Don

A man is hobbling forward on the deserted plains. His mouth is dry, and his throat burns with thirst. His clothes and face are drenched in a mixture of blood, sweat and filth. His eyes are tinted in delirium, fever and heat stroke. He stops on his tracks and squints forward, towards the hills...

*****

Some weeks ago, a platoon of soldiers wearing the man’s uniform fell upon a small village. The soldiers rode in two hours before noon - after the local hunters had left - killing anyone who would’ve been able to mount any significant resistance. As for the rest, they were made to stand in a line, their limbs tied with ropes loose enough to walk but not loose enough to run or to use a weapon, and then made to march across the plains and the desert to a military camp to be interrogated and executed. When the hunters returned to their village, the only thing they found was the howling wind, the smell of blood and gunpowder, and a wreck of broken tents and corpses.

Meanwhile, the soldiers had been busy extracting whatever information they could from the prisoners, disposing of them, and then drinking and feasting to victory. One of the soldiers, days after this, can still remember the screams of his victims, the rush of victory, and the taste of whisky and dried meat. He can remember the blood on his knife, the songs and cheers of his friends, the cries of live prisoners and the silence of dead ones. He remembers the stupor that followed the drunken celebration, and he remembers the stillness of the night. And he remembers the war cries of hunters reverberating across the camp, the shrieks of alarm that ended in a gurgle, the sound of his gun when he shot a hand axe wielding silhouette, and a sharp pain on the back of his head. After that, he remembers only darkness.

The soldier woke up to a strong headache made worse by the bouncing of the ride and the stench of horse and dried blood. He couldn’t open his eyes nor talk, as there was something jammed into his mouth. He could hear the sound of galloping around him. It went on for hours until the bouncing stopped and he was thrown on the ground. He gathered by now it was night time - if the drop in temperature was any hint.

“You fucking Arachi bastards! You’ll get what…” He heard coming from near him.

The voice was quickly muffled, and another voice, one bearing an accent that suggested the language it was used to pronounce had wider vowels and drier consonants, said, “You talk. You get gagged. You don’t drink or eat.”

Whatever was blocking his mouth was then pulled out, and he was spoon fed something with the consistency of beans and the taste of dirty well water. Afterwards, he slept, and then woke up to be restrained on the back of a horse again. This went on for five days, until he was dropped on the ground and he heard the crashing of hooves trotting away until there was only the sound of the dusty wind.

*****

The man started to wriggle and turn blindly until he was belly down, next, using his chest and knees, he managed to get himself in a position that allowed him to stand up. Near him, he heard other men wriggling, turning and grunting. The soldier tried to speak and, even though the cloth gag on his mouth stopped most of his words from coming out, a chorus of drowned out voices rose in reply. A few seconds later, he heard something much clearer.

“Agh, guys. My gag is off. Come, get closer together.” Said a voice he knew belonged to captain Jebediah.

After a few “Slowly”, “Let’s try again”, and “Stop moving your arms and let me do it” from the captain, the group managed to free themselves from their bindings and look around. The soldier saw there were five of them: Michael, Captain Jebediah, Bill, Young William, and himself, Don. Everyone seemed relatively fine, even Michael and Bill, whose worst injuries had been bandaged by their captors. Captain Jebediah was the first to notice the bags of camping gear and supplies lying a few feet away.

“It seems the savages had the decency of leaving us some supplies. And even knives!” He said rummaging through the bags. “We’ll follow the horses.” He commanded, with the self-confidence rank tends to bestow.

“If we follow the horses, we won’t make it” Said Don “We rode for a couple of days. On foot, these supplies won’t last us enough to make that distance, and I don’t see us getting much of anything here on these plains. Sir,” he added, remembering military decorum.

“Feel free to pick a direction and pray you won’t end up like roasted chicken in the middle of the desert. Now, the rest of us, are following the horses.”

The captain then grabbed some of the supplies and started following the horses’ trails. After a moment’s hesitation, everybody took an apologetic look at Don and followed suit.

*****

After marching and marching against a punishing wind that, somehow, didn’t really alleviate the effects of the heat, Don noticed the group was one member short. He looked back the way they came and he saw Bill slowly staggering forward. He grunted the group to stop, and walked back to him. As soon as he got close, the unmistakable smell of corrupted flesh hinted Don as to what was the cause of the delay. He stopped Bill and examined his wounds. Most were superficial, but the bandages on his shoulder seemed wet with the mixture of red and greeny yellow that is so very characteristic of decay.

"Alright, alright, enough looking at it, Don. I’m fine." Bill said pushing Don away and carrying forward.

"We don't take care of that, you die. And worse, you slow us down the whole time you’re dying."

"If I slow you down, you can leave me behind," muttered Bill, as he turned around and looked at Don in the eye. The two men stared at each other for a few moments.

"Your funeral," concluded Don with a raised eyebrow.

When the evening was drawing close, the group set up camp and prepared to pass the night. The captain and Young William tried to get something to eat, and Don went to refill their water by a nearby creek they had spotted a while back from the top of a hill. They left the injured soldiers behind starting a fire.

As the sun was finally setting and Don returned to the camp, he heard some faint laments coming from Bill’s tent. Silently, he walked closer to hear better. Bill was doing something that sounded like praying. This wouldn’t have been out of place considering the circumstances, but Bill wasn’t praying to God. He wasn’t praying at all. He was begging for the forgiveness of the Arachi tribe and their spirits and their gods and whatever else he could think of. He sounded desperate. Don pondered his options for a few seconds and then decided to leave Bill alone and get on with his business.

