HAVE A GOOD DAY

by Tom M


The weeds and low-hanging branches are swept aside as the figure clad in black clothing makes his way through the dense forest. The man in black has been walking for hours, but time has ceased all meaning for him. His mind is a dark hole, void of all thoughts, except for a small, dim light in the back of his mind. That light is the only thing keeping him going. That light is his need. His need to find something. To find something and put matters right. The man in black swats at a branch as he is passing by and recoils in pain as it backlashes and whips him in the face. The pain lasts less than a second before it is stripped from his mind. The man in black walks at a brisk pace, bent on reaching his destination and unnoticing of the scratches his face is receiving as he walks uncaring through the underbrush. Light begins to take some of the darkness out of the forest as the trees gradually thin out giving out to sandy bluff overlooking the lake. Right before the clearing opens up through the trees, the man in black stops short and peers through the last remaining branches and sees the object that he has so persistently been looking for. Not ten feet away, standing on a sandy bluff with his back to the forest, cool summer wind blowing through his hair, is a twenty-five year old blond-haired man.
***
Brandon stands on the bluff facing the lake with the wind blowing through his blonde hair and thinks that for the first time since he can remember, life is good. He had got up that morning when the first rays of sunshine crept through the blinds and spread across his face in their familiar striped pattern. He had gone downstairs, whistling in fact, and made himself some scrambled eggs and toast. He had even put some strawberry jam on the toast, which he rarely did nowadays - he either never finds the time or he's not in the mood. He had sat down at the kitchen table and read the newspaper for a half-hour, paying special attention to the comics. He had then went back upstairs and gone to his closet. He grabbed a pair of jeans that had been balled up on the floor and a tee shirt and slipped them on. He then perused his clothing selection for what he would wear later that night. He had a date, and he figured the jeans and ripped tee shirt might not be the best attire for taking his girl out to dinner. He laid out some slacks and a dark blue button-down shirt (no tie, of course - he didn't want to make too good of an impression) on his bed and went back downstairs. He put on his sneakers and walked out the door, stopping to pat his dog on the head a couple of times. He had looked up at the mid-morning sun and smiled. Today was going to be a good day.
***
The black-clad figure sees the man and then everything goes black. Rage overcomes him and clouds out everything else; he hears nothing, he feels nothing, he sees nothing except the man with the blonde hair, basking in the sun. And look at that, the man in black thinks, the prick is actually smiling. The man in black moves over to his right so he can get a closer look through the pine branches. From his current position, only about twenty feet of distance separate the two men. That, and the thin cover of trees that the man in black is hiding behind, just enough so that if someone were to quickly look in that direction, their eye would pause for only a brief second, before their brain dismissed the sight as so much foresty shadows. The man in black moves closer, cutting the distance separating them even more. His eyes are focused on the back of the blonde man's head. How easily I could crush his skull, the man in black thinks. How fucking easily. If the man in black was capable of displaying any emotions right then, he might have smiled.
***
Brandon stands barefoot, toes digging through the sand underneath his foot. He loves the way that feels, that strange gooey feeling of liquid-like substance passing through his toes. He almost giggles, but stops himself at the last second, realizing the sheer absurdity of it. At that thought, he does laugh to himself. It had been a long time since he had laughed freely, let alone giggle, he might as well allow himself that much. And what the hell, he had just started a new job, and a well-paying one at that, and he had finally saved up enough money to buy a new truck from one of his buddies. And to top it all of, he has a date tonight. Her name is Chantel. Just saying it to himself sends shivers down his spine. They had met two months ago as they were standing in line to see a movie. They had started talking about how there were no good movies anymore and she quoted some line from Casablanca and he had laughed like he actually knew what movie she was quoting. They both laughed together and talked some more. When they both looked at their watches to see what time the movie would start, they had noticed that they had the same exact watch, and that was just too much of a coincidence to ignore. He had even foregone seeing the movie that he had come to see with his buddies, so he could go see the same movie as Chantel. And it was even a Chick Flick - that had to be worth something. They had such a good time at the movie that they went out to eat afterwards. When the waitress came over to their table and asked what they wanted to drink and they both said "Diet Coke" at the same time, they looked at each other and burst out laughing again. That night was just the beginning. They had seen quite a lot of each other since then. Brandon can't ask for more. Chantel is everything he could possible want: funny, beautiful, and she throws a mean curve ball. Brandon jerks out of this reverie by the wind-swept cry of a seagull. He looks up at the bird, startled by the sudden intrusion, then begins to smile again. Chantel likes birds. Brandon thinks he just might give her that musical box he had bought her, the one with the different colored birds painted on it.
