A few acknowledgements and notes:
My tenses change constantly, I know, and it's in the process of being fixed.
The title sucks. Any input would be greatly appreciated.
I'm thinking about switching to a first person perspective, keeping 3rd omniscient only for the three paragraphs with parallel structure.
Anyway... here it is.
ATONEMENT
By Zachary Cohn
The same sun blazed with the burning indifference as it does in every other desert. The same gritty sand clogged the air as it would in any other desert. The same bleached bones lay scattered on the ground as one would find anywhere else that has long since run out of water. The only difference, the only unique characteristics of this desert – was that this is the one Edward wanted to die in.
#
The smell of hot asphalt from the road burned his nose as Edward zipped up his fly and walked back to his bike. The key turned, and the engine powered by the relentlessly burning sun turned over; he continued down one of a thousand now-nameless roads, connecting a thousand now-nameless towns. Before the War, Edward thought, this road could have been Interstate 15, where he rode behind his father on a vintage Tumbadigger motorcycle they spent a year fixing. Or even Route 30, more of a memory now than a road, and more of a nightmare than a memory.
Accelerating at the mere thought of Route 30, the rider continued on his quest, not heading anywhere he knows, but away from everything he does. Although Edward had long since lost his concept of time, he had been riding this way for almost eight years. His jeans faded with eight years of sun, his reflective goggles sandblasted smooth. So many times in his life had everything changed, eight years ago he swore it would be the last time. And so it had been, everyday just like the one before, everyday just like next.
Night falls, and Edward pulls his bike to the side of the road. Though days have passed since he last saw another living human, it still wasn't safe to ride the roads at night. Marauders, thieves, and other desert scum were commonplace, stealing food and water, preying on the weak. Some people take refuge in towns, others in giant convoys. He had survived on his own this long for two reasons: he went out of his way to avoid trouble, but when trouble found him, as trouble often does, his .44 Magnum spoke loudly enough to discourage any repeat offenders. In a time when working guns were rare, its distinctive report is especially unforgettable. “This gun is your life. Treat it that way.” his father had told him once, behind their cabin where Edward learned to shoot. Two decades later, as Edward gazed at the revolver's wooden grip dangling from the holster at his hip, he felt a familiar pang of guilt. Brushing it away, as had become custom, he slept.
Edward awakened to the cry of a vulture with the familiar taste of sweat in his dry mouth. Rising, he emptied a canteen into his mouth, muttering “Get water in the next town.” There was an endlessly complex network of highways, but towns were never on the highway. A small dirt road usually connected towns to highways; there were never any signs, for the towns no longer had names.
#
Edward turned onto a road whose dirt was packed just like that of any other dirt road. The same sedimentary rocks bouncing up behind his bike as would on any other dirt road. The same town at the end of the road as would be at the end of any other road. The only difference, the only unique characteristic of this road – was that this is the one leading to the town where Edward would die.
#
There was no crowd as Edward idled into town. The only thing that made him more nervous than a crowd gathering was no crowd gathering. They always made him nervous, ever since his return to Denver. He and his father fled long before the War turned ugly, but Edward wanted to revisit his home. Even though years had passed since the end of the war, the streets were still stained with the blood from a million lonely suicides. Packs of savages, living in buildings toppled in on themselves, attacked him there. He had been looking for survivors, people like him. The only people left alive were driven insane with radiation sickness and the stress of watching everyone around them die. There was no one there for him.
Edward drove up to the building marked simply “INN” and parked his bike outside. Entering, and approaching the bar, Edward took a seat and glanced around for the innkeeper. “KEEPER!” Edward bellowed. After a second yell, an old, timid looking man came scurrying from a back room. “Five gallons of water. Need to restock. How much?” Edward asked.
Laughing nervously, the innkeeper replied “We ain't used money here in ten years, sir. Do you have anything you're willing to trade?”
Nothing, Edward thought. One does not tend to collect much on the road. “A good back and a strong arm.” No one turned down offers of manual labor.
The man sighed in what seemed to be relief. “Five days of work for five gallons of water.” Pointing at a ladder in the back of the room, “You can sleep up there. My name is Cecil” Seeming more friendly now that Edward had offered something in exchange, the man began cleaning glasses sitting at the bar.
