Nate Southard: Selected Stories

His Start

HIS STARTThe cold rain had extinguished the pile of burning bodies, but their clinging stench hovered in the air like a virus. Tommy wrinkled his nose behind the handkerchief he had tied across his face and kept walking. Raindrops like daggers pelted the stiff leather of his coat, their percussive racket blending with the creak of the weathered hide. The slow, steady rhythm of his boots on the two-lane hardtop completed the sad chorus.

His shoulder ached beneath the weight of Sabrina’s body. The blanket he’d wrapped her in had soaked through, adding to his burden. He eyed the burn pile longingly—he could rid himself of her weight there—but he shook the thought away. He’d promised she would be buried under green grass, the first good patch he could find.

He’d walked to the small town of Sparta to find that patch.

The squat four street by four street rose from the road like a patch of sickly toadstools. The buildings of brick and concrete shared the same drab tones as the stormy sky. Farther out, several buildings had collapsed into piles of material. He’d find no mansions here. The only good side effect of the conflict had been how it made everyone and everything equal. Rich and poor didn’t exist anymore. Neither did beauty and ugliness, and being a winner just meant you hadn’t lost yet. Everything was just there now, hanging on and hoping like hell it didn’t lose its grip.

The sentry spotted him as he closed to within three hundred yards of the burn pile, which was maybe half the distance to Sparta itself. The guy wore a gas mask with one cracked lens. He was a heavy man, what Tommy would have called a tubby bastard back in the old days. The guy had a big gun, though, so Tommy did what he was told and froze.

He drummed his fingers on Sabrina’s leg, as if she were the one who needed calming.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “They won’t take you.” He stood still as stone, waiting for the sentry to waddle the distance between them. The guard kept the business end of his rifle—an old Remington that appeared just a little more rusted than it should—trained on him. The barrel’s mouth looked about the size of a wishing well. Tommy made himself look up from the dark hole to meet the approaching man’s eyes.

“Who are you?” came the sentry’s rasping voice.

“Name’s Tommy.”

“Tommy? That all?”

“Pretty much.”

“Why you got that mask tied on your face?”

“Ash. Want to trade?” He tried to make it sound like a joke and failed.

The sentry’s eyes narrowed. “Why you coming to Sparta?”

“Get a start. Heard things had settled down a bit here.”

“And where did you hear that?”

“Back in Coltrain.”

“That’s a three-week walk from here.” The sentry nodded toward Sabrina’s soaked corpse. “You carry that for three weeks?”

“No. Picked her up two nights ago.”

“Her?”

“Yes.”

Tommy heard the guard chuckle. The mask made it sound like he was choking, suffocating on the inside of his fat neck. It would make things easier, no doubt about that.

“She your girlfriend or something?” the man finally asked between chortles.

“Something, yeah.” Tommy kept his voice flat and even, not giving anything away. Deep in his stomach, he felt a familiar vibration. Not a good sign.

“I’m guessing she isn’t taking a nap?”

“No. She’s gone.”

The heavy man gave him a bored shrug, then jerked a thumb toward the haphazard stack of smoldering corpses. “Put her on the pile. We’re going to start it up once the rain quits.”

The vibration strengthened to a fluttering pain. Tommy let out a slow breath before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but she can’t go on the pile.”

“Why’s that? She have the pox or something?”

“No. I just made a promise. I have to keep it.”

“That’s pretty,” the sentry said. His voice had lost some of its personality, business taking its place. “Bodies go on the pile, though.”

Tommy nodded. “I understand. But I made a promise.”

“I don’t care. You can take that right there to the pile, or you can turn around and go back the way you came. Either way, you don’t get to cart a corpse into Sparta.”

“I just want to get a start.”

“That’s all anybody wants. Doesn’t mean you get to do whatever the hell you please, though. We’re building here, getting our own start.”

“I can help.”

“Not with that, you can’t.”

Tommy rolled his left shoulder, loosening the socket. Sabrina’s weight still pressed on his right. Having both arms free would be nice, but that wasn’t in the cards right this second.

“I’m not a troublemaker,” he said. “I’m not a thief or a rapist. I’m not a cheat or somebody who bullies people at the water hole. I’m just a man starting over, but making sure this woman is taken care of is a part of that. It’s the first step. I just want to enter Sparta, bury her, then find some materials and start building. I won’t bother anybody, and I’ll help with anything the community needs—and I’m a good help. She gets buried, though. She does not go on the pile.”

The sentry didn’t say a word, but Tommy saw the shift in his eyes and knew what was coming. The feeling in his stomach sent out a flash of dark pain as the large man jammed the rifle’s butt against his shoulder and started to squeeze the trigger.