***
The man in black stares at the blond-haired man. He's not even expecting this, the man in black thinks. That son of a bitch doesn't have a clue. The man in black kneels down, and silently ties his shoelace. He makes sure to double-knot it. When he straightens up, he resumes looking through the trees at the back of the blond-haired kid. It is time; he has waited long enough. He steps out of the forest and deftly walks in the direction of Blondie. He picks up speed as he approaches his target. As he nears to within five feet, he steps on a dried-out twig. A god damned twig! All this way to have stepped on a god damned twig! The dry wood splits in two with a loud, audible snap. He sees Blondie stiffen up. It is too late to turn back now.
***
Brandon jumps as he hears a twig snap a ways away. He shakes his head and smiles at the thought of whatever woodland creature has ventured out of its woodland habitat to investigate the beautiful day. He closes his eyes and lets the warm rays of the sun wash over his upturned face once again.
***
The man in black watches as Blondie makes no move to turn around to investigate the snap of the twig. Luck, the man in black thinks to himself as he moves directly behind Blondie, I'm finally getting a little luck. He reaches his hands out towards Blondie's neck and sets his grip. Blondie starts to turn, but the man in black's grip around his neck is too strong, and all Blondie can manage to do is flail from side to side. A small sound escapes from Blondie's mouth, an "uuurrgh" straining through his windpipes which are being crushed by the man in black's strong hands. Blondie starts to kick at nothing in particular, and spittle flies from his mouth. His eyes bug out and his gaze fixes on nothing. The man in black remains motionless, without a sound. As the blond-haired man's legs stop kicking, the man in black releases his grip and watches the him fall to the ground.
***
"Todd?" Brandon calls out. Strange, he thinks. Todd had been only twenty yards up the beach to the left of him. Now he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he had wandered off down farther on while Brandon had been basking in the sun and in his memories. Still, it is strange. He and Todd come to this deserted beach overlooking the lake often. They usually come here together, just to get away from things, to kind of get their minds off of everything, and just enjoy the natural beauty of the place. He and Todd had become really close in the last few years. They often walk up here and just sit and watch the sun splay its many colors on the water's surface. Sometimes they both skip stones off the water, but they usually stay silent during their time here. Brandon walks over in the direction Todd had been standing not more than ten minutes ago. He could see his tracks clearly in the white sand. He walks over the crest of a small sandy hill and catches a glimpse of something on the other side. Brandon sees Todd lying face down in the sand, his curly blonde hair rustling lightly in the breeze. Brandon's face turns white.
***
The man in black, back in his secluded position behind the safety of the trees thinks only one thing repeatedly over and over in his mind: one more to go.
***
Brandon runs. He runs back the way he came, fists clenched so tightly that blood begins to spill over his dug-in fingernails. He runs back in the direction of where he had been standing and risks a glance back over his shoulder. He sees nothing. As he turns his head back around, he stumbles on his own feet and spills into the sand. Spitting the grains of sand out of his mouth, he quickly gets up and starts running once again. He runs right along the forest line marking the edge of the beach. He sees the road that leads back into town and he focuses on it, his breath racing like never before. As he nears the road, he catches something out of the corner of his eye. He catches it too late.
