Jayson Part II

EvelynHail I don't recommend eating while reading this chapter. The rest of you have been warned. 😂

Jayson awoke to the sound of something scraping in the next room. He bolted upright before clutching each side of his head, groaning. His headache had intensified, becoming a full-fledged migraine, pounding behind his eyes. His stomach clenched, threatening to send the chocolate and soda out the way they came.

He fumbled for his canteen and tipped it into his mouth, but there was enough left for two sips. Another search in his bag yielded nothing, and he leaned against the wall.

The scraping soon turned to shuffling and shadows flickering between the sunlight through the dirty window. Someone, or something, was here.

Moving to his knees, Jayson crawled through the open doorway and peeked his head over the counter. Two men in full body armor stood just outside the main door, arguing in muffled voices.

Jayson ducked down, sucking in a sharp breath. Heart pounding, he strained to listen. He was tempted to edge around the side, but stayed put, not wanting to risk being seen. It was difficult to hear, but the conversation was made easier to listen to through the ply board window.

"... looks abandoned. ... door locked... nothing inside..."

"Recklaw can't have gone far. He was only an hour ahead of us when Benson sent him out the gate. This is the closest place for miles." The second man was far easier to hear as he spoke in a loud voice.

"Well, he's not here! You've looked inside the window. This place has been deserted for a long time, and there's nothing worth foraging for."

"We should keep one of the trucks nearby in case he makes an appearance. I'll radio the other vehicles to make another circle. If he doesn't show by tomorrow afternoon, we'll head back."

"What about Benson?"

"Not much we can do if we can't find him. For all we know, one of the animals picked him off."

"Bastards," Jayson muttered. So exiling him had been a charade. Whatever they wanted him for couldn't be good, and he was willing to bet at least Monica would be kept in the dark.

He wrapped his hand around his knife handle and carefully moved backward. He kept his gaze forward the entire time, looking down only to hastily repack his bag. He didn't know if the soldiers would be smart enough to force their ways inside, but Jayson wanted to be ready in case he had to run.

Shrugging into his straps, he crouched down again and moved back to his hiding place behind the counter. The voices had died down, as did the footsteps, but they might as well have been next to him if they were conducting a stakeout.

Fingers hovering over his knife, he waited. Five, ten, and fifteen minutes passed, and no one accosted him or tried to come inside the abandoned gas station. And why would they? From the outside, a cursory glance revealed nothing but a gutted lobby. Based on the conversation he did overhear, these soldiers probably thought Jayson was still behind them.

It was an inconvenience and a blessing at the same time. Jayson would need to be on his way soon and locate a water source, but at least no one would find him here as long as he remained hidden. All he needed to do was wait them out.

That was easier said than done as his stomach growled and clenched, tying itself into painful knots. Nausea from hunger and dehydration swept through him, and he forced himself not to dry heave. If the noise caused him you get caught, he'd have a lot more to worry about than finding food or water. He'd seen Jeannie for himself; emaciated and broken—nothing like the fierce doctor threatening to put someone's kidney on ice all those weeks ago.

What kind of operation was Benson running? More importantly, who else knew? Why were people seemingly okay with that place? It reminded him of a bad sci-fi movie where he, as the protagonist, sensed something off until the big reveal forced him to flee.

He drew his knees into his chest and rested his head against the counter, distracting himself by counting the grains in the dusty, wooden floor. Cobwebs hung in the empty cubby in front of him, and he stopped counting to watch a spider on its string, dangling like a trapeze artist from the web above.

He eventually closed his eyes, taking shallow breaths in rhythm to the throbbing pulse in his temples. His mouth became drier than sandpaper, glueing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The glands in his throat swelled until it hurt to swallow. He didn't know how much time passed like this, but each minute was worse than the last, every pang in his stomach a reminder of his predicament.

By the time the sun cast an orange glow to signal the coming of night, Jayson's head pounded so hard, he prayed for it to split open already. He wouldn't be able to wait out the military much longer like this; he needed relief, and he needed it now. Survival training wasn't even this bad—he'd always been able to find a water source, but he also didn't have to worry about a lethal virus either.

Perhaps being caught wouldn't be so bad after all. Even in the compound, Benson would have to keep him alive. He wouldn't go through all this trouble just to kill him.

He was about to take his chances and look for one of the cacti he'd seen on his way to the dilapidated gas station when a canine snarl outside grabbed his attention. On shaking arms and legs, he crawled to the plyboard window, keeping to the shadows as he rested his hand near the hilt of his knife. Something wasn't right. Stray dogs typically didn't wander this far into the wilderness, but coyotes did, and the potential for disease was concerning, infected or not.

The growling continued, followed by a yip and another snarl. A high-pitched human scream punctured the lull between feral rumble. Jayson didn't hear footsteps; only the deadly yowl and paws skittering over the ground before the person outside screeched again, curdling Jayson's blood. Soon, the man was wailing, begging for the animal to stop. Meanwhile, the sound of rent fabric of flesh carried through the wooden makeshift window, so close that Jayson instinctively shrank back, covering his mouth with his fist.

His next thoughts were disjointed and confused, making it difficult to concentrate on what he should do. On one hand, he couldn't stay here. Even if the animal couldn't reach him, it had fed recently, whereas he was going on almost a day with no water. But if he went out, he risked sharing the poor man's fate. Rabid or zombified, being bitten would spell death either way.

"Frack," he muttered, massaging his aching head.

Carefully, he unsheathed his knife and listened at the window. The animal was still snarling and tearing flesh and fabric, painting a mental visual that made Jayson queasy.

