Jack

Chapter Seven: Proving Grounds

Jack awoke to the sound of a vulture circling overhead, its harsh cries an enemy of the peace that teetered dangerously inside him. With a glance to the side, he noted that his father was stoking the embers of the previous night's fire. He appeared haggard; there were bags under his eyes and his eyelids drooped heavily. It was obvious that he had decided to maintain a vigil the night before, giving up his own comfort for his son's. Again, Jack was confused by this.  

As he sat up, the rustle of his clothes against the ground alerted his exhausted father of his presence. His head swung to the side, nodded once, and swung back again. Jack was about to stand up and walk over to the wagon for a pan when his father stood up suddenly, and in one fluid motion, whipped out a revolver, peeled off a loud crack, and replaced it in its holster. He remained standing, staring deeply into the fire. The vulture dropped next to him with a crash. He turned his head and stared at his son with bottomless, hellish eyes. 

"This is the art of the kill, my son. Learn and live by its whims and fancies, and you may get somewhere in life. Forsake what it has to offer you, and die pitifully in the desert." He tossed his gun to Jack. "This gun is called Ash. He is a weapon of power the likes of which you have never seen. This is what you must do with him: find something, kill it, and bring it back here. Do not return until you have done so." Without another word, he sat down, leaned back against a knapsack, and closed his eyes. From that moment, he was deaf to the world, and for all his efforts Jack could not rouse him. Bolstering his resolve, he picked up his father's revolver and trudged off into the desert. 

The morning's safety from the heat had ended. Thick beads of sweat fell into his eyes and stuck to his clothes; by the time fifteen minutes had passed, he, as usual, was drenched in it. He felt hot and sticky. He felt unclean. Such was natural, but today it was exacerbated by an unfamiliar weight in his left hand: the gun. He looked at it. It was ironic, seeing a gun in a child's hand. It was disconcerting that his father trusted him with it. He sat down and began to inspect his new weapon with childish attentiveness. 

The gun was small, yet deadly. A midnight black pommel graced his hand as he gripped it firmly, and the barrel was free of dirt or dust. It was cleaned zealously and tenderly, as though it were an instrument of music rather than death. It was lightweight and easy to toss from one hand to another. Obviously not built for firepower, it seemed as though it were meant for fast shooting. Jack had learned a lot from his father over the years. 

He jumped up and began running, holstering the revolver as he did so. His boots thudded hard against the ground. His body flew effortlessly, years of training put into a single methodic movement. Sweat dripped from his hair and flew off in all directions. Dust whirled around him. Birds squawked and screeched. Wind whistled past his ears, a lonely echo of desolation. 

On and on he ran, pausing only for a short break at a medium-sized boulder. How many hours had passed? There was certainly no shortage of things to kill, Jack was sure of that. He had already taken the lives of several lizards and birds, yet the pitiful, defenseless things would never bring the morbid satisfaction he desired. He knew that if he did not find himself satisfied, his father surely would not. Pondering this, he resumed his search, a seemingly never ending march through the wastes. 

An hour later, Jack stood on top of a large outcropping, shading his face with his right hand. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to pick out small details that would hint at signs of life. Sweat clung to his hair and clothes. He felt drenched in molasses, a cocoon of fatigue weighing him down. His water had run out earlier, and his throat was as dry as his father's humor. He had to return in shame or die. He opted for the second; he had faced the terrible wrath he would behold should he fail to perform. 

He climbed down from the outcropping and leaned against it. He considered simply returning with the multitude of creatures he has killed and seeing what it would get him. Perhaps it would be enough; maybe his father would tell him more about what they were planning to do. With a resolute nod, he stood up, stretched, and sauntered off, the sun hot against his back. Heat still baked down against him, but nevertheless, he trudged on. Somehow, he knew he could find his way back to their camp.