THE FORSAKEN

Desiccated flora spun aimlessly in the restless winds that raced through the canyon. Creatures lay dead, and those still dying writhed in agony on the rugged terrain. Bodies heaved like massive bellows, tongues flapping over rotting flesh. No man or animal sought inspiration in such turmoil that spared nothing but memories. No thought or habit—good or treacherous—dared stand against the searing heat sweeping through the pass.

The peace Tom Madden had craved in his final years never came. He kicked his chair back, walked to the rattling window, parted the dusty curtains, and stared into the haze. A lone coyote knelt on its forelegs, its spectral howls muted by the clamor of wicked currents. Madden gazed into the sky, convinced God had fled unannounced, stealing the stars and leaving a stained moon at the pale of a darkened settlement. When he looked again for the coyote, it was gone.

“All right. I’m done jacking myself around,” he growled.

He coughed and wiped the bloody drool with his sleeve, then opened the door and stepped outside. Swirling drafts caught his duster and lifted it high off his boot shafts. In the dense twilight, his frail body looked like a fearless shadow, winding toward the shed. The latched door rattled on its frame as clods of dirt pelted the wooden slats. Madden kicked the door open. He coughed again, longer and harder, then spat a clot of blood that tasted like an arsenical cocktail.

His flashlight lit the bins holding memories of better days. He removed a rifle from the wall rack; the ammo box sat on a shelf below. There were two cartridges left. Madden loaded one. It was all he needed to bring his target down.

A rumble in the west. He left the shed and shielded his eyes, looking out over the crepuscular wasteland sloping toward the distant highway that wound along a narrow ridge. South on that road, the city sprawled. He hardly ventured there, clinging to a solitary life after his son’s death and his wife’s departure.

Dust clouds rose behind a vehicle coming down the dirt road toward his house. Its engine hummed several octaves below the shrieking wind. Madden aimed his rifle. Roof lights flashed. He lowered the weapon and waited. The deputy pulled up beside him, stepped out of his car, and held the crown of his hat.

“God damn, Madden. I ain’t never seen weather like this before.”

Madden leaned on the rifle for support but said nothing. The deputy hollered over the wind. “Your wife, Jenny … remember her? She sent me to deliver a message. She’s worried about you.”

Madden coughed. The deputy noticed the redness on Madden’s sleeve.

“You all right?”

Madden waved him away. The deputy didn’t budge.

“Mind if we continue this conversation inside, Tom? My eyes are burnin’ fierce.”

The deputy followed Madden into the house, slapping his dusty uniform with his wide-brimmed hat. “What ya plannin’ to do with that 30-aught-6? Unlikely there’s any suitable game out in this peculiar weather. Ain’t seen such death scattered about since the outbreak—must be twenty years ago. Sure is a different world here. I’d go so far as to call it hostile.”

Madden didn’t answer.

“I got to say, you’re lookin’ sickly,” said the deputy.

“Haven’t asked your opinion, Caine. Consider your job done and scoot back to town. Jenny need not know anything about my condition.”

“What do ya propose I tell her?”

“Tell her I wasn’t here when you showed up.”

“I won’t lie to her, Madden. She has a right to the truth. Just to be clear, this ain’t official business, nor is it a social call on my end.”

“And I ain’t seeking one on my own behalf—especially from the likes of you.”

“Jenny’s a fine and handsome woman,” said Caine. “She erred in choosing the lesser of the two of us.”

“Wasn’t a mistake. She ain’t stupid. And lest you forget, it’s a sin to covet another man’s wife.”

Caine sneered. The men stood, waiting on each other’s silence. Madden drew his words first, speaking softly as if to himself.

“Maybe I’d be of a different mind if I were younger, but I’m not. I’m staying put. She knows where to find me.”

The deputy chopped at the shallow crease in his hat with the side of his hand. “All these years, pinin’ away out here on account of the tragedy,” he said. “What a waste.”

“Ain’t none of your business.”

“It’s no secret that Jenny left you because of the highway accident. It wasn’t her fault. Deer come outta nowhere. Shoot, I’ve seen how the loss of a child twists folks up. Then they blame each other or worse.”

“That’s enough now. You don’t know for sure what’s in another’s mind.”

The deputy continued, testing the fortitude of Madden’s admonition.

“Losin’ the young boy hit her hard. Spent all that time in the mental hospital and still ain’t fully right.”

“No way that woman’s crazy,” insisted Madden. “Just confused.”

“Needs consolation. She breaks down and cries as if relivin’ the horror. Thinks her boy is comin’ home for dinner. A damn shame.”

“Sounds like you’ve taken a particular interest in her again.”

“My duty requires me to support anyone in times of woe,” said the deputy.

“Ain’t right. That’s a husband’s job. The woman ought to be here with me.”

“Now don’t go gettin’ the wrong idea.”

“It wouldn’t be advisable for any man to take advantage of her misfortune,” said Madden.

