Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

Trent interrupted her thoughts. “If you have heard of me, you should know I wouldn’t do something like this.”

She conceded the point with a short nod. “It explains something, though.”

He looked at her expectantly.

Her lips curled in a wry smile. “Tells me where that pistol came from in such a hurry.”

He was unrolling a pack from his horse, looking for a small fold-up shovel, when she came up to him. He had been watching her and was grudgingly impressed by the way she handled herself. He could not hear her walking around. She toed in and glided, taking care where she walked, smooth and easy. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

“You were right.” Her face was deadpanning it. “She’s dead.”

His eyes raked her with silent reproach, even as he realized her stab at humor was her way of handling the morbid situation. It seemed funny to him, now that she knew who he was, she seemed to be more trusting.

Finally.

“Markie and I were on our way to see the army at Base Camp. Sometimes we go there and pick up supplies we can’t find in the deserted towns. Especially ammo. After the army swept the area clean a few years ago, some things get kind of scarce. I didn’t know Markie very well and yesterday she just took off on her own and said she would see me at the army camp.”

“You didn’t have any men to send?”

He knew at once that he’d said the wrong thing. The soft blue eyes turned to flint and ice.

“Look, Mr. Army Courier. I was born and raised in these woods. You won’t find anyone better, and I surely don’t need to be a man to find my way around.”

“This Markie, was she born and raised in the woods, too?” When he saw her about to blow up, he sidetracked her with another question. “When I had the drop on you, you were still going to try and shoot me. Why’d you stop?”

She looked at him seriously a moment. “I’m not so young and stupid that I don’t know what can happen to women out here. I decided a long time ago that I would rather die. It’s that simple.”

“But then, you didn’t.”

She shrugged. “I also trust my own judgment. You are no killer—at least, not that way.”

It was about an hour later, and he’d just finished digging the grave. He didn’t know why, but he dug it extra deep to keep varmints from uncovering her. Maybe he thought that, after being used so badly, she deserved at least this small favor.

They didn’t speak as he rolled her in a spare blanket. He thought they were lucky. The body hadn’t started to bloat much. He had buried far worse and it was always a thankless job.

Together they picked the blanket up by both ends and carried the body to the grave. After he filled the hole and packed the dirt on top, he turned to the girl.

“Do you know any words to say?”

She looked at him quizzically, looking surprised he’d thought of it, and then nodded her assent. They bowed their heads.

Her voice was quiet and subdued. “Lord, we didn’t know this woman much. I expect you do. She didn’t deserve any of this. Take good care of her.” She hesitated a little and anger seeped into her voice. “And take care of the bastard that did this to her. Amen.”

She looked at him for approval, got it with a nod, and began gathering up her gear. He was naked to the waist, sweating in the heat coming with the late afternoon sun, as he packed away his shovel. His shirt draped over the pommel of the saddle, and his muscles rippled across his chest and arms as he tightened the girth and made sure all the straps were tight on his packs.

“You’re wounded.”

He glanced down at his side, shrugging. “Just a cut. Had a little set-to with some raiders.”

The girl glanced apprehensively around the clearing before bringing her gaze back to him. “We should be moving, then. They may have followed you.”

“No. They won’t. Suppose I could know your name?” His soft voice and change of subject seemed to startle her a moment.

She smiled at him, mocking him with her gaze because he hadn’t thought of asking before. “My name is Katie Stephens. If you make it to Base Camp, look me up. I’ll be around for a few days. Or, if your dispatches take you through Big Springs…?”

“Katie. Short for Katherine?”

“No one calls me Katherine but people very close to me.”

“But I like Katherine.” Before she could reply, he deliberately changed the subject. “I’ll ask again, and this time I want an answer. This girl we just buried. She born and raised in the woods, too?”

Katie was momentarily flustered by the change of subject. “Yeah. Markie was even better in the woods than me.”

“Really? Well, she wasn’t near good enough. You think about that, Katherine Stephens.”

She searched his eyes before giving a reply. “Point taken. See you around.”

“It might be better if we travel together.” His hand on her arm was gentle, and she easily shrugged out of it.

“I better go on alone.” Her eyes held his, wavered a moment, then the coolness came and she turned away.

“Katherine?”

Her eyes came to his again, blue against grey. Blue fire against tempered steel.

“He’s still out there.”

She shivered. “I know. But I’m not anything like Markie.” Her voice carried quietly to him. “I won’t end up like her.” She suddenly turned at the edge of the clearing. “I have it.”

“What?”

“It’s the eyes. Your eyes are too soft for the things you do.” She stood looking at him with a satisfied smile.

“Translation?”

“It means some girl might have a chance of sweeping you off your feet.” It was a lighthearted statement, but the question was there in her eyes.

He smiled at her, and said grudgingly, “Maybe so.”

Trent stood in the clearing after she left, thinking about what she’d said about being different from the dead girl. “I hope you are right. I sure as hell hope you’re right.”

She’d gone into the dense thicket next to the clearing. He heard her patting her horse, then the creak of a saddle as she mounted. Then she was gone, making no more sound than yesterday’s dreams.

He stood, looking up the mountain. Whoever had killed the girl in the clearing was, indeed, still out there. He could feel it. Like a vein throbbing in his head, he could still feel the killer’s presence. The thought came to him that, just maybe, this killing was not the first or last, for the assailant. The method looked like some kind of ritual. And rituals are something you do over and over.

Trent knew he would have to report the killing to the Colonel. Maybe they would send a patrol out. Then again, maybe not. Why? And where? What’s one more dead body in the wake of the millions gone before?

He shook himself to free his mind of the problem. Time to quit daydreaming, and deliver the dispatches. The trail ahead was dangerous enough without him being preoccupied with something else, but he couldn’t get the picture of the mutilated girl out of his mind. He’d like to get his hands on whoever did this. Just for a little while….

He pointed his horse’s head toward the Army camp. He’d pick up Katherine’s trail, and follow her into camp. Afterwards, he had a job to do. He’d be coming back.

“No, Katherine, you won’t end up like that.”

The Watcher stood amid the trees, silent and brooding. Far below, barely visible in the subdued light, his latest offering lay supplicating the heavens. Before the cleansing carrion birds could do their work, he saw them suddenly take wing in a flurry of dust and feathers. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene below. What scared them away?