Tommy moved faster. He stepped in and grabbed the barrel with his left hand, dodging past it. The guard started to let loose a startled cry, but then Tommy’s elbow shot forward and crushed his throat.

The old Remington clattered to the hardtop as the fat man clawed at his neck. A second later he fell to the road. His face turned a deep red behind the gas mask, and he was almost gone by the time Tommy carried Sabrina past the burn pile and into town.

Tommy’s stomach felt fine.

The citizens of Sparta watched Tommy with weary, suspicious expressions. They didn’t say a word, but they didn’t have to. He could feel their hesitation and barely contained hostility like a cold breeze on the back of his neck. He wasn’t welcome here.

They stayed in the buildings that lined the cracked and muddy street. The rain kept them in doorways and windows, wondering about this stranger with the morbid bundle on one shoulder and the stolen rifle in his hand. Tommy kept his eyes moving from one to the next, searching for movement both sudden and subtle. His ears listened past the rain for the sound of steel hammers c*****g back. He found neither. The people of Sparta didn’t plan on trying him, not like their sentry had.

As Tommy made his way down the street, feeling the rain sluice down his face in thick trails, he realized he had no idea what his next move might be. He hadn’t been stupid enough to think he’d just walk into Sparta and set up camp, but he didn’t know exactly how he’d set about this new start.

The constable made the decision for him.

He was a man of maybe forty years, his salt-and-pepper hair in need of a trim. He had dark eyes that stared out from above the painter’s mask he wore. A thick denim jacket that had long faded from its original blue sat on his sturdy shoulders and covered arms that were almost certainly thick. The hands that stuck out from the threadbare cuffs looked powerful enough. They gripped the shotgun firm and sure as he squared himself to Tommy.

“You might want to hold up your walk a second.” The man’s voice boomed with what Tommy liked to call Real Authority—not the chickenshit courage most men with some form of responsibility showed.

Tommy did as he was told. He didn’t want to make things worse than they already had to be. He’d taken a wrong step with the pushy bastard outside of town. He didn’t need to dive in after it. That would get him shot instead of welcomed, if not by the constable, then by the men who flanked him, their assault rifles trained and ready to fire.

“You got it,” Tommy said.

“Rifle on the ground.”

He dropped it. Rusted piece of junk probably wouldn’t fire, anyway.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

The man appraised him for a long moment. Those behind him didn’t appear so interested. They just stood there waiting for the order to shoot.

The constable cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose Johnson let you pass, did he?”

“He didn’t stop me.”

“But he tried?”

“Poorly.”

One of the gunmen almost smiled. He regained his composure quickly, but he’d already given himself up. Pathetic.

“Where is he now?”

“In the road.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Might still be alive if you want to send somebody out. Probably been too long, though. I don’t walk as fast as I used to.”

“You want to tell me your name?”

“Tommy.”

“Thanks. Mind if I ask you a few more questions, Tommy?”

“No. Go right ahead.”

“Where you coming from?”

“Coltrain.”

“Passing through?”

“Hoping to stay.”

“Why?”

“Trying to get a start.”

“Did you think murdering a town sentry was the best way to earn Sparta’s favor?”

Tommy felt the start of those familiar vibrations, and he breathed deep, forcing them to calm.

“I really am sorry about that. It was a matter of self-defense.”

“Self-defense?”

“Yes. He tried to shoot me.”

“Unprovoked?”

“In my view.”

“And how does that view look?”

Bleak? Tired?

“I am carrying somebody special to me. He wanted me to throw her on the burn pile outside of town, and I refused. He insisted, and I refused again. He raised his rifle, so I took it from him.”

“Do you really think you had to kill him in order to do that?”

“Probably not. I didn’t take the time to think.”

The constable stepped forward, slowly closing the distance between them. Tommy saw a patch just above the man’s badge that read POTTER.

“Constable Potter?”

“Sheriff.”

“Sheriff, then.”

Potter was just outside of his reach. The shotgun rested at his hip, its barrels ready to cut him in half if need be. The man’s eyes had calmed somewhat, though, and when he spoke his voice was a bit softer than before. It still contained enough grit to scrape paint, though.

“Are you responsible for that body?”

“How do you mean?”

“I think you know.”

“Then yes. I plan to bury it, then build a place for myself.”

“And to hell with the folk you’re scaring by carrying a corpse into town?”

“I don’t want to scare anybody.”

“But you can’t help it?”

“No. I was a sweeper for the last three years.”

