The first frost crept over the mountains and infiltrated the clusters of northern red oaks, stalking the vibrant land like a killer of men. Winds bayed as they cut the world into pieces, those occupied by the labors of townsfolk and the enclaves left free to live and die by the simple laws of nature. Copper, orange, and red leaves withered to black and scab brown scales sewn into a never ending gray sky. God’s country was nowhere near.
As the lukewarm water filled the yellow-tinted ceramic bathtub, Whip Derevaux stripped down to his bare skin. It was the last bit, pulling off his undershirt, that caused the most pain. The bullet had ripped a hole in the center of his bloated belly, previously swollen from years of heavy drinking and a diet that consisted of fatback bacon and canned sardines. A deep red stain consumed the bottom half of his white cotton shirt. Each time that he tried to take it off, a sharp, stabbing sensation caused his arms to lock, his chest to convulse, and the wound to spread open. He bit down on his back teeth and tore the shirt starting at the neck lining, separating it down the middle and tossing it into a pile of clothes by the toilet. A paint splattered mirror sat above the old porcelain sink. The glass was clear enough to provide Whip with an image of his body, broken into sections created by the random clusters of green paint. His skin was nicked and dented like armor. He could see his legs shaking from the pain in his gut.
Whip’s wrists burned, and his arms wobbled as he lowered himself down into the water. As soon as he was submerged, the wound expelled tainted blood. Thin streams of red spun in the clear water in long ribbons, twisting together like snakes. Whip used his hands, wide like shovel heads, to splash water onto the wound. He knew that the bullet was still inside of him. He could feel it sitting somewhere by his liver. Time moved with the droplets of water and sweat that ran down his face. He laid his head back and tried to calm his breathing. His body knew the truth that his mind was trying so hard to dismiss.
It took half of his remaining lifeforce to get out of the tub and onto the toilet seat. Whip didn’t bother to drain the water. It sat stagnant like a pickle brine, a well of his sins left behind for another traveler. He used an old blanket to dry himself. A dish towel that he found under the sink made for a perfect bandage. He pressed the soft material against the wound and bound it to his skin with a piece of duct tape. His jeans slipped on without too much issue. A flannel shirt was enough to keep him warm. He left it unbuttoned as he exited the bathroom and made his way into the living area of the cabin.
The space was simple. One room equipped with a pull out couch, a leather recliner, a small dining table, and a basic kitchenette complete with a propane stove top and a refrigerator that barely worked. The floors were unpolished hardwood, and the walls were painted a rich, forest green. Whip hobbled over to the couch, using anything he could get his hands on to keep him steady. He sat down and pulled out the pack of cigarettes that were tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt. The taste of a dried Winston helped ease his mind. He curled his toes inward until they cracked. Looking through the window that occupied half of the wall by the front door, Whip saw his 1996 Lincoln Town Car. Depending on how he positioned his head, the ripples in the glass made the vehicle look as though it was under water. The red paint caught reflections of passing birds and squirrels. The passenger side window framed a distorted picture of the cabin, elongating the roof to a sharp point. He looked at the floor and estimated the number of footsteps it would take to get to the vehicle. Too many for his liking, but he knew that he had no choice but to make the journey.
Each step felt weaker as Whip walked through the front door and made it outside. The cabin was located in a clearing off of a two mile long dirt trail leading out to the backroads of Northern Pennsylvania. The sparse canopy that surrounded it looked like barbed wire. It ripped into the sky above, prodding the clouds and waiting for stars. Whip’s bare feet absorbed the cold from the ground. The tips of his toes were numb and stained black by the time he reached his car. He pressed his left hand down onto the trunk, holding still while his body recovered from the walk. From where he stood, he got a clear view of the mountains, their peaks fading into the thin strips of clouds that imprisoned the sun. Winds were left unrestrained, and the crisp air raised the flesh on his neck and arms. When he lifted his hand, the car shifted, and the frame bounced. A muffled moan followed by a sharp cry came from inside of the trunk. Whip reached into his back pocket for his keys and held them close to the lock beneath the vehicle’s famous emblem. He shook them as if he was trying to entertain an infant and waited for the screaming to stop. “Do you hear that?” he asked the voice on the other side.
