Palimpsest (Book 2): Of One Skein

  P°A°L°I°M°P°S°E°S°T

  BOOK TWO

  OF ONE

  SKEIN

  P.J. Post

  Copyright © 2017 P.J. Post

  All Rights Reserved

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  TABLE of CONTENTS

  You Scream Like a Little Girl

  But I Am a Little Girl

  Pal-imp-sest

  Noun

  Something altered or repurposed, but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form.

  You Scream Like a Little Girl

  °

  “You don’t have to love me back, but please…please, don’t leave me — not like this,” Samantha says, her voice catching.

  Her chin is raised, her cornflower blue eyes wide, pleading and defiant despite the tears spilling down her cheeks.

  Jesus Christ, I…she looks so scared.

  I try to sniff back my own emotion, but I can’t ignore the blood — can’t ignore it growing cold on my skin. “I’m a monster,” I whisper through clenched teeth.

  She gently shakes her head, ignoring the gun under my chin and brushes my tears away, like soothing a child.

  How can I be worthy of a love like hers after everything that’s happened, after everything I’ve done? I wish I had died back in New York and then none of this would have ever happened. No one deserves the pain I’ve caused.

  Not her.

  Not Emily.

  Not Jen, or anyone else back up in the forest.

  I should have answered for my family, for Lisa — I should have blown my brains out months ago. I’m still a coward.

  Samantha believes in me, but I have no idea why; she’s everything that I’m not.

  I can’t imagine how much courage it took for her to show me her mark, her secret, to show me why the scarves matter. The pain she must have suffered — must be suffering — makes me sick to my stomach, tightening my guts like a savage kick between my legs.

  And through it all, everything she’s done, everything she stands for, everything that makes her special — I don’t think she gets how beautiful she is.

  We’re kneeling before each other on this desolate and forgotten State Highway, our own war far larger than the smoldering battlefield surrounding us.

  Can I really pull the trigger right here in front of her?

  Would it make it easier to forget me?

  As the tears begin again, I flex my fingers and tighten my grip on the pistol, searching for my lost resolve. If not now…

  Samantha flinches, rising on her knees to stare me down, and then she grimaces, tightening her mouth like she’s choking down her own emotion, trying to find her own strength, trying to talk me off the ledge without spooking the jumper.

  “You promised,” she says again, firmly.

  She’s refusing to look away. It’s as if we’re frozen in time, two fates intertwined and stretched to the breaking point, waiting on a future neither of us can predict.

  But she said they watched me up the hill, through the scopes on their rifles — if she knows what I did, then she knows what I am — how can she love that? I couldn’t even protect Emily.

  Why should I expect anything more?

  And yet, I can’t look away either. I’ve become addicted to her compassion — sometimes, for a little while, it’s almost like forgiveness. I don’t want to believe that she’s lying to me or that I’m just an act of contrition.

  Some part of me must trust her because I still can’t bring myself to pull the trigger.

  The smell of gunpowder is overwhelming, encouraging — it reminds me of the morning I met Sam, but the gun’s heavier today.

  Christ, I want to believe her — I want to believe her so much.

  I’m trembling, the barrel of the pistol shaking against my chin. She smiles, so faintly it’s almost whimsical, and wraps her gloved hands around mine and the gun, ignoring the blood on my hands.

  Her embrace is steady and strong — calming.

  The giddiness that comes with her touch is still here, inescapable, but today it’s different — cooler and distant, more like a memory than an expectation.

  I don’t have any words for her, not for how I feel about her confession of love, not for what I did up in the clearing, nor an explanation for why I need to kill myself, why I have to end it.

  I’m vaguely aware of cries of pain and cheers of victory echoing along the highway. But it’s her words that cut through my sorrow, each syllable clear and distinct, repeating in my head…

  I’m her reason.

  She loves me.

  After everything we’ve been through, I’ve never known love, even when everything was normal.

  Can she truly forgive what I am?

  Can she accept me?

  Can she love me past the moment — past this need to be my savior?

  I glance over her shoulder, past Teddy and under the wagon to Emily, little burned Emily…

  Samantha follows my gaze, never letting go of my hands.

  I see here refocus on Teddy lying on the pavement just out of Emily’s reach.

  She jerks her attention back to me, here still wet eyes now wide in horror, and shakes her head as she gently pulls the pistol out of my hands.

  Why is she shaking her head?

  A crowd is gathering around us — their voices accusing and afraid.

  “Did you see…”

  “He killed…”

  “That poor girl…”

  “So many…”

  “Murdered…”

  “Like a ghost…”

  “Killer…”

  “Monster…”

  And then a high-pitched voice cuts through the din, “Be okay! Please be okay! Please, please, please, please…”

  The voice is frightened.

  “Please…”

  I see small hands pushing at the other refugees, and then a shoulder forces them aside.

  And then…and then she’s not under the wagon, she’s…

  Emily is running to me across the asphalt. Her arms outstretched, her face twisted with fear and sadness and happiness and relief. Her blue eyes are so like Sam’s — trusting and forgiving.