One of Potter’s eyebrows rose, but the interest never reached his eyes. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you here? I heard sweepers don’t leave their tour. You’re in, you stay in. Am I right?”

“You heard wrong. Sorry to say it. Three-year tour, then you can stick around if you want.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. I had something to come back for.”

Potter nodded toward Sabrina. “That?”

“Her.”

“And you want to bury her?”

“Yes.”

“And live in Sparta?”

“Yes.”

The shotgun’s twin barrels dropped toward the ground. Good move.

The lawman cast his eyes at the concrete for a second, then fixed them on Tommy’s. The two men remained silent for a long time. The rain’s staccato filled the air. Finally, Potter reached up with one hand and pulled down his mask. A white scar ran from the corner of his mouth halfway to his ear.

“I trust men better when I can see their lips move,” he said.

Tommy nodded, then pulled down his own mask. He watched the sheriff as they both breathed the ash that was slowly killing the world. He’d taken in his share in the past—everybody had. He could take some more if he had to.

“That’s good,” Potter said. “You really were a sweeper, we can use you. It’s not always safe around here, but we try to keep it that way.”

He took a step closer. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Nobody gets in free, though. You walk in here with a past and a dead body, I need you to stand trial. Think you can stand tall?”

Tommy nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. I like to hear that. Now, I need you to set her down.”

He froze, eyes boring into Potter’s. His face remained cool, almost relaxed, but his stomach kicked into triple time with the rumbling sensation of impending violence.

“She will be buried, Tommy. I can promise you that.”

“You better.”

“I do.”

He left the sheriff in the middle of the street. Six steps carried him to what remained of Sparta’s sidewalk. He dropped to one knee and gently shrugged Sabrina off his shoulder. Carefully, he lowered her to the walk, keeping a hand behind her head. Once she was safe, he leaned forward and gave her forehead a gentle kiss. His eyes slipped shut for an instant, and when they opened again he stood and returned to Potter.

“Okay. Try me.”

Potter nodded, then pulled his mask back into place. “You bet.”

He stepped past Tommy and called out in his Real Authority voice.

“I need fifteen men!”

Tommy turned to look over his shoulder. He thought it might be better than looking at the pair of assault rifles pointed at him, but soon realized just how wrong he was.

Slowly, cautiously, fifteen men—no more and no less—stepped out of the surrounding buildings. Their skin had been bleached by blowing ash, and their eyes were guarded and hostile. He couldn’t blame them. He might ruin their lives just by showing up and asking for a place at the table. Their job was to test his mettle, make sure he earned his spot.

He guessed that’s what the bricks were for.

Each man held two. Tommy wondered how many times this trial had taken place. Had any of these men stood in his spot? From the hunger on their faces—the burning righteousness—he guessed at least a few of them had.

He slipped his mask back into place and took a deep breath, then turned to face his jury.

The men halted, standing in a line that stretched the length of the broken street. Potter stood before them and spoke.

“This man wants to get a start here in Sparta. In another life, he spent three years as a sweeper. We can use him. But nobody enters without standing trial.

“For three years, this man murdered every soul our government ordered him to. He did not kill any enemy, but our own people. He did this without question. I know this because he stands here today.

“I, Sheriff Ron Potter, judge this man guilty of those murders. His sentence will be ten stones for each year of his tour. If he survives, he may build a home here in Sparta and live among us. He will share our food and water. He will be a part of our community.”

Potter turned to face Tommy.

“Do you accept this judgment?”

“I do,” Tommy said as if he had a choice.

“Very well.” The sheriff stepped behind the row of men.

“Throw.”

Tommy kept his eyes open, and he saw the first wave of stones sail toward him. The rumbling in his stomach exploded like a fire through his entire body. He screamed as the first few bricks struck him like jagged wrecking balls, but he was out long before the second wave began.

Tommy awoke to pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, afraid to open them, and the simple motion sent white hot lances of agony through his muscles, his bones. He almost screamed, but he trapped the cry in his lungs. He feared the pain such an exclamation might bring. It would probably kill him.

Maybe he was dead already.

No. Couldn’t be. No corpse could be in this much misery. Lying on his back, he took stock of his injuries. He found nine bolts of pain that were probably broken bones. Five were ribs. His left arm featured two, and his left hand felt like it had been crushed. His right leg completed the collection. How on earth had he wound up like this?

The memories passed behind his eyelids in flashes, melting together with the bursting colors of torture. He saw the squat, dismal town and the pile at its edge. He remembered killing the sentry and walking into town, speaking with the constable. No, sheriff. Sheriff Potter. Potter had said he could stay, but he had to—

The bricks. They flooded his memory like a tidal wave of rust and ash. They’d stoned him, and if he survived he could stay. He could build a home and bury Sabrina.