Silence.
“Now, I was really wanting to open this and let you come out for a while. Figured some fresh air would be good for you. There’s a nice couch inside and it’s warm. But you can’t jump out and start hollering and acting like an ass. You get that?”
Silence.
Whip forgot about the tape that was on the woman’s mouth. He rolled his eyes at his own stupidity and said, “Shit. I’m sorry. One knock for yes. Two for no. You hear me?”
One knock. More of a violent thud.
“Okay. So, if I let you out, you’ll be civil?”
One knock.
“I’ll hold you to that. Knock’s your word now.”
One knock.
Whip shook the keys again and said, “Here we go.” He unlocked the trunk but didn’t lift it open right away, hoping that the flood of fresh air would calm the woman down. He watched as a rabbit sprinted across a patch of open terrain to his far right. It came to a dead stop once it realized that it wasn’t alone. Still as if the rest of the world, even time itself, didn’t matter. Whip tried not to move. He stared at the rabbit. It stared back, waiting for any chance to run. Whip held still as long as he could, but a sharp pain in his belly forced him to wince and blink. When the sensation passed, the rabbit had escaped.
The woman’s subtle moan pulled Whip’s mind from the realm of the wild and reminded him of the task at hand. He lifted the trunk and looked at the young woman who was lying inside. Her wrists were cuffed behind her back. A piece of duct tape covered her mouth, and a men’s dress tie was wrapped around her eyes. She was thin, her limbs like a spider’s. Her arms were covered in tattoos in the style of a black and white comic book. The back of her neck was covered in an image of a dragonfly. Her name was Dixie Mullvane.
“If I help you out of there, you’re not gonna try and kick me or anything, right?” Whip asked.
Dixie shook her head.
“That’s good. I’ll take that tape off your mouth if you know that means you can’t start screaming,” Whip said. He looked around at the woods and mountains. Human life was a great distance away. “I guess it doesn’t really matter much anyways. Nobody here. I’m gonna take hold of your shoulder there. Don’t start acting all wild and shit.”
Dixie nodded and remained still. Whip’s hand felt like cold metal against her bare skin. The flesh by her shoulders was stiff and tight from the long ride. Her knees were soar. Whip pulled her out of the trunk and set her feet down on the hard dirt. Dixie stood in place, already feeling some of her freedom return. The cold grip of steel pressing against her wrists ordered her to leave that foolish notion in the past.
Whip stood in front of Dixie and reached his hand toward her mouth. He stopped before his fingers made contact with her cheeks and said, “I’m not a pervert or anything like that. Okay?”
Dixie nodded.
“I’m only touching you to get the tape off. And I’ll tell you, after a few hours, it ain’t gonna feel good. So, I’m just gonna…” Whip grabbed a corner of the tape and ripped it off in one quick motion. It sounded like he was peeling off a layer of skin. “Fast is better,” he said.
“Oh Christ, that hurts,” Dixie yelled. Her lips were red from irritation, and there were waves of blistering pain radiating off of her chin. “That hurt like a bitch.”
Whip took hold of Dixie’s right arm and said, “I know. You’re not crying or anything, right?”
“No. I’m not a princess,” Dixie replied.
“You don’t have to be a princess. Grown men cried from that before.”
“Thanks for making me feel tough.”
“Missing the point,” Whip said. He took a step, and his body felt weightless. His hands opened, and his car keys fell onto the ground. As he tried to bend down, the world spun and he felt nauseous. “Goddamnit,” he mumbled, pressing his hands into his knees to keep from falling over.
“You okay?” Dixie asked.
Whip spit and decided to let the keys lay in the dirt. He straightened his back and pulled Dixie into the cabin, holding his breath each time that the pain in his gut flared. It overtook him once he got Dixie to sit down on the couch. A sharp stabbing sensation drilled into his abdomen. He staggered toward the dining table and crumbled into the wooden chair that was closest to the small window that looked out into the woods. His breathing gave him away.
