Xion Island Zero: Chapter 32

I am filled with hatred. But today it gives me clarity.
            He chokes, and I watch him die. He fights it. This man wants to live when he has nothing left to care about except life itself. It’s not his time yet. I remove the gag and let him breathe.

‘How long have I been here?’ Ah, it wakes.

‘This is the third day.’

‘They’re looking for me. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I hope so. It will be a shame for you if they aren’t. But nobody looked for me. Not ever.’

The wind blows through the shed like something alive. It intrudes through the broken windows and bites me, and it gnaws at Alan Taylor, sitting on the floor, a poor old and discarded scarecrow.

 When I’m sick of his whining, I force the gag back in his mouth and go outside. It stinks in the shed, the bucket of urine offends me.  

At the far edge of Grizedale Forest, beneath the canopy, the pines, and the silence, I prepare the next phase. There are no delusions. I don’t apologise for what I am. I’m me, and have my purity and purpose.

The old forestry shed is a forgotten scar, a keloid smear in the trees. They’ve built new buildings, with toilets and hand sanitiser, dotted around the populous areas. But this couple of acres has been given back to the earth and the animals. It grows wild, and the forest preserves sins like bones in peat. I didn’t grow up with the beauty of this place in my fibres. With this air inside me, I might have been good.

The shed's wood is rotten, and it leaks. It slumps into the earth, trying to sink below it to become one with the soil. Ivy has claimed the side wall where it meets the wilderness, and a window is smashed, boarded with decades-old pallets. Beside the ramshackle building, a choked gravel bay, suffocated by brambles, hides Carrie’s car and the Harley under a camouflage of net and brush. Butch Bernstein would be proud after years of forcing me to attend scout camp. Scout camp. Where boys become men, and I became a bored arsonist. That’s how I started, it was a good troop to escalate in. Shame an arsehole kid fell off the cliff and another one drowned, but my intention came to fruition and they closed our scout group that year.

When I set up camp a week ago, it took me an hour to clear the track enough for the Harley to pass. Nobody uses this trail. Not even hikers. A faded forestry commission sign hangs lopsided from a chain by the gate. It lists fire risks and outdated logging restrictions, but mostly it says No Entry. It’s perfect.

Alan’s inside. He moans through his gag. It’s getting on my nerves.

He has a crate, but is currently tied to the main structural post in the centre of the cabin. I worry that it won’t be strong enough to hold him, given the rot in this hick-tin, but I tested it and it’s the only God-damned thing left in here with any life in it. Even Daddy Alan is a dead man tied to a trunk. It’s a sign that God is with me.  

Alan has his arms behind his back, knees bent awkwardly; it must be uncomfortable—blood crusts on his face from where he didn’t listen. The gag is soaked with spit and blood, and his moaning comes through a mouthful of broken teeth. I think his nose is broken, too. He looks like a ghost of himself.

Good.

‘You’ll live,’ I say, crouching in front of him. ‘But, you’re lucky I still need you.’

Alan’s swollen eyes move, and he speaks to me around a wad of thick cloth. It sounds like a foreign language. ‘You English, you crack me up,’ I say. He tries again and glares at me. It must be important, I guess, so I remove the gag.

He coughs, and spits blood and a tooth that must have been hanging by a thread of sinew. His lips are dry. ‘You bastard,’ he says.

 Is that it? I expected better. Ugly words between the father and his bastard son. At least he speaks the truth regarding my heritage. ‘And you’re the man who gave me nothing. So now we’re acquainted.’

‘I didn’t know about you, I swear.’

‘Don’t.’ I growl. ‘You knew. But you didn’t care.’

Alan’s voice is hoarse. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘Exactly what I’ve always had. I want nothing.’

‘Why am I here?’

‘I think that’s obvious.’ I count off the names of my family on my fingers. They are all gone. Then I laugh. He ignores me. ‘Come on, you must have some idea why you’re here. What am I worth to you? It was too easy for you to walk away. You’re a coward who didn’t give a shit about anybody but yourself.’

Alan’s quiet. I don’t think he’s going to answer, but he does. ‘I was eighteen and I didn’t love your mother back then. We were stupid kids. I didn’t know how to be a dad.’

