Walking the Ruins

Father and daughter

The grenade hits the ground with a dull thump.

Jan lets go of his gun and lunges away from me. He turns in midair, lands on one foot, stumbles, and falls.

I stare at the grenade, counting silently. Three. Four. Five. Six...

I stop at ten. My gaze moves to Jan. He lies on his side and has lifted his head, eyes and mouth wide open.

Taking a step forward over the still inert grenade, I take up the gun he held only moments before. It's surprisingly heavy. 

Holding its butt against my shoulder, I aim for him. For his face.

He still watches me, wordlessly, as if incapable of motion or speech.

I am all numb. Unable to feel. Unable to think.

Yet able to move. I pull the trigger.

The bang is like a hammer, and the recoil nearly throws me off my feet.

I smell gunpowder. My hands tingle from the weapon's percussion.

A noise. Robert emerges from a building close by. He holds his hands at chest height, palms towards me, as if to ward off bullets that I might care to shoot at him. Staggering, he takes some steps up the alley, and then turns and starts running.

I watch him until he disappears into the trees infesting the ruins.

My attention returns to Jan's body. Stepping closer, I see the ugly mess that used to be his head. Crimson blood is everywhere. It draws my eyes and binds them. I can't look elsewhere. Can't formulate a thought. Can't disentangle from my deed.

The screech of a bird tears through the redness.

A wave of nausea washes over me. I bend over and throw up. Yellowish vomit drips into a puddle of red.

Afterwards, I stand there, still gagging, until the stench of blood and puke makes me turn my head away. The grenade still lies in the debris close by and refuses to explode. I hate it for what it did, for not exploding. For being a dud, or whatever they call that. For having made me do what I did.

For turning me into a killer.

I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. Then I turn my back on the thing, and I walk uphill, following Robert. Slowly first, step by step. Leaving Jan behind. But the color of his blood stays with me, like the afterimage of a ghastly flashlight.

I have killed a man.

The road before me is overgrown, hardly recognizable, but I know it to lead to the village, and from there to the bunker. I pass a fire hydrant standing like a bad-tempered gnome at the former roadside, remnants of red paint still clinging to some of its surface.

Jan's blood was so red in the light of the sun.

I step over a trench crossing the path, a rivulet of water running its course in noisy equanimity.

The roe deer I killed last winter—her blood was red, too.

The road makes a couple of switchbacks here. I avoid them, taking a path that leads me straight uphill, to the plateau holding the village and its fields.

Killing the roe deer was different. I felt sorry then, but we were close to starving. Her flesh became the meat that saved us.

As the path levels out, the village comes into view. I hesitate at the forest's edge, remembering. Remembering how I always was afraid of being discovered here. 

But why should I care if anyone sees me? I continue and enter the clearing.

There was no need to kill Jan. I could have taken him prisoner. Couldn't I?

A handful of the villagers work in a field close by. When they see me, they stop and stare. I ignore their bland faces and continue.

The gun in my hands is heavy. A dead weight. The weight of death.

The path skirts the village. As I pass the houses, I see the long-haired guy, the villagers' leader. I don't remember his name. I give him a nod. He stands immobile, his mouth agape.

What does he make of me? Would he care if he knew I have just committed murder?

Leaving the village behind me, I walk faster.

Only minutes later, I see the others on the path ahead. Adam, the tall one, seems to hear my steps. He looks back at me, then shouts something to his companions. They all stop and turn.

I approach. Emma pulls her pistol while Rose and Kevin break from the group and run towards me.

"Leona," Rose shouts, her face wearing a wide smile. I briefly clasp her. Then I detach myself and push the gun into Kevin's hands.

"Wait here," I say and turn to face Emma. She stands still, her pistol half raised. Robert is at her side, his eyes darting back and forth between her and me.

I take a few steps closer to her, then I stop.

Everyone is silent.

"I've killed Jan," I say, fighting the constriction in my throat. "I have killed your father." I guess I should apologize. But I can't, the words won't come. They are just not there. 

A tickle runs down my cheek, a tear pretending to feel what I don't.

Emma studies me then looks down at the weapon she's holding. "Yes," she says. "I know." She hesitates.

I hear steps behind me, and Rose appears at my right side. She takes hold of my arm.

There's movement in the group of bunker people. Anna briefly clasps her brother's shoulder, and then she walks over to me. She positions herself to the left of me and links her arm with mine, too, mirroring what Rose does. She faces Emma.

Standing there between my friends, like a link in a chain, an indescribable warmth washes over me.

A warmth a killer does not deserve.

Emma presses her lips together and closes her eyes for a moment. She takes a deep breath and nods. "He tried to kill you," she says. Then she holsters the pistol.