“Are you cool, man?” Dixie asked as she sat on the couch, still blindfolded.
Whip let the pain pass and exhaled. He readied another cigarette and said, “Yeah. I’m just old and fat. You do me a favor and worry about yourself.”
“You think I really need to be told to worry?” Dixie asked, twisting her body around to show off her hands. “I think I know I’m pretty well fucked here. What do you think?”
“Not my problem to think about that for you. You did what you did. Now you deal with the trouble that follows.”
“You’re talking like what you’re doing is justified. If you believe that, try and call up the cops and tell them what’s going on. What do you think?”
“Nothing much of it.”
Dixie fixed her posture so that her hands stopped digging into her lower back and said, “I already have a bit of an idea, but would you be kind enough to tell me what that trouble is? Is he coming to deal with me directly, or is he the kinda guy that gets a kinda guy like you to do that shit?”
Whip gripped the edges of the chair and pushed himself to a standing position. It took a second for him to gain balance. Walking only made the wound bleed more. He slid his feet across the wooden floor, shuffling his way over to the kitchenette. There was a teapot on the small range top. He filled it with water from the sink and set it down over a flame. “You ever actually meet Kenny Walters?” he asked.
“Saw him. Never met him,” Dixie said.
“Probably wouldn’t have robbed him if you did. You should try and meet the people you plan on robbing. Just a tip.”
“Not what people usually tell me.”
“And to answer your question, Kenny’ll be down here to handle you himself. Rare thing these days,” Whip said. He searched the cabinets for coffee. All that he found was a box of tea bags. He grabbed two mugs from the shelf above the range and dropped a bag in each one. “I’m making you some tea.”
“No coffee?”
“If you wanna try and break my balls this whole time, I can be a lot less courteous. You understand that?”
“Your voice is too soft for you to be the rough type,” Dixie said.
“Yeah. I know,” Whip said. He let the conversation die and waited for the kettle to scream. As the temperature of the water rose, so did the intensity of the pain in his gut. Whip was patient and quiet, doing his best version of meditation to suppress any sighs or yelps. The kettle whistled, and he used the noise to cover up a gasp before he killed the fire.
Dixie heard the muffled cry and said, “You don’t sound okay.”
Whip rested his head on the countertop by the range and held his breath. It was an old trick he learned as a kid to cure hiccups and dredge up bravery on nights he spent alone.
“I didn’t really mean to shoot you,” Dixie said.
As Whip stood up and attempted to lift the kettle off of the range, he felt another wave of nausea and leaned against the refrigerator, placing his hand over the towel that was taped against his wound. The polyester felt moist and warm, as if the fabric was soaking up the life he had left inside of him. “I think that’s bullshit, but I appreciate the gesture,” he said.
“You moved fast. That’s all it was really.”
Whip felt warm liquid run down his leg and hoped to the Lord that it wasn’t urine. The entire situation was embarrassing enough. He saw the red stain settle in by his thigh. It was the only moment that the blood made him feel better.
“I can’t tell what’s happening when you go quiet on me,” Dixie said. She lowered her head so that the edge of the blindfold was pressed against her shoulder and started to move her face back and forth in an attempt to shed the tie.
Whip raised his head and saw Dixie, rubbing away like a dog trying to escape from a plastic cone. “Don’t touch that,” he growled.
Dixie wasn’t able to loosen the blindfold in the short amount of time. She stopped and said, “You nervous about it?”
“Just leave it on. I don’t need to see your eyes,” Whip responded.
Dixie obeyed. Whip looked down at his hands and saw how pale they were, gray turning to white like weathered tombstones. He grabbed the kettle and filled the mugs. The steam coming from its spout warmed his face and chest. The hot water turned a rich amber in a matter of seconds. Whip thought that it looked like a river after a storm. “I made you that tea,” he said.
“I remember you saying,” Dixie said.
Whip held a mug in each hand and approached Dixie. He set one down on the small table in front of her and said, “That’s yours.”