It was clear to Edward that this reaction, this change from fearing to friendly, meant one thing. “Tell me about the Marauders.” Edward asked bluntly.
Startled, Cecil lowered his eyes to the floor and spoke. “They started coming three years ago. They come whenever they want, and take whatever we have. Salted meat, water, whatever vegetables we've managed to grow. We hide some, but must leave enough for them to take, or they'll get suspicious.” The man, as if he'd suddenly aged twenty years, sunk onto a barstool.
The wood split with a thud. Edward set the next piece on the chopping block, and swung the axe again. Another thud. The repetitive axe swinging and wood splitting took him back to the last night at the cabin. Taking turns splitting log after log, Edward and his father nearly chopped down half the forest that night. Tall, once mighty trees lay in small piles of rubble and debris in the wake of the two. Selecting several logs to burn, the two men discussed their plan for the coming days. Iron was needed to make a new anvil, and more gunpowder never hurt. They decided they could part with some fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, and even trade a bit of the wood they chopped that night. The next morning, the bikes were loaded up with supplies and the men road into the rising sun.
“Enough!” Cecil chuckled. “You've chopped enough wood for twenty bonfires.”
Edward looked around. “Sorry.” he muttered, beginning to stack the wood. Lost in memories, he was unable to push them away today. Cecil stared at the ground and kicked the dirt nervously, having something to ask but feeling too awkward to do it. His eyes lingered a moment too long on the .44 on Edward's hip.
“You know...” Cecil began. “These Marauders... and we've had a bad season... can't hide as much as usual...” he stuttered. “Your revolver–” he started.
“No.” Edward snapped. “We made a deal, and the deal is final. I do not deal in lead. Just labor.” His gun is for his protection only; Edward was no gunslinger with some holy oath to defend the innocent and weak. “I'm sorry. But I just can't.”
“No, I apologize. It was unfair to ask you...” Cecil, visibly dejected, mumbled a few other meager excuses while shuffling away.
“Forget it.” Edward called after him. Ignored, he shrugged, and gazed into the desert. Soon, he'd be back on the road, no longer needing to hurt people to protect himself.
That is why he rode. The solitude, the loneliness. It gets to some; it calls to others. When he hits the road, no one can stop him. Not anymore. No one to tie him down, no one to be responsible for except himself. In these towns, surrounded by people, there's always the risk of getting attached, getting involved. Fighting for these people, people he didn't know at all... It was ludicrous.
“Pass the rice, please.” Cecil motioned to a bowl. Dinner the first night was a small affair – rice and beans. The staples of modern day living. Cecil acted kind enough, but Edward still sensed something amiss. Something being hidden.
“What's that, over there?” Edward nodded with his head to the corner, where a child's rocking horse sat.
Embarrassed and ashamed, Cecil hung his head and called, “John, come out. It's alright...” A timid boy, no more than ten, emerged from behind a curtain. Eyes on the floor, he glanced up at Edward only once, and then he scurried to hide behind his father. “This is John. My son.”
Standing, Edward extended a hand and said, “Pleasure, John.” John looked quizzically at his father, who nodded, and then extended his hand in return. Retaking his seat and scooping a spoonful of beans, Edward commented “It wasn't necessary to hide him, you know. I won't hurt either of you.”
“I had no way of knowing!” the innkeeper blurted out. “I couldn't trust you right away. You seemed kind enough... but what if this was just another Marauder trick? Or you were here on your own, and you wanted to learn about us and our town. And when the time came, you'd use that revolver and kill us all. When I asked if you would defend us, you made me think maybe you were –”
“One of them? A Marauder? I should kill you now...” Edward growled, his eyes narrowing as he stood. His hand blurred as it went to his hip, and then extended out towards Cecil's head. The revolver's indifferent silver barrel pointed at Cecil, the biker's scarred index finger on the trigger. A good gunfighter can tell a bad one from a glance at his trigger finger. If it quivers, shakes? He's a bad one. Edward's finger lay tensed on the trigger, unwavering.
“You misunderstand!” Cecil shouted, knocking his chair over as he rose to stand in front of his son. “Calm down. Let me explain, please. For the sake of my son.”
Edward sat, slowly, hand still holding the gun. He motioned with it to continue.