  I stare back at Teddy in confusion.

  “Don’t ever do that again!” she screams through sobs and tears as she tries to catch her breath, and then she leaps into my arms, driving my self-pity out like an exorcism as she wraps her hands around my neck and buries her face into my bloody shirt. We roll over, me on my back and her cradled in my arms.

  “I was so afraid, I thought you weren’t coming back,” she cries, staring up at me with her own red-rimmed eyes, blood from my kill on her cheeks.

  “I’ll always come back, Punkin’,” I sob as I rock her, holding her as tightly as I dare, afraid she’ll slip through my hands and be dragged back under that wagon.

  Samantha runs her fingers through Emily’s hair, soothing her as she stares at me, as if she’s questioning my lie.

  No, that’s not right.

  I’m losing it — losing it more — again?

  But all that matters is Emily is alive.

  And…

  And Samantha…

  “Let’s get away from here,” Sam says, nodding toward the burnt body under the wagon as she pulls her scarf up and tightens it around her face.

  It makes me sad. I miss seeing her face — her smile. It’s so new…

  But I nod in agreement, get to my knees and then scoop Emily up in my arms and turn, shielding her from the horrors at the front of the caravan. Sam picks up Teddy and dusts him off as she stares at me. Her eyes are hard.

  Emily tightens her arms around my neck as we walk back up the road in silence. People give us room
, stepping back between the wagons and trailers. I ignore the gauntlet of persistent remarks, the ugly fear, as well as the praise and mewling gratitude.

  I feel like shit for being happy that Emily’s safe, shouldn’t that other little kid be just as important?

  She’s not, though — not as important as Emily.

  I know that’s wrong.

  But I don’t give a fuck.

  I feel Sam’s hand on my back and then she leans her good cheek against my shoulder.

  I don’t know how to react — how to be with her now.

  Can I love her back? I want to, Christ, do I want to…

  Sam’s trying to sound comforting, “You saved us, all of us — me and Emily too. You did what you had to, I hope you know that.” And then, softly, in my ear, her voice still thick with emotion, her breath moist and warm against my skin, “If you ever try anything like that again,” she says, pointing back to the wagon where we were kneeling, “I’ll kill you myself.”

  §§§§§

  Samantha’s weight against my arm is comforting and reassuring, almost familiar in a way that it could never have been before. I drop Emily to the ground and she clutches at my hand, holding it with both of hers — like I’ll float away if she lets go.

  I clench my jaw against the shakes racing through my body as I try to deal with my emotions.

  Emily’s not dead, Samantha…Samantha, fuck me, I don’t even know how to wrap my head around her…

  I almost did it.

  I was so close to checking out this time. I squeeze Emily’s hand, unable to deal with this new guilt. I can still feel the trigger against my finger.

  And the fucked up part is…I miss it.

  The forgotten chainsaw-whine of motorcycles shatters my depression.

  The smell of weeds and the forest, gunpowder, blood, sweat, burning wood — and burning meat overwhelms my senses, like I’ve been holding my breath all this time.

  I spin to see two bikes race out of the forest from up behind the clearing. They bounce over the rough terrain of the hill, their black helmets dull under the overcast sky, bobbing and jittering as they cut through the tall weeds. I hear the bikes rev near the bottom of the hill and then they hit the berm along the road and fly into the air, jumping out of the drainage ditch and up onto the highway.

  The short squeal of rubber and the quick burst of smoke as the tires gain traction feels like they’re giving us the finger.

  Cam comes into focus as he rests a rifle on the blackened remains of the first wagon and leans over, embracing the weapon as he takes aim.

  “Shoot,” I whisper. “Shoot…”

  I feel Sam squeeze my hand.

  Emily slips behind me, hiding. I feel her hands on my hip as she peeks around me. This is a new reaction for her, and some part of my reptilian brain knows that the attack today — what I’ve done, that I’m still covered in the blood of those other refugees, just this whole clusterfuck of a morning — has tripped yet another switch in her, traumatizing her even more. She’s getting worse every day, but I have no clue what to do about it — how to shelter her from what the world has become.

  She needs family, peace and quiet — something normal.

  “Kill the motherfuckers, Cam!” I shout, taking a step forward.

  The motorcycles are small, two-stroke, lime-green dirt bikes, blowing oil smoke and spitting gravel.

  “Shoot…”

  The riders are getting further and further away and just when I think Cam has missed his chance, I see one of the riders tilt, the bike staggers sideways and seems to stop for a split second, like hitting pause on the remote control — and then the rider and bike suddenly launch into the air, flipping violently end over end before slamming into the pavement in a tangle of somersaulting spokes, limbs and chrome.

  The hose of the gas mask is unmistakable as the guy’s helmet hits the pavement and skitters across the road.

  The bike slides to a stop as Cam fires three more shots in quick succession, but the other rider disappears around the curve ahead, the same stretch of road I ran across not twenty minutes ago.

  That’s one more notch for Cam.