“I can’t really do much with that if you don’t take these cuffs off.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Dixie leaned forward until she felt the steam from the hot beverage graze her skin. It filled her nostrils and throat. “Didn’t poison this. did you?” she asked.
Whip made his way back into his chair, knowing that he might not get up again. He chuckled and dealt with the pain in order to enjoy a moment of levity. “What kind of poison? You watch a lot of tv or something? People don’t do that kind of work in the real world,” he said.
“Then I appreciate the gesture.”
“Except one guy”, Whip said and rubbed his grizzled chin. “Polish guy I think. They nicknamed him the Iceman. Pretty good I guess.”
“Well now I don’t know if you’re joking or not,” Dixie replied.
“I’m not the Iceman. And you should drink that. I can hold it up for you if you want. So it’s easier. Better to be warm when you can.”
“I’ll let it steep a bit,” Dixie said and moved her face away from the mug. She thought about how her life was coming to an end sooner than she expected. As the years passed, she came to terms with the fact that her existence was something closer to a feral cat than that of a human being. There was a wild spirit that stirred inside of her, something that she embraced like most people do with religion. She feared that it would not cross over with her after she died. “He’s gonna do it here, huh?” she asked.
“Not in here,” Whip responded. “He won’t wanna make that kind of mess for himself”. Despite knowing that Dixie could not see, he pointed out the window toward a cluster of trees in the distance. Most of them still held onto their leaves and tangled together in a wall of yellow and red. “Out in them trees most likely. You’ll be better off volunteering to walk. You start all that bullshit with dragging your feet and everything and it’ll get you more hurt. I know you’re probably thinking what’s the difference.”
“Yeah. What is the difference?” Dixie asked. She had yet to try and sip her tea. It smelt like rain. Along with her fate, she found the liquid difficult to swallow.
“I’ve seen this sorta stuff happen a thousand times. Just do yourself a favor and go quiet. You’ll appreciate the peace you gave yourself.”
“You killed a thousand people?”
“If I killed a thousand people, I wouldn’t be here doing shit like this. I said that I’ve seen it.”
“Where would you be then?”
“Probably alone and a whole lot luckier,” Whip said. He couldn’t remember what it was like to be Dixie’s age. It was the price that he paid for his way of living, the debt that all wicked men owe to Time. Memories surrendered. Buried into bone. He wondered if in his final moments, when he shed his mortal cage, if they would be returned. Maybe that’s what heaven was for a soul as heavy as his own. “And a thousand is just a made up number. I can’t remember what they call that. You know?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I never finished high school.”
Whip felt lightheaded, and his mouth was dry. He tried to lift his mug of tea, but his hands lost strength. The mug fell onto the floor and shattered. His cold feet soaked in the hot liquid and the skin around his heels turned a bright red. He laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
“What was that?” Dixie inquired.
“Funny how people use that fact to make a genius look smarter and an average person to seem dumber. You know what I mean?” Whip asked.
“Well I’m not exactly proud of it,” Dixie answered. “What did you break?”
“You hear people talk about some guy like Kurt Cobain or William Faulkner. Say ‘oh and they didn’t even finish school’. You or I die, they’ll say the same damn thing to make us out like losers. Makes you laugh,” Whip mumbled. He started to chuckle, but it quickly turned into a cough. Blood dripped from his bottom lip and splashed down onto his chest. His eyes remained closed, and he tilted his head forward. His breathing slowed. Each inhale was heavy. Every exhale carried more of him away.
Dixie listened to Whip’s body, feeling the air make a change and the energy inside of the room begin to expire. She tried again to pull the blindfold away from her eyes, rubbing the flesh on her cheeks raw. “Hey,” she whispered as she stood up. “Hey, I don’t know your name or anything.” She waited for Whip’s harsh response. There was soft breath and the sound of wind. “Not yet. Okay,” she said as she moved forward, taking small steps in the direction that she last heard Whip’s voice.