“The first time the Marauders came, we offered to trade. They laughed, and told us they would gladly trade – our lives in exchange for anything they wanted.
“We tried to resist... We tried to ambush them... They slaughtered everyone who attacked, then to make an example of how ruthless they were, they shot my wife. In cold blood.”
Edward stared at Cecil, piercing brown eyes boring into the now sobbing man's skull. Shifting his focus from Cecil to the boy behind him, the rider holstered his weapon, sat back into his chair, and closed his eyes.
#
They had been riding on Route 30-East all day. Edward's father had a friend – most likely the last surviving one – named Henry O'Donald in the town they were heading towards. This town was unique for a town these days: full of friendly folk, welcoming to outsiders, and trusting. They refused to give in to the post-war downfall of civilization.
An hour out from their destination, Edward's father hollered out, as he slammed the brakes on his bike and skidded to a stop. Confused, Edward asked his father “What's wrong?”
His father pointed south, away from the road. “The town is about a hundred miles that way.” He shifted his arm slightly. “And that,” he narrowed his eyes, looking to the horizon, “is the first sign of Marauders.”
Alarmed, Edward searched the skyline for a few moments. Seeing nothing but dirt, rocks, a small dust cloud, and sky, he gave up. “I don't see anything.” Noticing the “look harder” expression on his father's face, he looked harder. That's when he noticed the dust cloud was moving. Fast. Towards the town.
Understanding dawned in Edward's eyes, and his father said “The Marauders don't use roads when attacking a town. They prefer to sneak up from the desert, using the sun to mask their dust cloud. The sun blinds anyone looking.” He removed a bandoleer from his pack and slung it across his shoulder.
“You aren't seriously thinking...” His father gave him a quizzical look. “We're turning back, right? The ammo is just in case they catch up with us?” His father sighed, looking disappointed, and shook his head.
“Do what you want... but I'm doing what I have to do.” And with that, Edward's father slammed his foot down on the kick start, and then he was gone.
Cursing his father for his stupidity, Edward sat on his bike in indecision. He shook his head, started his bike, turned around and headed west.
#
Laughing, Edward slapped John on the back. “Why in the world did you do that, Edward?” the boy exclaimed.
“Well, to answer your question... There was once a man who jumped off a ten story building. As he passed each floor on the way down, people could hear him saying 'So far so good!'”
The two dissolved into laughter once more as Cecil entered the room. “Well aren't you two having fun.” The friends manged to stifled their chuckles as he continued. “Edward, I just wanted to come tell you that all your supplies are ready to go.”
Edward smiled, and nodded thankfully. “Well kid, it's time for me to go.” Seeing a heartbroken face, he grimaced inwardly, and added “I'll be back though. Your dad's rice and bread isn't going to last me forever.” John perked up at the promise of a return.
The three walked outside to Edward's motorcycle. “Goodbye, friends.” Edward said with a smile. Kicking the starter, he pointed his bike towards the highway. He looked over his shoulder at John and Cecil. He nodded, revved the engine and blasted off onto the road, pulling his bike into a wheelie. A last parting gift, he thought, for John. Just a simple trick.
They were good folk, Edward thought. He had stopped for a brief dinner. The bread Cecil had given him was the best he'd had in years. Glancing back, he looked in the direction of the town. Squinting his eyes, he looked a bit west of the town. “No, it can't be.” he whispered. But long years on the road had taught him many things, most importantly never to lie to oneself. He looked once more, and confirmed his suspicions. He looked towards the town, and then the other way, towards the open road. Sighing, he packed up his food, got on his bike, and started to ride. He hated dust clouds.
The Marauders had congregated in the middle of the town. Their bikes were painted a black chrome, contrasting with the tan Marauders and their tattered brown clothes, giant goggles, and sand torn scarves. Their laughter as they tormented those they had rounded up hinted at madness.
Everyone was being dragging into the town square when havoc erupted. The sky was clear and cloudless, yet a thunderclap rang out and echoed down the street. One of the Marauders flew off of his bike and knocked over another. A cry of confusion rose up from the Marauders as two more thunderclaps rang out. Two more Marauders were thrown off of their bikes and tossed like bloody rag dolls to the ground. Edward's engine revved as he roared down the street, revolver blazing in his hand. The fourth gunshot was masked by a gas tank exploding, sending shrapnel flying in all directions and shredding the last three Marauders. Edward stopped his bike in front of the awestruck crowd.