“Sabrina!” The word broke loose from his throat like a tree snapped off at the base by storm winds. A scream followed it, a racking cough full of blood and phlegm right on its heels. His eyes jangled open, and the dying light of dusk filled his vision like vengeance.

“That her name?”

Potter. Tommy took his time turning to look at the man. His neck creaked and sent traces of torment into his skull, but he knew he’d have to start moving eventually. If he didn’t try to get up soon, he might never move again.

“Yeah,” he said in a whisper. He found the sheriff crouched in the dirt ten feet to his left. Sabrina lay a few feet behind the man, still wrapped in a blanket. This was a different cover, though. It was dry, if not clean.

“I figured she was special to you, so I had her put in a dry one,” Potter said.

He answered the sheriff with a glare.

“Her clothes stayed on, Tommy. Don’t you worry about that.”

He tried to swallow and failed. His throat sent him a warning not to try again.

“How…long?”

“About a day, if you’re asking how long you were out. You took that beating like a man. I won’t deny that, no sir. They really make you sweepers that tough, or were you just lucky?”

“Build my own luck,” Tommy said. His voice died a little with each syllable. Now, it was barely more than a dry rasp—grit on the breeze. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up without water.

“We treated your wounds best we could. Wrapped your ribs up. Got a splint on your leg and the closest we could manage to a cast on your hand. Might make working the shovel difficult, but I figure you’re determined enough to make do.”

The sheriff pointed past him, and Tommy followed the finger, turning to find a shovel sticking out of the dirt a few yards away. Sparta lay maybe a hundred feet past it, and a load of bricks had been dumped between the two.

“I guess you’ll want to bury Sabrina yourself,” Potter said. “You more than earned that right. As for your house, I wheeled out your first batch of bricks myself. There’s plenty more from the buildings that collapsed. Don’t suppose you’ll be up to construction anytime soon, so you can stay at what serves as our police station until then.”

“No need,” Tommy said. “I’ll stay near her.”

“Suit yourself.” Potter stood to his full height and dusted the ash off his knees with hands that were just as dirty. “I’ll bring some water out for you. Some blankets, too.”

“Thanks.” It was the last word he could manage.

The sheriff walked past him, and Tommy listened to the retreating footsteps before trying to sit. The movement hurt like the worst of Hell, but he fought through until he could turn over and crawl to where Sabrina lay.

The dry blanket was blue and not nearly as dirty with ash as he’d expected. Somebody must have beaten as much of the sediment out as possible. Tommy ran the fingertips of his left hand—all that stuck out from the blob of dried plaster and mud that was supposed to be a cast—over the fabric and found he liked the people of Sparta. He hoped he could get his start with them, and he prayed he could behave himself.

With his good hand, he unwrapped the blanket from around Sabrina’s face. She was beautiful, her face peaceful and pale. Bodies didn’t really decompose anymore because of the weapons they’d used in the conflict, but it didn’t make the dead anything other than corpses—reminders of what had once been.

Sabrina would be his reminder.

He unwrapped her shroud further and saw the collar of her jacket was still buttoned up to her chin. Good. He guessed Potter had told the truth about her clothes staying on. He probably wouldn’t be alive otherwise. After all, the sheriff still believed he’d been a sweeper.

A sweeper. Not bad for a lie. If nothing else, it left him with a clear conscience.

Slowly, he unbuttoned her collar. One silver button, two, and then he could see the ragged, gaping wound that stretched across her throat. He’d cut the fatal slice into her only three nights before, but it already felt like the distant past.

“I’m sorry, Sabrina,” he whispered. He didn’t know her real name, but he liked the sound of the one he’d given her. And he did feel sorry. She’d done nothing to him. She’d only been nearby when the murder feeling in his stomach grabbed hold. He’d bled her dry so the rumbling in his torso would quiet.

Maybe if he buried her instead of burning her like the rest. Maybe that would make the rumbling stop.

He had his doubts, but no other options. He needed to survive, so he needed community. A man couldn’t survive without others anymore. Just like the conflict had made everybody equal, it had made them all dependent on one another.

Even bastards like Tommy.

He eyed the shovel, then buttoned Sabrina’s collar and covered her face once more. He would bury her and end his cycle. He could belong in Sparta, could help. He’d build a home, build some luck. Maybe if he built enough, he’d never feel the rumblings that made him do such terrible things.

Maybe he’d get his start.