Whip’s head swayed back toward the wall and he opened one eye. “I think you’re the last person I’m gonna see,” he mumbled.
“Maybe not,” Dixie said. She moved closer. “You can get me the keys for the cuffs and your car out there. Maybe I can go get help or something. Huh? What do you say to that?”
Whip smirked and said, “I don’t know about the keys. Sorry about that.” His hands fell from his belly and revealed the blood-soaked towel.
“If it…” Dixie struggled to speak. She swallowed hard. “I really didn’t mean to do this to you.” She shuffled her feet, inch by inch toward Whip. “Maybe just tell me where I can get the keys. At least to the cuffs.”
“I don’t know, hun. Maybe out in the grass. I don’t know.” Whip’s voice lost its power. With the last bit of energy that he possessed, he leaned back in his chair and lifted his head.
Nerves got the best of Dixie. She pictured Kenny Walters walking toward the house, his shadow like a storm, and panicked. In a final attempt to remove the blindfold, she lost her balance and stepped on shards of Whip’s broken mug. The glass cut through her bare feet and sent her toppling to the ground. Ignoring the pain, she maneuvered her head so that she was able to use the floor to pull the tie away from her eyes. Her pupils took several moments to adjust, allowing her to see her surroundings in flashes of vibrating colors and sharp light. Once she was able to focus, she saw Whip hunched over, barely alive. She pulled her knees to her chest, trying not to look at her injured feet, and slid her hands from behind her back. “Do you have the keys to the cuffs?” she asked as she crawled toward Whip.
“No keys for those,” Whip said. “I’m sorry about that.”
Dixie leaned against Whip’s thighs and looked around the cabin. “How about the car keys, huh? You said in the grass. Where in the grass?” she asked.
“I was supposed to leave you in the trunk,” Whip said.
“What?”
“I wasn’t supposed to let you out. Kenny said that you were a crafty girl. That’s his words. I took you out though. Wasn’t supposed to.”
“Why’d you do that then?”
“I guess that I knew I was in a tight spot. Didn’t feel like being all alone,” Whip said. He shivered as he spoke.
Dixie reached over her shoulder and took a hold of Whip’s hand. It was like grabbing onto a stone, a piece of life void of a soul. Whip was too far gone to feel Dixie’s warm skin. He looked up at the table and saw a bundle of wild flowers tied together with a string. Purple and yellow dotted with black and orange. Small green buds. He couldn’t remember if they had been there waiting for him the entire time. His death rattle was soft and quick, typical for the kind of man he was. It contained the small amount of decency that hid deep in his chest. All that remained were his sins, left behind to transform his mortal body into ash.
Dixie knew that Whip had passed but chose to hold onto his hand for a moment just to be certain. She was confused, caught between waves of regret and elation. Whip was dead by her hand, yet she was no closer to freedom. He didn’t leave in anger or violence but rather a state of acceptance. Something she hoped for herself. She checked his pockets for car keys but found nothing more than cigarettes and a used tissue. On her hands and knees, she crawled into the bathroom and found Whip’s other clothes. Nothing for her but tattered fabric and blood. Using the toilet for support, she rose to her feet and hobbled through the rest of the cabin like a wild animal in search of freedom. Her surge of energy took her outside, but the pain in her feet caused her to fall down in front of the door. She leaned against the inside of the frame so that she could rest her back as she looked out at the land. The sky was still, and the trees were calm as the wind died down. Past Whip’s Lincoln, Dixie saw the dirt trail and the mountains. There was enough time to make a choice. To run. To hide. To wait peacefully for fate to catch up to her. Wood felt cold against her neck. She hoped to see the sun. It would be worth the wait just to see the sun.
[Image Credit : Photo by Marika Vinkmann on Unsplash]
Aidan Shousky was born and raised in Philadelphia where he worked as a teacher and a private investigator. After graduating from Temple University with a bachelor’s degree in English, he was a member of Philadelphia Young Playwrights. Previously, his writing has been published in Rock and a Hard Place Press and Shotgun Honey. He currently resides in Saint Paul, MN.