“Edward!” John cried out, running towards him. Climbing off his motorcycle, the rider embraced the boy leaping into his arms. Left eye twitching, sunlight glinted off metal and into Edward's face. Suddenly, he remembered. There had been seven Marauders. The first shot had buried one Marauder beneath another. Edward twisted and tackled John to the ground. Before being crushed by a motorcycle, the man fired a single shot.
#
After riding for an hour, Edward's sense of duty and shame finally overrode his sense of self-preservation. His father could clearly take care of himself, yet abandoning him was wrong. The bike protested at being pushed to its limits, but Edward ignored the complaints. When he arrived, his heart sank. The rider found the town in flames. “Father! FATHER!” Edward shouted, but the only response was the howling of burning wood. Finally he saw his father's bike. Around it lay scattered piles of bodies – all bloodied, all dead. Discovering his father in a pool of blood, crushed under his own bike, with no less than a dozen bullet holes, Edward fell to his knees. He let his father go into an obviously deadly situation without help, but more importantly – he sent his father into the jaws of death. The orphan's eyes watered, but not from the sting of smoke. Edward rose, with hate and contempt for no one but himself, and walked through the burning wreckage that was once a town. He stepped over mangled bodies, his focus unwavering, his gait changing in neither speed nor stride. The rider returned to his bike, where left the town, and everything in it, forever.
#
Edward rolled over, a burning sensation in his chest making it difficult to breathe. On his back now, he lifted his head to check on John. He was sitting up, astonished. “You're shot!” he cried.
Edward attempted to speak, but only succeeded in coughing up blood. He mustered the last of his strength and smiled for John, and then collapsed, his head hitting the ground with a dull and unforgiving thud.
#
The man died with the same final exhalation as does every man who dies. The same muscles slowly and simultaneously relaxed as they would in any other dying body. The same blood spilled out of his stomach and pooled around him on the ground as one would find surrounding any man who had been shot to death. The only difference, the only unique characteristic of this man – was that this is a man who was at peace with himself.
My tenses change constantly, I know, and it's in the process of being fixed.
The title sucks. Any input would be greatly appreciated.
I'm thinking about switching to a first person perspective, keeping 3rd omniscient only for the three paragraphs with parallel structure.
Anyway... here it is.
ATONEMENT
By Zachary Cohn
The same sun blazed with the burning indifference as it does in every other desert. The same gritty sand clogged the air as it would in any other desert. The same bleached bones lay scattered on the ground as one would find anywhere else that has long since run out of water. The only difference, the only unique characteristics of this desert – was that this is the one Edward wanted to die in.
#
The smell of hot asphalt from the road burned his nose as Edward zipped up his fly and walked back to his bike. The key turned, and the engine powered by the relentlessly burning sun turned over; he continued down one of a thousand now-nameless roads, connecting a thousand now-nameless towns. Before the War, Edward thought, this road could have been Interstate 15, where he rode behind his father on a vintage Tumbadigger motorcycle they spent a year fixing. Or even Route 30, more of a memory now than a road, and more of a nightmare than a memory.
Accelerating at the mere thought of Route 30, the rider continued on his quest, not heading anywhere he knows, but away from everything he does. Although Edward had long since lost his concept of time, he had been riding this way for almost eight years. His jeans faded with eight years of sun, his reflective goggles sandblasted smooth. So many times in his life had everything changed, eight years ago he swore it would be the last time. And so it had been, everyday just like the one before, everyday just like next.
Night falls, and Edward pulls his bike to the side of the road. Though days have passed since he last saw another living human, it still wasn't safe to ride the roads at night. Marauders, thieves, and other desert scum were commonplace, stealing food and water, preying on the weak. Some people take refuge in towns, others in giant convoys. He had survived on his own this long for two reasons: he went out of his way to avoid trouble, but when trouble found him, as trouble often does, his .44 Magnum spoke loudly enough to discourage any repeat offenders. In a time when working guns were rare, its distinctive report is especially unforgettable. “This gun is your life. Treat it that way.” his father had told him once, behind their cabin where Edward learned to shoot. Two decades later, as Edward gazed at the revolver's wooden grip dangling from the holster at his hip, he felt a familiar pang of guilt. Brushing it away, as had become custom, he slept.