“You accusin’ me of sportin’ with your wife?”

“I said any man, though you’re the one who comes to mind.”

“Ever hear of sympathy?”

“Sure. I could use a bit myself,” said Madden. “I’d wake to her sweet face, grateful she chose me to lie beside forever. She ain’t of a mind to cheat, and she loved our child beyond words.” Madden wiped his eye with his bloodstained sleeve. “That boy was the light of our lives. The damn accident put an end to everything good.”

“Far as I’m concerned, anyone who drives that highway puts his life in God’s hands,” said Caine. “It’s not even a matter of how many warnin’ signs line the shoulders. The road was built with too many possibilities for things to go wrong.”

“God had no hand in it. Hasn’t been around for some time, or haven’t you noticed?”

Madden leaned back, his boot against the wall. The rifle barrel rested on his shoulder. A painful cough came from deep within. He bent forward, clutching his gut for breath.

“Oughta see a doc.”

Madden slowly uncoiled. “Sickness has little to do with it. It’s the loss of goodness that ruins a man. Now, you ought to leave—and make damn sure you quell those misplaced feelings for Jenny.”

Caine snickered. “Can’t reckon what she saw in you.”

Madden aimed the rifle at the deputy. His arms shook, and his finger trembled on the trigger.

“Leave me as you found me. I’m out of patience.”

“I could arrest you and haul you in for threatenin’ an officer of the law.”

“Try, and I’ll shoot you for trespassing. You have no warrant, and I don’t believe I formally invited you in.”

“She sure is a beautiful woman,” said Caine, who started to leave, then stopped and pointed at Madden. “You can rot in this filthy place for all I care. It would be no loss to Jenny and a great satisfaction to me.”

“You always took pleasure in others’ suffering, more so in mine. Now git.”

Madden cocked the rifle in a gesture of disdain. Caine turned and slammed the door shut. Madden heard the engine rev and the crunch of gravel under the tires. Caine’s red taillights blinked like fiendish eyes, then faded into the darkness. The scent of the deputy’s stale cologne lingered.

*

Madden tilted the pot and poured himself a cup of cold, week-old coffee, then sipped the sour brew while thinking about Caine’s words, ‘A filthy place.’ He knelt and ran his hand over the uneven floorboards. Dust coated his fingers. “Huh. That’s the way it’ll have to be. No enterprise left in this body.”

The wind weakened, and the beams stopped creaking as if nature had granted an indeterminate moment of respite to all things. “Now’s the time,” muttered Madden. He picked up the rifle, stepped out, and took his place atop a flat rock, positioning the muzzle beneath his jaw and feeling the warm metal against his gullet. His finger coiled around the trigger, seconds from sending himself into the domain of lost souls. A cough roared from his chest, and the blast from the errant barrel echoed through the canyon. The sting of gunpowder singed the side of his face as the weapon dropped off the edge of the rock. He collapsed, eyes wide open, staring at the house where Jenny stood, calling his name. Madden tried to answer, but the words died on his lips—as in the madness of dreams.

“You, Tom. Dinner’s ready. Find our son and bring him home,” he heard.

Then he passed out, but not away.

*

Madden glanced around as he propped himself against the headboard. He felt he had been ruthlessly returned to his miserable life. The deputy stared down at him, then stepped aside as Jenny approached, carrying a bowl of water and a cloth. She sat beside Madden and laid the cool towel on his forehead.

“How’s my boy?” she said.

“Say my senses ain’t deceiving me,” Madden said.

“Caine told me you were ailing. I worried you’d do something stupid, and I was right. We found you scuffed up on a rock. Don’t know why you’d be out wandering in your condition. Lucky, mama’s here to take care of you and bring you back to town.”

He had neither the strength nor the desire to argue about her intentions.

“Guess I’ll be goin’ now,” said Caine. “I expect to see you soon,” he said, aiming his words at Jenny, who smiled. The deputy touched the brim of his hat and departed.

“You seem mighty friendly with him,” said Madden.

“What’s wrong with being grateful for someone’s help?”

“Nothing. Just that you could have found me without him.”

“I suppose I could have. It wouldn’t make me any less appreciative.”

Madden drew a deep and painful breath, confused, taking silent exception to her words.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I ain’t feeling right. Let me rest a while.”

“You’ve rested enough. You’re as thin as a rail and need sustenance.”

Jenny checked the cupboard. A solitary can of beans sat on an otherwise empty shelf. She cranked the knob of the rusty can opener, stopped halfway around the edge, then pulled back the jagged top and watched the beans drip slowly into the pot. She lit the stove and set two hardwood bowls and spoons on the table.

Jenny walked into the bedroom and wrapped Madden’s arm around her shoulder. He felt her warmth as they moved toward the kitchen. He sat, and she served the simple meal.

“My little boy never could look after himself,” she said.

“I’m happy you’re back. I now know that dying before my time wasn’t meant to happen.”

“Why would you say such a thing?”

