Death
I drove for more than an hour down a farm-to-market road. There was nothing but trees, random cacti, and limestone boulders as far as the eye could see. Which didn’t mean much, since I was in Hill Country and the rolling hills impeded distant views. After not seeing another house for the last twenty minutes, I decided to pull over. I loaded the camera with film and shoved all the extra lenses and filters into my purse, pulling out my Walkman. Eddie Thorpe—one of my regular customers—had made me a mixtape that I was thoroughly enjoying. He’d the best taste in music and the time to find songs outside of the incessant country music that permeated every radio station in the area.
I clipped it to my pocket and hit Play. “Pictures of Matchstick Men” by Camper van Beethoven rang in my ears as I pulled my long mahogany hair up into a ponytail. The manic violin hit my gut, springing goose bumps across my flesh. I bobbed my head to the steady beat and smiled.
My purse was a giant holdover from the hippie boom. I bought it from a garage sale a few years back. Made of brown leather, it hung slightly longer than normal with fringe on the bottom. Even after I pulled it over my head, so the strap crossed my torso, it still hung longer than my cutoff jean shorts. I could feel the books poking at my hip, so I reached in and adjusted them. I briefly considered taking them out. I had water, food, camera accessories, the typical purse stuff, and those books. It was quite heavy. I pulled Midnight out and looked longingly at the cover before depositing it on my front seat. No sense in carrying two of them. Even if I found a nice cozy quiet spot to read, I wouldn’t finish one.
I looked down at the toe of my boots. The brown leather of the hand-me-down cowboy boots was already scuffed and faded, so I wasn’t worried about messing them up on the hike. It just seemed like I should thank them for protecting my feet before I set out to abuse them more.
Shutting my car door, I turned to cross the ditch to the barbed wire fence. It was old and in need of repair, and it sagged enough that I easily swung myself through it. I squinted at the tree line and remembered my sunglasses on top of my head, pulling them down over my eyes. Not seeing a clear path, I walked forward, my camera thumping against my chest with each step.
I made it three steps beyond the trees before my heart started racing. Shit. I forgot about the compass. I dug around in my purse, pulling out the new compass I bought at the drugstore. I turned back to face the car. My heart calmed as I saw the glints of blue-painted metal through the trees. I held the compass up, waiting for the needle to settle. West-northwest. I was heading east-southeast. I turned back and marched off in that direction, keeping one eye on the ground for snakes and the other on the compass, occasionally looking around and snapping pictures of the landscape and wildlife.
This was rattlesnake country—you couldn’t be too careful.
I walked through nearly two rounds of my mixtape. I knew the second side was coming to an end as “Blister in the Sun” by the Violent Femmes started playing. My feet couldn’t help the hop they did in response to the infectious beats, and soon I was all-out dancing. I stumbled to a stop as I realized I was nearing a cliff.
The view was stunning. A rocky creek bed lay below, and from my perch, I saw the hills rolling out before me. The sun was directly above me, but as I checked my compass, I knew. The cliff faced due east. The sunrise here would be amazing. I made a mental note to leave something to mark the fence where my car was parked so I could find my way back. I will get that sunrise shot.
I took a picture anyway, and the film gave on the rewind, releasing the wheel so it spun freely. I’d filled my first roll. I changed the film out for a fresh one.
My stomach growled loudly at that moment, in protest of my continuous journey. I looked around and saw a shady spot next to a tree, not more than a few feet from the cliff’s edge. I untied the flannel shirt around my hips and laid it out on the ground, dropping my purse next to it. Enjoying the view and the silence, I ate my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and dug into the bag of Bugles. I flicked a few curious ants off my flannel when they wandered near, but I’d never been more content.
When I finished eating, I cracked open the book. I don’t know how long I sat there, but when the sun dipped toward the horizon and I was no longer sitting in the shade of the tree, I packed up my stuff.
I looked longingly over the cliff for a few moments. I wanted to find a way down there when I came back. The steady stream of water had glittered in the sunlight when I first saw it. There would be some good pictures down there too. After the sunrise. If I didn’t have to go back to work, I would be there the next day and then the next.
Reluctantly, I turned and made my way back to the car. I didn’t bring a flashlight, so it would be a race against the setting sun to get back before night fell. I pulled my earphones on and hit Play. Devo’s “Whip It” came on and I let loose, dance-walking my way back to the car, only pausing long enough to snap a couple of cool shots in the fading sunlight.
When “Heroes” by David Bowie came on, I was lost in the rhythm of my own feet. Confident that I was heading the same direction I came from, I didn’t bother looking at the compass. The setting sun was guiding enough. I sang out loud, no one but the critters and trees to hear me. And that was when I tripped over a cactus. I could feel the spines sticking into the flesh of my shins. I caught myself with my hands, but not soon enough. My chin bounced on the rocky ground. The pain shooting through my head was immediate.
My earphones had fallen off with the jarring impact, David Bowie’s voice sounding far-off and tinny. But the sound that really captured my attention was the loud buzzing of flies. The second thing to hit me was the smell.
Once when I was a kid, my foster mom was driving past a sewage plant. We had the windows down. She ordered me to roll mine up quickly, but it was too late. The wretched smell had invaded our car. Up until that moment, that smell had stood out in my memory as the worst smell on the planet.
This smell had that one beat, hands down.
It was like shit and piss and something else that was metallic, mixed with a sort of sickly sweet. I breathed out quickly and looked up. In front of me was blue fabric—a shirtsleeve, stained with rusty-brown splotches. Dread swamped my gut. I shoved up to my feet, forgetting the pain of the cactus spines. I gasped at the sight before me and immediately regretted that. The horrible, putrid smell invaded my nose. I swallowed hard and held my breath through several heaves of my stomach. Then I breathed in through my mouth, trying not to taste the smell on the air.
The body of a man lay there, twisted like a discarded rag doll, eyes just as vacant. Flies swarmed around his body. I was surprised that his face wasn’t bloated. I imagined that a dead body smelling like this would’ve shown more signs of decomposition. Yet, his eyes were a clear bottle green, hair a dusky brown with gray patches over his temple. The cause of death: a bullet to his forehead.
But that man had been tortured. His tormentor—and I say tormentor because this went beyond a simple murder, execution, or even self-defense—had cut and flayed the body, and the wounds inflicted looked much older than the one between his eyes. Some had festered and leaked a green, oozing pus, all in varying stages of infection.
I found myself fascinated. I stumbled like that dark thought had rocked me to the core. But I was intrigued. Who would be strong enough to take this man down? He wasn’t small, easily a foot taller than me. He was well muscled, though, not quite fit.
I don’t know what propelled me to do what I did next, but I lifted my camera to my face and pushed the shutter release. The snap of the shutter blades made my muscles tense like it was the sound of a guillotine’s blade. Flashes of guilt and intrigue warred within me like I’d just witnessed my first beheading. I took a step closer and clicked again. Again.
I only stopped when the hand wrapped around my mouth, cutting off my ability to scream, and I was pulled against a hard body. It was then that I noticed the shovel and the half-dug hole next to the body. It was so stupid of me not to be more aware of my surroundings when finding a dead body in the woods. I pulled up my feet to kick him. Fight. I was sure that this was the killer and I’d just signed my own death warrant.
Curiosity being the cause of my downfall was not surprising in the least. Especially as he dragged me backward through the trees away from the dead body.