Edward awakened to the cry of a vulture with the familiar taste of sweat in his dry mouth. Rising, he emptied a canteen into his mouth, muttering “Get water in the next town.” There was an endlessly complex network of highways, but towns were never on the highway. A small dirt road usually connected towns to highways; there were never any signs, for the towns no longer had names.
#
Edward turned onto a road whose dirt was packed just like that of any other dirt road. The same sedimentary rocks bouncing up behind his bike as would on any other dirt road. The same town at the end of the road as would be at the end of any other road. The only difference, the only unique characteristic of this road – was that this is the one leading to the town where Edward would die.
#
There was no crowd as Edward idled into town. The only thing that made him more nervous than a crowd gathering was no crowd gathering. They always made him nervous, ever since his return to Denver. He and his father fled long before the War turned ugly, but Edward wanted to revisit his home. Even though years had passed since the end of the war, the streets were still stained with the blood from a million lonely suicides. Packs of savages, living in buildings toppled in on themselves, attacked him there. He had been looking for survivors, people like him. The only people left alive were driven insane with radiation sickness and the stress of watching everyone around them die. There was no one there for him.
Edward drove up to the building marked simply “INN” and parked his bike outside. Entering, and approaching the bar, Edward took a seat and glanced around for the innkeeper. “KEEPER!” Edward bellowed. After a second yell, an old, timid looking man came scurrying from a back room. “Five gallons of water. Need to restock. How much?” Edward asked.
Laughing nervously, the innkeeper replied “We ain't used money here in ten years, sir. Do you have anything you're willing to trade?”
Nothing, Edward thought. One does not tend to collect much on the road. “A good back and a strong arm.” No one turned down offers of manual labor.
The man sighed in what seemed to be relief. “Five days of work for five gallons of water.” Pointing at a ladder in the back of the room, “You can sleep up there. My name is Cecil” Seeming more friendly now that Edward had offered something in exchange, the man began cleaning glasses sitting at the bar.
It was clear to Edward that this reaction, this change from fearing to friendly, meant one thing. “Tell me about the Marauders.” Edward asked bluntly.
Startled, Cecil lowered his eyes to the floor and spoke. “They started coming three years ago. They come whenever they want, and take whatever we have. Salted meat, water, whatever vegetables we've managed to grow. We hide some, but must leave enough for them to take, or they'll get suspicious.” The man, as if he'd suddenly aged twenty years, sunk onto a barstool.
The wood split with a thud. Edward set the next piece on the chopping block, and swung the axe again. Another thud. The repetitive axe swinging and wood splitting took him back to the last night at the cabin. Taking turns splitting log after log, Edward and his father nearly chopped down half the forest that night. Tall, once mighty trees lay in small piles of rubble and debris in the wake of the two. Selecting several logs to burn, the two men discussed their plan for the coming days. Iron was needed to make a new anvil, and more gunpowder never hurt. They decided they could part with some fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, and even trade a bit of the wood they chopped that night. The next morning, the bikes were loaded up with supplies and the men road into the rising sun.
“Enough!” Cecil chuckled. “You've chopped enough wood for twenty bonfires.”
Edward looked around. “Sorry.” he muttered, beginning to stack the wood. Lost in memories, he was unable to push them away today. Cecil stared at the ground and kicked the dirt nervously, having something to ask but feeling too awkward to do it. His eyes lingered a moment too long on the .44 on Edward's hip.
“You know...” Cecil began. “These Marauders... and we've had a bad season... can't hide as much as usual...” he stuttered. “Your revolver–” he started.
“No.” Edward snapped. “We made a deal, and the deal is final. I do not deal in lead. Just labor.” His gun is for his protection only; Edward was no gunslinger with some holy oath to defend the innocent and weak. “I'm sorry. But I just can't.”
“No, I apologize. It was unfair to ask you...” Cecil, visibly dejected, mumbled a few other meager excuses while shuffling away.
“Forget it.” Edward called after him. Ignored, he shrugged, and gazed into the desert. Soon, he'd be back on the road, no longer needing to hurt people to protect himself.