Taking a slow, deep breath, he moved to the front door. When he unbolted the lock, it clicked so loud, it echoed in the still room. He flinched, keeping his gaze on the barren landscape. Whatever was out there didn't appear to notice, and he slipped outside, keeping his back to the wall.

A glance on either side revealed nothing, though the animal was still eating to his left. The human screams had softened to muted wails, then whimpers until finally, the man fell silent altogether. It was a horrible way to go, and even though this man was Jayson's enemy, he didn't wish that fate on him. Benson maybe, but not the poor bastard who'd been sent out to do that crooked man's dirty work.

Fully alert, he crept to the side of the gas station and looked around the corner. A coyote with matted tan fur had its head down over the man's corpse. The animal's shoulders coiled as it shook its head, tearing into the body, and the only visible parts of the man were his prone legs, outstretched and occasionally twitching.

The truck was nearby, parked almost next to the gas station. He chanced a peek at the vehicle, checking to see where this man's partner was, but no one was inside. At least no one he could see.

Looking back to the coyote, Jayson gripped the handle of his knife. He bounced on the balls of his feet, preparing to take the animal out like he'd done with the dog in the veterinary clinic. He wasn't confident that he'd make it out alive, but he was prepared to use the knife on himself if he needed to. Anything was better than becoming a Soapie.

He was about to launch himself into a sprint when the coyote suddenly raised its head and stilled. Jayson stopped himself and held his breath, still holding on to his knife, ready to run back inside the gas station.

But the animal never turned to him. Instead, it lifted its nose into the air before howling and bolting forward. Jayson watched with furrowed brows until a second scream rent the air somewhere behind the vehicle. As the animal left for new prey, the body of the dead man was revealed, sending bile into Jayson's throat. Blood stained the red and brown dirt, and a disconnected arm lay discarded to the side. Innards that appeared to be an intestinal tract squiggled around him like a spool of yarn that had come undone from the ball. The worst part was the man's mutilated face, leaving only bone and cartilage where his eyes, mouth, and nose should have been.

Jayson swallowed back the urge to hurl and ran for the truck, keeping his off the carnage. He nearly stumbled when a gunshot went off with a boom. The coyote yelped, but the shot must have missed because it snarled again before the second man fired again and screamed. Legs trembling, Jayson continued the rest of the way until he reached the vehicle, yanking on the driver's side door.

It was unlocked and swung open, and he climbed inside, limbs shaking with adrenaline when he slammed the door shut. Shrugging out of his rucksack, he awkwardly scrambled into the back to peer out the window and immediately wished he hadn't. The coyote had reached the other man, who made a futile attempt to shove the animal off as he screamed for his mother.

Something hard dug into his knee, and he glanced down, where a rifle had been left. His guess was that the first man had left it for whatever careless reason, thinking he'd be okay.

"What were you thinking?" he whispered, shaking his head. One of the first rules as a soldier was to never leave a weapon unguarded. No matter the situation, including the bathroom, the rifle belonged with its owner. It could be needed at any time. Case in point: the two dummies who'd been complacent enough to leave the vehicle without watching each other's backs.

Jayson resheathed his knife and picked up the weapon. He found a stack of loaded magazines nearby and grabbed one, slamming it into place and loading the chamber. Then he moved to the door and opened it a crack, taking aim at the coyote's head. He drew a long breath and held it during the lull, keeping his sight on his target as he gave the trigger a gentle squeeze.

The shot hit its mark, and the coyote dropped on top of the man. A feeble moan warbled, and Jayson stepped out of the vehicle, glancing in every direction. The sound would attract other animals, and he wanted to be prepared as he approached the soldier.

One look was all he needed to know. The coyote had bitten him, taking chunks of flesh from his neck, and his hand was a bloodied stump, missing at least two fingers. His moisture-filled eyes met Jayson's, and his quivering lips moved. "Please... don't let me become like... like that thing. I don't want to become a monster."

He coughed, and blood trickled from his mouth as his wounds spilled into the packed earth around him. Then his head fell back as his eyes drifted closed. Tears rolled tracks down his cheeks, and his body trembled. "Just end it," he begged.

Jayson nodded and swallowed, bringing the butt of the rifle back to his shoulder. He pointed the barrel at the man's head and fired. He barely noticed the recoil, and his ears rang from the noise, drowning out the sound of the wind, but not the echoes of the screams that would later haunt his nightmares.

He turned back to the vehicle and climbed inside, discarding the weapon as he locked all the doors. His eyes burned, and his head throbbed at his temples. He didn't want this; not the soldiers' death or a world in which he was forever at war. And that's what this was, a battle where the enemy felt nothing but hunger for human flesh. He wasn't fighting for religion, freedom, or patriotism. He was fighting to live.

A sob escaped, and his heart snapped, taking down his emotional barriers with it. Clasping his hands over his ears, he closed his eyes. He couldn't escape the grotesque images of the soldiers, and soon, memories of Afghanistan joined them, forming a homogeneous collage of horror. Back and forth he rocked, desperate to forget a scene that would permanently scar his mind, burning itself into the depth of his soul.

Something cackled with static, but he didn't know what it was. He didn't care. He was inside the truck and for now, he was safe. He was almost certain he'd find food and water if he checked the truck's contents, but his appetite and thirst were gone. His desire to hide was also gone, despite the fact that he needed to move. He couldn't remain here. Even if he did manage to escape Benson's henchmen, today's events would follow him. He'd carry these wounds with him forever, unseen by everyone but him for the rest of his life. And the very worst part was that he'd bear it all alone.