‘Don’t call her that.’ I grab a handful of his hair and yank his head back so his throat is exposed. I’m glad I don’t have a knife in my hand or he’d be gone. ‘I never had a mother,’ I say.

‘I need to use the toilet—more than a piss.’ His course language offends me even more than his stinking bucket after three days. I punch hm in the lower belly and make him wait.

‘What about your next litter, Alan? Does it feel different being a daddy when the daughters you bothered to raise are burned to ash like overdone sausage on the barbecue?’

He flinches from both agonies, and I smile. It feels like genuine happiness.

Grabbing a twig from the dirt floor, I jab it under his fingernail. He bites back a cry. I force the twig upwards until the nail leaves its bed and bleeds like a bitch. Alan screams.

‘I lied,’ I say. ‘You did give me something. You gave me a lifetime of pain, and I’m returning it to you, with interest accrued. That’s the polite thing to do, right? You gave it to me as an infant, and I am paying it back before you die. I don’t need your apology, and it doesn’t look like I’m getting one. I want a flamethrower and a rocking Spotify playlist. But, I’d like you to understand what you brought to my table. Quid pro quo, Dad. You know what that means?’

Alan squares up to me, but only with his eyes. ‘This is about you being some weird little boy blue? Your fight isn’t with me,’ he spits onto the floor. ‘You want revenge? Fine. You’ve already taken everything I care about. And you’re right, that was never you. I didn’t give a shit about you.’

‘But you cared about the kids who got your time and your name.’ I lean in. ‘It’s too late to plead for them now. You murdered them. You. If you hadn’t done what you did to me, there’s a good chance they’d still be alive. But who knows? Nature over Nurture and all that.’

I pour some water into an enamel cup I brought with me when I made camp and hold it to his lips. He drinks, and I take it away after the first swallow. ‘Leave them wanting more, I always say. Hunger can gnaw at you, too, along with the rats and insects.’ Cruelty has a certain elegance if you treat it right.

The floor groans as I stand. It’s oppressively quiet here, with only the caw of crows echoing off the nearby quarry walls and Alan’s moaning. I like the slate quarry. It reminds me of a crater. I imagine a big comet falling from the sky and killing everything around it. It’s like me. I fall from the sky—or sometimes just from grace. It’s all gravy, as the kids say.  

I set up the camera on a crate. It’s an old Nikon, retrofitted. I chose the combo, Analogue for flair, and digital settings for distribution. This is for the world to see.

I strip Alan to his waist, and it’s not easy with his hands tied around a post. Some cutting is involved—him, and the cheap suit. It’s a shame because he’ll need those clothes for his funeral. I take a second to admire my handiwork. There isn’t much of his torso without wounds. I figure it doesn’t hurt to take a couple of still shots, for posterity. That police officer would like to see them, I’m sure.

I stuff the rag back in his mouth and wrap electrical tape around his head. I leave just enough space for him to breathe through his nose. He can’t die yet.

I’m ready. I take a breath, and I press record.

Alan thrashes and calls for help behind his gag. He should work on his diction. He wants to be the star of the show, and it irritates me. Isn’t it just like him to try and take the limelight?

I can talk over him. ‘My name is Travis Bernstein. However, I used to be Laurence Taylor. But names are unimportant constructs. They don’t mean anything when you’re  erased from the blood that made you.’

Alan is in the shot. I have knives, but poke him in the side with a thicker branch than the one I used under his nails. I took time sharpening this one. Drawing blood makes me happy again as Alan screams.

‘I was thrown away and forgotten by my entire bloodline. But blood remembers, and DNA carries grief.’

I poke Alan and have to give the stick a good old tug for his greedy flesh to release it. It’s all too much for him, and his head lolls onto his chest. A trickle of thick saliva leaves the corner of his slack mouth to mingle with the blood.

‘I had no choice in my life. I was made by rutting pigs in heat, but I’m here to bring balance. The sins of the father, and mother, and grandmother, and even their stinking spawn are almost paid in full. But be sure of one thing. I’m not mad. This is simple genetic cleansing and some mathematics. I am a scientist. The branches fall. And soon, there will be nothing left of us to cast a shadow. I have no demands. I merely seek justice.’

I end the recording.

I write under the pen name Katherine Black and I have 18 books published. All on Kindle Unlimited. I’d love it if you’d try one.

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