That is why he rode. The solitude, the loneliness. It gets to some; it calls to others. When he hits the road, no one can stop him. Not anymore. No one to tie him down, no one to be responsible for except himself. In these towns, surrounded by people, there's always the risk of getting attached, getting involved. Fighting for these people, people he didn't know at all... It was ludicrous.
“Pass the rice, please.” Cecil motioned to a bowl. Dinner the first night was a small affair – rice and beans. The staples of modern day living. Cecil acted kind enough, but Edward still sensed something amiss. Something being hidden.
“What's that, over there?” Edward nodded with his head to the corner, where a child's rocking horse sat.
Embarrassed and ashamed, Cecil hung his head and called, “John, come out. It's alright...” A timid boy, no more than ten, emerged from behind a curtain. Eyes on the floor, he glanced up at Edward only once, and then he scurried to hide behind his father. “This is John. My son.”
Standing, Edward extended a hand and said, “Pleasure, John.” John looked quizzically at his father, who nodded, and then extended his hand in return. Retaking his seat and scooping a spoonful of beans, Edward commented “It wasn't necessary to hide him, you know. I won't hurt either of you.”
“I had no way of knowing!” the innkeeper blurted out. “I couldn't trust you right away. You seemed kind enough... but what if this was just another Marauder trick? Or you were here on your own, and you wanted to learn about us and our town. And when the time came, you'd use that revolver and kill us all. When I asked if you would defend us, you made me think maybe you were –”
“One of them? A Marauder? I should kill you now...” Edward growled, his eyes narrowing as he stood. His hand blurred as it went to his hip, and then extended out towards Cecil's head. The revolver's indifferent silver barrel pointed at Cecil, the biker's scarred index finger on the trigger. A good gunfighter can tell a bad one from a glance at his trigger finger. If it quivers, shakes? He's a bad one. Edward's finger lay tensed on the trigger, unwavering.
“You misunderstand!” Cecil shouted, knocking his chair over as he rose to stand in front of his son. “Calm down. Let me explain, please. For the sake of my son.”
Edward sat, slowly, hand still holding the gun. He motioned with it to continue.
“The first time the Marauders came, we offered to trade. They laughed, and told us they would gladly trade – our lives in exchange for anything they wanted.
“We tried to resist... We tried to ambush them... They slaughtered everyone who attacked, then to make an example of how ruthless they were, they shot my wife. In cold blood.”
Edward stared at Cecil, piercing brown eyes boring into the now sobbing man's skull. Shifting his focus from Cecil to the boy behind him, the rider holstered his weapon, sat back into his chair, and closed his eyes.
#
They had been riding on Route 30-East all day. Edward's father had a friend – most likely the last surviving one – named Henry O'Donald in the town they were heading towards. This town was unique for a town these days: full of friendly folk, welcoming to outsiders, and trusting. They refused to give in to the post-war downfall of civilization.
An hour out from their destination, Edward's father hollered out, as he slammed the brakes on his bike and skidded to a stop. Confused, Edward asked his father “What's wrong?”
His father pointed south, away from the road. “The town is about a hundred miles that way.” He shifted his arm slightly. “And that,” he narrowed his eyes, looking to the horizon, “is the first sign of Marauders.”
Alarmed, Edward searched the skyline for a few moments. Seeing nothing but dirt, rocks, a small dust cloud, and sky, he gave up. “I don't see anything.” Noticing the “look harder” expression on his father's face, he looked harder. That's when he noticed the dust cloud was moving. Fast. Towards the town.
Understanding dawned in Edward's eyes, and his father said “The Marauders don't use roads when attacking a town. They prefer to sneak up from the desert, using the sun to mask their dust cloud. The sun blinds anyone looking.” He removed a bandoleer from his pack and slung it across his shoulder.
“You aren't seriously thinking...” His father gave him a quizzical look. “We're turning back, right? The ammo is just in case they catch up with us?” His father sighed, looking disappointed, and shook his head.
“Do what you want... but I'm doing what I have to do.” And with that, Edward's father slammed his foot down on the kick start, and then he was gone.
Cursing his father for his stupidity, Edward sat on his bike in indecision. He shook his head, started his bike, turned around and headed west.
#
Laughing, Edward slapped John on the back. “Why in the world did you do that, Edward?” the boy exclaimed.