  I wonder if this one will haunt him the way Jen is already haunting me? I hope not. This bastard deserved it.

  Cam stares back down the line of wagons and finds me. He looks determined, angry and sad. He motions for me to join him.

  There are a lot of soldiers in this group, but none like me. I think Cam sees me as a brother in some way that the others aren’t and can never be, not really. I’m someone to confide in — someone who gets him — someone who understands murder.

  I’m not sure how I can help him, though, I have no idea who the fuck I am anymore.

  Maybe he doesn’t know who he is either, and maybe that’s all the common ground we need — being lost.

  I wave to let him know I’m coming.

  “Samantha is going to take care of you,” I bend over and say to Emily.

  She nods and takes Sam’s hand, and even as her hand slips out of mine — I miss her.

  I nod to Sam, unsure of what to say — unsure of what not to say, and start toward Cam, but then pause and turn. “You know her name?” I say pointing to Sam.

  Emily nods again and gives me a goofy knowing look, momentarily cutting through the tension like only a little kid can.

  “Since when?” I ask.

  “Always?” Emily grins as she shrugs.

  “I told her the day we met, you’re the weird one,” Sam says, her eyes matching Emily’s grin.

  “Conspiracy, huh?” I ask.

  The humor in Sam’s expression fades. “Be careful. We’ll be okay.”

  I don’t know if I should hug her or what. “Samantha?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for saving me — again.”

  Her voice, like her eyes, softens. “You’re welcome.” And then she lays one hand against my cheek and wipes more of the blood away. “It’s a good thing I like you, saving your butt is getting to be a full-time job.”

  I just nod, and try to smile without crying again, and then turn back to Cam, trying like hell not to think about Sam’s crystal blue eyes. So close and yet…

  But then, slowly, with each step reality begins to sink in — never mind who deserves what or what anything means beyond this moment, beyond today…

  She said she loves me.

  Even though I have no fucking clue what to do with it or even what it means, I can’t help but grin at the thought.

  Cam’s waiting on me, impatient. I don’t think he likes being alone with his demons any more than I do, but it’s not enough to break the spell, Sam’s spell.

  The gauntlet is quiet as I walk back up the road. The angry faces won’t meet my gaze now. Seems they were a little more brave when I was walking away from them, then again, with everything that’s happened, maybe my goofy grin is out of place with all of the blood — it might even be a little bit unnerving.

  I notice the women survivors coming down the hill through the burned out weeds; each of them has one hand on the shoulder of the woman in front of her, like they’ve been tied to one another. The one in front is carrying the toddler I threatened to kill.

  They look as defeated as people can — they look like they’ve lost everything.

  And even they can’t break the spell. It’s comforting to know I’m still batshit crazy.

  A few men on horseback ride past me and the women, galloping toward the downed rider. One of them looks like Paco. He’s such an asshole, but he gets the job done. I’m not sure who the other two are.

  The women stare after them.

  No, they haven’t lost everything, not yet, because they still look scared.

  “Here,” Cam says when I get close, and hands me an automatic pistol. It looks like a nine millimeter.

  I take it, testing the weight and chamber a shell.

  “What are you grinning for? You look like a serial killer, stop it,” he says irritably. Cam st
ares at me like he half expects me to finish what I started a few minutes ago — I can tell by his expression he must have seen my near suicide drama.

  My finger finds the trigger and I take a deep breath.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he asks, his tone second guessing handing me the pistol.

  “No, I don’t think so, thanks for asking.”

  He raises an eyebrow like he’s wondering if I’m bullshitting him or not.

  I’m not.

  I glance back down the road to Emily and Sam. They’re still standing in the same spot, hand in hand, watching me.

  “My journey’s over…”

  “What?” Cam asks.

  I look at him, wondering if I said that out loud and the grin returns.

  For the first time since New York, I think I have a chance.

  Maybe I can be okay.

  I sigh, time to pull it together and at least pretend to be rational. “No, I’m good, relax, I’m not going to off myself, not this afternoon anyway. The moment sort of passed, you know? Guess you had to be there. If those guys are the Cart People, I’ll stick around to make sure Emily and Sam are safe at the least.”

  “She finally told you her name?”

  “You knew, too?” I ask in surprise.

  Cam laughs. “You might need to get out of your own head for a while. That whole taking responsibility name shit was your gig, not hers.”

  “She told you about that too?”

  “She told me a lot — about a lot. Don’t point that at me, it might go off,” he says nodding at my gun. He’s got that weird look in his eyes, the one that he seems to reserve just for me — or is it just for crazy people in general?

  I may have lost my mind, but I have to keep my shit together long enough to get Sam and Emily somewhere safe — somewhere I know they’ll be safe. And that means somewhere on the other side of the Cart People.

  I glance back but Sam’s disappeared somewhere into the caravan.

  Samantha…

  “Cam, she said she loves me,” I blurt out, self-doubt suddenly seizing me again. “I mean, what the fuck? It sounds incredible, fucking humbling, but…holy crap, you know…I’m a piece of shit. How can a girl like that…”