The next day, a little before dawn, when the soldiers were packing up and getting ready to leave, Don went into Bill’s tent to see what was taking him so long. Bill was sitting up. His face frozen and contorted in horror.

“They are following us,” Bill whispered with the certainty of the deranged. Don stood there silently.

“They’re with us. They see every step. Every sip of water, every bite. We are carrying their dead on our backs, Don. They’re with us.”

“Bill, we are moving.” Don was looking down at the ground.

“They’re with us… they’re with us”

When the other four soldiers left him, Bill was still sitting, grabbing his knees, repeating that phrase over and over again.

*****

After the previous incident, everybody started paying closer attention to the other injured member of the party, Michael. From the beginning, he had been almost completely silent, keeping up with the group without complaining in spite of his injuries, and the fact that he had a deep stab hole on the leg made his stoicism all the more admirable.

However, a few days after Bill was left behind, Michael’s face started to change. There was a shine to his eyes, an intensity to his gaze. His walk changed too, becoming more and more resolute and rushed, moving almost like he was flinging himself forward, without caring for the rest of the group or his injured leg. One afternoon, approximately two days after food had run out, captain Jebediah stopped, turned around and said,

“What the hell is your problem, Mike? You think I don’t notice you staring at me the whole damn way, like you wanted to read your prayers from the base of my skull?”

Michael glared at the captain as he walked past him muttering between his teeth.

“What the…?” Said Jebediah, his eyes open wide as if a horse had just walked past him on two legs, whistling his favorite tune.

“Let me take a look at him,” interceded Don anticipating a possible conflict. "Michael, stop walking. STOP!”

Michael stopped without turning around. Don walked towards him, took a look at his leg, and then, calmly, placed a hand on his forehead.

“He’s burning up. He won’t live long,” Don concluded with the emotional display of a sun bathing alligator.

Jebediah spat on the ground, rested his hands on his hips, looked at Michael and sighed. “Let’s just keep going.”

That night, Don woke up to a strong feeling of anticipation. He sat up, and, for a couple of seconds, he only heard the chirping of crickets. Then he noticed the commotion of a struggle followed by raised voices. He rushed out and saw Young William trying to pull a crazed, almost feral Michael from an unconscious Jebediah. Michael’s mouth and Jebediah’s face and neck were all covered in crimson. William was holding Michael with both of his arms across his chest and, stepping forward with his right foot and pushing against the floor, he managed to lift him. It was in that moment that Michael turned, elbowing Young William on the face and causing him to loosen his hold. This created an opportunity for Michael to arch his head back as he prepared to take a bite of his foe’s face, when he suddenly went limp. William fell on the ground, and a lifeless Michael fell on him. A knife was sticking from his back. Don removed his blade from the lifeless Michael, kicked his corpse off Young William, and took a look at the mess of rendered flesh that was now Jebediah face. Red ichor was bubbling from it, and a soft gurgling noise came from the place the mouth should be. A few seconds later, the sound stopped.

“Looks like it’s just us, WIlliam.” Said Don.

*****

Don thought he was going mad. He saw riders made of dust following them on the horizon. He saw shadows lurking from the corner of his eyes, and when he turned to face them, he heard Bill, Jebediah and Michael, mockingly laughing at him from a place that sounded close and yet impossibly far. And Young William... It had been a few days since Don and Michael saw any trace of water, and Young William had been sobbing and crying about it almost non-stop. He cried about his fate, his suffering and his regrets. He even called for her momma. A grown man calling for his momma, Don thought. Crying and squirming like a toddler. Every one of Williams sobs felt as if a hand deeply embedded in his guts wriggled it’s fingers around. When Don wasn’t haunted by nightmares and visions, he dreamed and fantasized of shutting him up. And it got worse and worse. Over time, Don’s own thoughts were becoming harder and harder to hear next to the deafening twang of Williams moaning and complaining. The crying was just so loud and Don was thirsty. So thirsty.

William had stopped trying to make conversation with Don for a few days when he’d read in Don’s face that his own survival depended on him being silent. He didn’t feel comfortable giving him his back so he walked behind him, a few feet away. They were marching in this fashion, Don on the front and William on the rear, when Don ceased to walk and slowly turned around. His eyes were darting everywhere as if scanning for an imminent threat that could come from any direction, including up. His eyes, after a few seconds of uncertainty, fixated themselves on William. Everything that followed happened in an instant. Don took his knife out and pounced on the soldier. William was young and strong so he was able to grab Don’s arm with his left hand, headbutt him and use his right hand to take the knife away from him. Now, he was young and strong, but also inexperienced. As Don’s knife fell to the dust, Don used his free hand to take William’s knife from his belt and stab him in the gut, twisting the blade in and out of his belly. Finally, when Young William was but a corpse on the dirt, Don drank him. All of him.

*****

A man is hobbling forward on the deserted plains. His mouth is dry, and his throat burns with thirst. His clothes and face are drenched in a mixture of blood, sweat and filth. His eyes are tinted in delirium, fever and heat stroke. He stops on his tracks and squints forward, towards the hills...

He sees ten riders facing him. Even though they have the sun on their backs, he can see them as clearly as if they were next to him. They were waiting for him. He sees now, he is the survivor of their test, of their ritual. His fellow soldiers were a sacrifice and he was the fucking officiating priest of the whole thing. The riders draw hand axes and gallop towards him, painting the sky with dust. He charges forward, yelling, wielding William’s knife in his hand...