Judges Of Man: On The Run (PT. 3)
THOMAS
It’s silent in the van. Everyone is asleep. The moon is high in the sky. The air around me, the silence surrounding me, smells of death—the pungent smell of sorrow and fate.
Holland isn’t back yet.
A wolf howls, its tremor stark against silence’s canvas.
Why isn’t he back?
I stand, the metal creaking against my weight as I make my way to the side door, leaning over myself to avoid bumping my head. When I find the handle and pull the door open, my nose is met with the smells of the forest. Green foliage with the gritty scent of dirt and gravel. I go out of the van, shutting the door behind me as I sniff the air with my eyes closed and my face to the sky.
I search for the buttery scent I know accompanies Holland, but I can’t find it anyway; it sets my brain into a slight panic. Why did he have to get angry at me? There wasn’t anything important today. There wasn’t—
“Oh,” my breath is a puff of warm air visible in front of me, “Today’s our anniversary.”
And I know whatever happens to Holland is my fault. My damn fault. Maybe he’ll come back.
He’ll come back. I know it.
HOLLAND
The bark of the tree is stabbing at my backside from different angles, but I welcome the pain—I cherish it like a child. It’s the only thing keeping me from wiping the tears off my face; the only thing keeping me from running back to the van and throwing myself into Thomas’ arms.
Everything was going so well. Why did it all have to fall apart. I thought we were careful enough. Why me? Why us?
I throw myself out of my pity party as a twig snaps to my right. I raise myself up, not knowing what to do. I’ve never fought bare in my life before—usually I have a weapon or two on me—or Thomas attacks himself. But he’s not here. No one is except me and whoever’s approaching. So I do the logical thing and hide behind the thick truck of the tree.
A large man steps into view, a small, childlike body in his arms. It’s dark, so I have to squint to see his form, but his voice rings loud against the palette of the night as he stares in the sky.
“Do you see the stars, Ivan?” He pauses and looks down at the child in his arms as though waiting for an answer. After a moment, he chuckles and looks back up. “Yeah, it is like that one night, isn’t it?“ He pauses again, then his voice grows soft. “I said that I’d try, Ivan, okay? Calm down.”
I sneak even farther behind the tree as the man sits down on the ground, brushing sticks from a tree across from my own to place the child. Moonlight streams from the canopy and I am surprised by what I see, not disgusted.
The child is dead—blue skin covered in holes and rot, a strip of cloth covering its eyes. There seems to be string sewn into the parts where the joints connect to keep its limbs intact. I look back to the man, who is brushing off some dirt from the child’s ragged pants, and am reminded of Adon.
He couldn’t take his own doll, for we were already in the van and on the road when he wailed for Trinity, but he has been curling up to our sides to make up for the lost comfort. Strangely, though, I don’t think that corpse is just a random one. The way the man cradles him, the way he talks to him, that must have been his child…or a friend.
That corpse does look old.
I leave before the man says another word, dashing through the trees quickly and silently as one can do in the dark of the night.
THOMAS
I smell him before I see him—butter mixed with the bitter, leafy smell of plants. I’ve been out here for minutes waiting for him, and when I see his form wobbling towards me, I go to him and sweep him in an embrace.
He doesn’t return it, so he’s still angry, but I ignore it and stroke the sides of his face. “Where have you been?”
Holland’s arms are flat on my chest, but he doesn’t push me away. “The forest, obviously,” he hisses.
“What took you so long?” I ask, sniffing his hair to know for myself. A musty smell hangs there, with the underlying scent of cheesecake. “And why do you smell like a dead body?”
Holland shrugs, staying silent. I bump his forehead with my nose, staying there, staying silent. The forest is not the same around us; the sounds of crickets and owls and other creatures moving around the bush invade my ears. The smells as well. Always the smells. The the most prominent one is the smell of melting butter caressing my nostrils.
“I apologize. I forgot that it was our anniversary.” My voice is gruff.
“Yeah, you did.” His own voice is subdued, and I feel his fingers tap against my chest. “Why can’t we be normal, Tommy? Why can’t you eat like everyone else? Why can’t I stop myself from going along with you—with all of you?”
“You look like an angel, dear.” But your soul is as twisted as the rest of us.
Holland lifts his head up to mine, his blue eyes searching my own. “Are you still hungry?”
“Of course I am.”
His hands find my neck and wrap around them. “Well, let me give you an appetizer, hmm?”
I lean into his lips and forget everything; the smell of melting butter on a warm, steaming bun invites me to go deeper into its intoxicating warmth.
I do.
JACK
I don’t know what goes next. I hate it. I hate it.
Everyone is still asleep, not including Thomas and Holland who are doing who knows what outside. At least I think they’re outside. They could have just ran away. They could have just left the rest of us. They never were attached to me like Adon is; they never cared what happened—what if—what if—
I shake myself out of panic.
Panic?
Panic?
How am I, Jack Holt, feeling panic. Insanity. The—the absurdity. Adon hitches a breath, frowing against my side, before his face becomes slack one more and a smile spreads. His eyes are open, the one to the floor shut midway because of his squished cheek.
He looks at me, then at the cover still resting on us, then back. He smiles again. “You stayed.” Adon puckers his lips expectantly towards me; I kiss him before I can stop myself. Perhaps my mind is not my own today.
I break away first, turning away and ignoring Adon as he grips my shirt, to squint and slightly make out the forms of the women in their corner of the van. Treasure and the Aubrey lady seem to be cuddled up together. Penny is at their feet, curled up in a tight ball with her arms around her head.
I turn back to Adon, whose mouth is instantly near mine, and I do the unthinkable again.
I give him what he wants.
His breath leaves him in spurts; his mouth warm and inviting. I suppose I should be at least trying to maintain my image, but right now, in the dark and the night, I don’t give a flying fuck.
Adon small frame clutches as mine restlessly as the van door opens. I ignore it—and the feeling of relief that accompanies it—and focus on Adon’s lips.
Heavy footsteps pass us, only one pair. Despite myself, I break away—“Again?” Adon pouts—to see Holland in Thomas’ arms. I toss myself away from Adon instantly, those the reason for such abandons me, and slide as far away at the cover allows it.
The other men don’t notice it. They go to their own corner of the van and Thomas lowers them both, wrapping a blanket around their shoulders with silence.
Then, it’s quiet again. Adon has found his way back to my side, contempt with just my warmth.
A plan. I need a plan. I think for a moment:
We can go to the warehouse as I said, but what do I do next? We can’t go in an any town or city or the police will find us. But we can’t just stay in this van in the woods forever. We need money, we need jobs.
Then it pops into my mind.
The mafia.
