he liked. I wasn’t paying attention. Lester is (was) a bit like listening to a record on repeat, even though you hated it the first time. His droning had worn me thin, and I had nearly told him to stop whining and finally do something about it. But it wasn’t a new wife he desired, not really. He and I both knew those girls, intriguing as they may be, weren’t options. What Lester wanted, more than love or lust, was something to complain about.
We’d reached the ridge that overlooks our town. Far below in the valley are homes and shops, all puffing clouds of smoke from their chimneys. Lester had said something about being able to see his house, but I knew he was lying. Even if you squint, you can’t make out one from the other. I’m not sure why, but I imagined Lester falling over the edge, tumbling down the mountain side and disappearing into the valley below. I made sure he wasn’t looking and took a swig from my flask before hiding it away again.
“You think they can hear us from up here?” I asked.
Lester spit and watched it disappear over the side. “I ain’t never heard nothin’.”
“It’s only ever us up here, and we never yelled down before. You don’t think a shout could make its way down?”
Lester spat over the edge and watched it disappear into the abyss below. “Well, why don’t you give it a shot, then? A real howler.”
“How would that prove anything?”
“I’ll ask my ol’ lady when we get back. I’ll ask her if she heard the howling on the wind!” And he broke into a hearty laugh.
The town below looked pretend, like a model of cottages and pubs and vendors that I could reach out and pick up if I had a mind to do so. I turned away from the edge and walked back toward our merchandise. “Come on. We don’t have time for games today. Let’s get on with it.”
“Aw. You’re no fun. All business, all the time. You need to cut loose once in a while. It’d be good for you.”
Lester’s stupid grin was plastered ear to ear, and all I wanted was to slap it off his fat face. I’d known Lester long enough to recognize when he was mocking me. But as usual, I said nothing and pretended to inspect the ropes securing the merchandise. I pulled and tugged at them even though I knew perfectly well they were tight. Of course, they were tight. I did it myself.
We marched on and the snow became heavy and oppressive. The mule had her ears flat against her head and she was slowing. Lester was yelling at her, and he beat her with the switch. There was always a point when Lester got a little mean when he drank. I looked around for a landmark. I needed a sign that our trip was coming to an end. Lester’s ranting and spitting had worn me to the bone. I would have killed for some peace and quiet.
Lester belched into the wind and threw his empty bottle out into a drift. “Hold up. I need a refill.” He started rummaging through the cart, looking for drink.
As for what I did next, I can’t explain it. It was almost childish, in a way. Maybe his comments about needing to “cut loose” had gotten to me, but none of that matters now. He buried his head under the tarps, bobbing up and down as he searched. And while he was under the cover, I let out a long wolf howl. It echoed around us, mournful and clear. The rustling under the cover stopped. The tarp made a swishing sound as Lester pulled his head out. His hair was matted and damp with sweat. His face was flushed, and his eyes were filled with primitive dread.
Lester’s voice hushed. “You hear that?”
I should have fessed up right then, but I didn’t. Instead, I nodded and tried to mirror his own fear. “We need to get moving, Lester. Right now.”
Lester’s head made short little pumps as he swiveled around looking for the imaginary pack. “Yeah… You’re right. Let’s get going.” He looked me in the eye and held his hand out. “Gimme a swig. For my nerves.”
I pulled my coat tighter around me. “I’m all out. Drank the rest of it.”
Lester's eyes landed on my pocket. It was like he’d gotten the scent of it and was tracking his quarry.
“You’re not out. Just a swig. That’s all I need.” Lester stepped closer and reached for the inside pocket. My hand shot out and pressed on his chest. He looked shocked at first. Like he didn’t understand how I’d been able to stop him. But that didn’t last long. His lips curled and twisted into a snarl, and he thrust his hand out again. Instead of pushing him though, I stepped back, putting him off balance. He fell face first into the snow, and I couldn’t help but laugh. I’ve always found physical comedy enjoyable, so this was right up my alley. Lester pushed himself up. Snow plastered his beard, and the only thing redder than his cheeks was his bright red nose. He glared at me, and I knew he found nothing about this funny.
The rest happened quick. I couldn’t tell you with any degree of accuracy how it all happened. He ran at me, I think. I pushed him back down, or maybe it was him that knocked me over. I can’t remember now. Maybe someday I will. And while I can’t say when I grabbed the hatchet, I do remember the sick thud it made when I swung it into his chest. I wish I could forget that part.
I’m dragging him now. He’s heavier than I thought, especially in this cumbersome snow. There’s a little copse of trees not far away. I’ll hide him in there until I figure out what to tell people. His wife will wonder. Should I talk to her right away? No… It would be better to wait. I’ll let her bring it up first. And I’ll act surprised. “Lester? He’s not been home yet? No, everything went fine on our trip. We went out for drinks after. I saw him talking with the bar girls. Maybe one of them knows something?”
I’ll think of something.
I’m breathing hard when I reach the tree line. I drag him in a few more feet for good measure and drop his legs. They bounce as they hit the frozen ground. I can’t see the mule or our cart from here. The snow is falling fast, and the light is fading. But I can follow my own track back easily enough. And I’m thankful for the snow - it will erase my tracks within the hour.
The first mournful wail shoots through the trees as I take my first step away from Lester. There’s another howl behind me as his partner responds. They emerge out of the white like ghosts, their coats covered in icy spikes. My hand goes to my side, for my hatchet, and I remember I dropped it in the snow. My shoulders fall, and I see the wolf in front of me. His teeth are bared and hateful, and I know the one behind me looks the same. I don’t want to turn around.
I consider the beast before me, and although I didn’t know what I was saying, I know I’ve called him. And he was happy to reply.
Hiram