Conflagration

XLV

The old truck farted twice and died. At first Sam thought that it had only stalled but when he cranked the ignition again there was no turnover. No misfiring. Nothing.

He left it on the side of the road that ran parallel with the highway. The Troop was only a mile or so ahead although his leg made the distance seem much greater. He limped into the woods and disappeared from view, angling around deadfall and through thick patches of brush. Liquid seeping through the charred gap in his jeans. He charted his path at first by intuition but after a while he began to hear signs of life to the east. The hunting rifle grew heavy in his grip and he rotated it between hands several times before arriving at the edge of a clearing.

Tall grass sat shimmering in the morning breeze. He closed his eyes and listened to its sound.

When he opened them he caught dark blotches floating across the landscape, like summer horseflies come early. Heads poked out from the grass. He squinted and made out each individual face, failing to recognize a single one. Then the shoulders below. The black rifle muzzles angled up towards the sky.

He heard noises again to his right. A tent zipper humming. The sound of someone laughing. And it was at that moment that he realized where the men in front of him were headed.

He thought of the women he had seen at the campsite during his previous visits and tents he had been inside. Not once had he seen so much as a steak knife. The rifles the men in front of him were carrying looked to be semi automatic at the least. And if they had the intentions he assumed they did, it wouldn't be a fight. It'd be a massacre.

There was no way of knowing who these men were but he thought it unlikely that they weren't connected to the shootout in the woods hours before.

And why shouldn't they be? Here he was believing that he was the only survivor.

Sam shoved his hand into his pocket and began fishing for the rounds he had stashed there before he ditched the truck. His fingers worked frantically. When he pulled the ammunition box out it separated and sent a hailstorm of bullets onto the ground around him. He cursed and looked back out at the clearing. No face had turned. He bent down and began collecting them, careful to leave his wounded leg splayed out to the side. Amongst the brass was other accoutrements of the previous two days. Bottlecaps and charred gas station receipts. He had nearly finished repacking the box when something caught his eye.

Under the final casing was a small plastic bag half full of white powder. It took him several seconds to realize what he was looking at. Through the haze of exhaustion he recalled his trip to the campsite with Bill, and the crystal he'd been given. He reached up and felt his left cheek, still partially bruised from the Reverend's bible. Bill had driven him that night. He was bitching about the meth being in his car. He told him to take it with him when he dropped him off. And here it was.

Sam looked up and saw that the men crossing the field had nearly reached the end of the clearing. A small line of trees separated them from the campsite beyond. Sam could see the Reverend's tent peaking out above it, and could hear the continued conversation from the women that congregated at its side. The hunting rifle was resting across his knees as he hovered over the forest floor. He looked down at its bolt. It was just long enough to allow for one round to be loaded into the chamber.

"You were right about one thing," he whispered. "They ain't gunna stop and let you rest. Not til you're dead. But you're a fool to think that goin after them would change a damn thing. You can't put out that fire. Not you. Not nobody."

He looked back down at the baggy in his hand. A small grin spread across the clean side of his face. He pulled it open with both hands and leaned his head back. The powder cascaded down into his nostrils and he took a long breath, only stopping when the inner chambers of his soul became waterlogged with agony. He then shook his head and watched as the excess crystal formed a cloud in front of his eyes before falling gently on the soil.

Sam rose back to his feet and slipped a round into the chamber and bolted it shut. He rested the rifle's butt against the top of his shoulder, its muzzle facing the cerulean vault above. And with the grin remaining he dropped his finger to the trigger and pulled.