“Well, to answer your question... There was once a man who jumped off a ten story building. As he passed each floor on the way down, people could hear him saying 'So far so good!'”
The two dissolved into laughter once more as Cecil entered the room. “Well aren't you two having fun.” The friends manged to stifled their chuckles as he continued. “Edward, I just wanted to come tell you that all your supplies are ready to go.”
Edward smiled, and nodded thankfully. “Well kid, it's time for me to go.” Seeing a heartbroken face, he grimaced inwardly, and added “I'll be back though. Your dad's rice and bread isn't going to last me forever.” John perked up at the promise of a return.
The three walked outside to Edward's motorcycle. “Goodbye, friends.” Edward said with a smile. Kicking the starter, he pointed his bike towards the highway. He looked over his shoulder at John and Cecil. He nodded, revved the engine and blasted off onto the road, pulling his bike into a wheelie. A last parting gift, he thought, for John. Just a simple trick.
They were good folk, Edward thought. He had stopped for a brief dinner. The bread Cecil had given him was the best he'd had in years. Glancing back, he looked in the direction of the town. Squinting his eyes, he looked a bit west of the town. “No, it can't be.” he whispered. But long years on the road had taught him many things, most importantly never to lie to oneself. He looked once more, and confirmed his suspicions. He looked towards the town, and then the other way, towards the open road. Sighing, he packed up his food, got on his bike, and started to ride. He hated dust clouds.
The Marauders had congregated in the middle of the town. Their bikes were painted a black chrome, contrasting with the tan Marauders and their tattered brown clothes, giant goggles, and sand torn scarves. Their laughter as they tormented those they had rounded up hinted at madness.
Everyone was being dragging into the town square when havoc erupted. The sky was clear and cloudless, yet a thunderclap rang out and echoed down the street. One of the Marauders flew off of his bike and knocked over another. A cry of confusion rose up from the Marauders as two more thunderclaps rang out. Two more Marauders were thrown off of their bikes and tossed like bloody rag dolls to the ground. Edward's engine revved as he roared down the street, revolver blazing in his hand. The fourth gunshot was masked by a gas tank exploding, sending shrapnel flying in all directions and shredding the last three Marauders. Edward stopped his bike in front of the awestruck crowd.
“Edward!” John cried out, running towards him. Climbing off his motorcycle, the rider embraced the boy leaping into his arms. Left eye twitching, sunlight glinted off metal and into Edward's face. Suddenly, he remembered. There had been seven Marauders. The first shot had buried one Marauder beneath another. Edward twisted and tackled John to the ground. Before being crushed by a motorcycle, the man fired a single shot.
#
After riding for an hour, Edward's sense of duty and shame finally overrode his sense of self-preservation. His father could clearly take care of himself, yet abandoning him was wrong. The bike protested at being pushed to its limits, but Edward ignored the complaints. When he arrived, his heart sank. The rider found the town in flames. “Father! FATHER!” Edward shouted, but the only response was the howling of burning wood. Finally he saw his father's bike. Around it lay scattered piles of bodies – all bloodied, all dead. Discovering his father in a pool of blood, crushed under his own bike, with no less than a dozen bullet holes, Edward fell to his knees. He let his father go into an obviously deadly situation without help, but more importantly – he sent his father into the jaws of death. The orphan's eyes watered, but not from the sting of smoke. Edward rose, with hate and contempt for no one but himself, and walked through the burning wreckage that was once a town. He stepped over mangled bodies, his focus unwavering, his gait changing in neither speed nor stride. The rider returned to his bike, where left the town, and everything in it, forever.
#
Edward rolled over, a burning sensation in his chest making it difficult to breathe. On his back now, he lifted his head to check on John. He was sitting up, astonished. “You're shot!” he cried.
Edward attempted to speak, but only succeeded in coughing up blood. He mustered the last of his strength and smiled for John, and then collapsed, his head hitting the ground with a dull and unforgiving thud.
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The man died with the same final exhalation as does every man who dies. The same muscles slowly and simultaneously relaxed as they would in any other dying body. The same blood spilled out of his stomach and pooled around him on the ground as one would find surrounding any man who had been shot to death. The only difference, the only unique characteristic of this man – was that this is a man who was at peace with himself.