Madden set his spoon down and stared at his wife. She seemed very much the woman of his past, not at all distracted or fragile as the deputy had described. She touched his hand. He doubted a man would find such pleasure in death, and he thanked fate for intervening. Madden pulled himself off the chair and stood behind her, stroking the coppery hair of the woman he once loved and could love again.

*

He woke late the next day after a restful night, during which unexpected strength had poured from his body. Having climbed to the depths of despair, he had fallen again into the lushness of the woman who had forsaken him. Jenny stood near the doorway in her chemise, humming a song she had sung while rocking the cradle before their years of discontent. Madden raised himself on one arm and noticed a drop of blood on the pillow. For the first time, it scared him.

He coughed hard.

“You okay?”

“Ain’t nothing to worry about,” he said, hiding the stain with his hand.

He watched as she slipped into her dress.

“Maybe you can fix a fresh pot of coffee.”

“Sure, Baby. It’ll be a fine thing to get back to the city. The doc will fix you, and we’ll be a happy family again.”

He dressed, walked into the kitchen, set his hands on her hips, and kissed her neck. She turned and handed him a cup of fresh coffee, then they retired to the couch. He drank slowly—his eyes fixed on his wife. Jenny sat beside him, her body tense as she stared across the room, gripping her cup, listening to the windows buzz and the beams creak as the powerful winds returned.

“Something troubling you?” he said.

“This is what you’ve been living with?”

“You mean the wind? It’ll pass. It wasn’t like this back then, was it?”

“How can you stand it? I’m scared, Tom. The house will come crashing down and kill us all!”

She dropped the cup and covered her ears.

“Hey, now. Take it easy. Nothing like that is going to happen.”

Madden retrieved the fallen cup and mopped up the spill with his bandana. Jenny crouched beside him, gripping his arm. “We need to go before things get worse. Right now, Tom. I’ll watch the boy while you pack.”

Madden stood, startled by her insistence on leaving and by her odd remark about their son. As twilight approached, he finished packing the station wagon. The last item he stowed was his rifle, which he had retrieved and reloaded with the remaining cartridge from the broken shed.

“No reason to bring that into the city,” she said. “Things are different there.”

“Maybe so, but some might refuse to abide by such boundaries,” he said, then turned and stared at the house.

“Don’t look back,” Jenny said. “That house is sick and wants to die.”

Madden opened the passenger door and eased himself inside. He recognized the deputy's scent.

“You’ve been seeing Caine. His cheap smell is all over the car.”

“Nice that you think another man would be interested in me.”

“I can deal with another man. My unease is with your interest in him.”

“He helped me move some things. That’s all. I can’t do much about his smell.”

Madden slumped into his seat and wiped feverish sweat from his brow. The car rolled slowly along the dirt road. By the time they reached the highway, night had fallen. Jenny looked at Madden, then at the road, then back at Madden.

“Nice to have you back in our lives,” she said. “One happy family again.”

Madden leaned his head against the side window.

“You’re so quiet, Baby,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“Mind the signs. You know this road.”

Madden glanced at the sky. The moon hung clear and luminous—almost friendly. Beside it, two stars glimmered, and between them lay the prospect of happiness. He imagined he and Jenny would spend time in the city, get well, and then return to the canyon. Caine had been warned, though threats meant little to such scoundrels. The lone bullet in the rifle’s chamber waited for the deputy’s indiscretion. Life would soon be as it should. They might even consider starting a new family.

“I have a surprise, Tom. Our boy is coming for dinner.”

Her words jolted Madden out of his reverie.

“We need to get back before he arrives. He gets upset when I’m late.”

“What boy?” said Madden.

Jenny didn’t answer. She pressed the accelerator pedal harder.

“Slow down. There ain’t no boy waiting for us. It’s just you and me now.”

“Won’t it be wonderful to see him? Of course, it’ll take some time for him to get to know you again.”

“I said slow down. You know the dangers.”

The car rattled, and its tires squealed as it barely held the road. As they rounded a sharp curve, the brakes locked, and she lost control. The wagon caromed off the guardrail and spun wildly until it came to rest against the ridge. Jenny sat hunched over the steering wheel, her body cushioned by a broken arm. She shook her head, then took account of the car. A man sat next to her. She couldn’t recall who he was or why he was there. His head lay against the shattered, bloodied windshield. She pulled him back and studied his face in the crimson moonlight. He looked so much like her son.

Stephen Myer is a writer and musician in Southern California. His stories and poetry have been published in The Literary Hatchet, Tales from the Moonlit Path, Roi Faineant Press, Grand Little Things, Bewildering Stories, JayHenge Publishing Back Forty, Kafka Protocol, and Masque & Maelström Anthologies, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, Close to the Bone, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Blood Fiction Anthologies Vols. 2, 3 & 4, Exquisite Death, God’s Cruel Joke, Fiction on the Web, and elsewhere. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Award for Literary Fiction.