Marcus had seen dead bodies—everyone had. The war had left its mark, scattering the fallen like forgotten chess pieces across the board. Most homes had transformed into mausoleums. They tucked their occupants away from the living, providing a sad shelter for the long nap of the dead. But Marcus was no mourner; he was a scavenger, a collector of remnants. It was his job to take what the dead could give.
Yet recently, the dying was different. Death used to arrive with a certain decorum—a gunshot wound, the slow embrace of starvation, the icy grip of winter. But not like this. Not in pools of bloody vomit. No, this was new. Now fathers and daughters, like the woman in the mobile home last week—her head buried in the toilet—and the boys in the barn before that, succumbed to an unnatural fate. Everything about it was wrong. The cause eluded Marcus, but it told him something was happening, and most happenings these days were bad.
He thought of the children he never had. Looking back at the girl in the tub, he wondered what kind of father he might have been given the chance. But that future had been taken from him. Taken—the word lingered in his mind. He didn’t like the word; it made him sound like a victim, and he wasn’t. Yet taken it was—the right word, the only word that fit. Pushing the thought aside, Marcus turned away from the gruesome scene leaving they two to their fate. The bloody mess bothered him, its unnaturalness gnawing at his senses. He descended the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under his boots. Bodhi would be anxious, waiting below.
“Their loss is our gain, eh, Marcus?” Bodhi’s voice echoed from another room.
“Don’t be so callous,” Marcus replied, his gaze once again curiously scanning the room.
“I’m just saying, one less mouth to feed.”
Marcus shook his head. “No wonder Mom didn’t like you.”
Marcus brushed past his brother, entering the kitchen. A well-lit room from a bay window framed the outside world. A breakfast table stood loyal, its six chairs waiting for absent guests. The oak cabinets yawned open, their emptiness echoing the hunger of those who had come before, scavengers seeking sustenance in a world that had lost abundance. The pantry too, empty. Marcus’s eyes fell on the loose carpet near the wall, partially pinned down by a box of picture frames. Pulled aside it revealed a latch to an opening in the floor. “Bingo,” he whispered.
Bodhi’s voice cut through the air, unbothered by the mention of their mother. “Marcus, let’s get out of here. It’s not safe with that upstairs.”
But Marcus was drawn downward, compelled by the hidden space beneath the floor. He hunched over, the low ceiling pressing down on him. “I’m going to hand this up to you,” he called to Bodhi. “There’s shit down here.”
“Make it quick. We gotta go.” Bodhi’s eyes darted nervously toward the ceiling.
“Maybe there’s some Gerber food for you down here, you big baby,” Marcus retorted. “We have a job to do. Now take this stuff.”
In minutes, they moved everything from the space under the floor to the kitchen. Fifty cans of beans, twenty-two boxes of candles, multiple seven-gallon water jugs, ten bags of flour and sugar and molasses each, some honey, maple syrup, coffee, and a few other random canned goods. Also, forty-four boxes of Remington 12-gauge buckshot. The shotgun itself, gone. The last item handed up was a Christmas present, wrapped in faded paper. The tag bore the name “Tiffany” and the words, “To: Tiffany – Love, Daddy.”
Back in the Chevy, the small block engine’s rumble was a familiar lullaby as the brothers drove homeward. The sun dipped, streaking the sky in hues of amber and indigo. A country breeze swirled through the open windows, carrying the scent of rain. It smelled like America—the land they remembered, yet no longer recognized. The road stretched ahead, empty as always. Life had become scarce, a fragile commodity whose price was questionable.
“People aren’t supposed to die like that,” Bodhi said, breaking the silence.
Marcus glanced at his brother, the weight of their scavenged supplies settling around them. “No,” he agreed. “But these days, nothing is as it should be.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Marcus replied. He glanced from the road to look at his brother, but the broad brim hid any expression he might be making.
The cowboy pulled his hat down as if to get some sleep on the drive home. A few miles down the road, Bodhi continued, “Seeing a kid die like that’s pretty grim.” He said as he stroked his dusty goat-tee.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Relax, it’s not like you knew them.”
“That little girl...” Marcus drifted off.
“Yeah?”
“Just got me thinking.”
“Let go of your ghosts Marcus.” Bodhi said shaking his head.
“You first.”
“I am at peace with my demons,” the voice under the hat said flippantly. “I wear them like hood ornaments.” The cowboy pulled his hat down further; a gift from mother – his most precious hood ornament.
“You don’t even know your demons. If you did you wouldn’t wear that hat.” Marcus said smiling.
“Oh yes I do. But I let mine liberate me, while you keep belaboring yours. And it’s a fine hat, just because it was given to me by your mother doesn’t change the fact that it’s a fine hat.”
“You’re a lot of things but liberated isn’t one.”
“I’m just saying Marcus, let it die.”
An unfortunate choice of words.
“She did die Bodhi!” Marcus snapped back, “She died, and then she left.”
“Marcus, you can’t change that. She left. She did that.” Bodhi hated this conversation. It had been had before, and he knew that having it again wouldn’t change a damn thing. Unless he pushed it just a little further, “Good riddance, you don’t need her. Never did.”
Marcus let the conversation drop into the space between them. He knew the conversation was over. It was over before it began, just like a hundred times before.