***
The man in black steps deftly out of the hidden arms of the trees and brings the rock down against the side of the other man's face. This man, who also has blonde hair, runs a few steps more, arms splaying in all directions, before falling to the ground on his knees. Blood trickles down the side of his face, flowing nicely from his temple. The man in black drops the rock to the ground, and approaches his fallen prey. He kneels down beside him and places his hands around the other man's neck. He squeezes them in, feeling the flow of air stop giving life to Blondie #2. He watches as the blonde-haired man's eyelids flutter, and then they spring open. His victim begins flailing his feet and arms, and his leg kicks out behind him. The kick connects with the back of the man in black's leg and the force of the blow causes him to fall backward. Blondie #2 scrambles to his feet and starts running, while making an almost amusing gasping-honking noise.
***
Brandon runs for his life, not really knowing where he is running, just knowing where he is running from. No conscience thoughts are running through his head; his mind is clouded with the fear of his life ending. He runs at full speed, blood covering his eyes, burning them, and impairing his already blurred vision. He swats at his face with one out-of-control hand and hits the bridge of his nose rather than wiping the thick, crimson liquid out of his eyes. Under ordinary circumstances, that blow to the nose would have caused him to feel severe pain and to let fly a series of curses that would last for quite a few minutes. As it is now, he can only run. He runs faster and faster, pushing his legs on and on. He is no longer relying on his eyesight now; he is running on pure instincts. He runs past the street that he had been so intent on reaching and further on down the sandy shore. He runs aimlessly and blindly. He never saw the hole in the sand that some small children had undoubtedly dug up with their little plastic shovels, smiling and laughing the way only children can. His right foot strikes the hole and he hears a loud pop as his ankle buckles underneath him. For the second time that day, he falls to the sandy shore. He lies there in agony, the dulling thud of pain in his bleeding temple temporarily forgotten. He holds his ankle and winces as he clasps it in his hands. His mind is racing; he has no time to curse little children or the holes they dig in the sand. He gets on his hands and knees and starts dragging himself forward. He has to get back to the street and get help. But dammit all, he has somehow passed the street in his hysteria. He turns full circle and begins crawling in the direction of the street about thirty yards away. He has to make it to safety; there is bound to be help somewhere along the street. He tries to scream for help, but only manages to release a soft gurgle. In his heightened sense of confusion, he can hardly do two things at once. He glances from side to side, and sees no one. He looks behind him, and sees only the sandy shore leading into the bright blue sky. His attacker is nowhere to be seen. He is close, though. Brandon knows that much. He picks up speed, and feels his knees and the bottom of his hands begin to bleed from rubbing against the harsh, jagged stones mixed in with the sandy gravelly floor. He sees the street approaching through his red gauze of vision. He has closed the distance in half in only a short while, and continues to pick up more speed. He blazes along, no longer aware of the trail of blood he is leaving behind him. Likewise, he is no longer aware of the intense pain as the sand mixes in and abrasively cuts his already torn-open knees and palms. He can make it to the street. But what then, he suddenly thinks. What happens if he makes it to the street and no one is there. It's possible. It was in the middle of the day, a workday, people were at work, kids were at school. What if he makes it there and all of the houses are locked, what if he reaches the street, only to find it is just a further macabre continuation of this nightmare? Enough! He doesn't have time to think about that. He doesn't have time to think about anything else. He can only think about moving as fast as he possibly can. Almost there! He is almost to the street! He laughs maniacally, and stares down at his hands, as they race along the sand. Almost there He watches his hands as they exchange leads with each other, in some crazy waltz. He watches them in their sentinel march. Right hand. Left hand. Right hand. Left hand. Blood drips from his forehead, dappling his hands. His right hand. His left hand. March, men! March. Right hand. Left hand. Right hand. Left hand. Right hand. Boot. He stops himself. He is staring directly down at a dark and oily black cowboy boot. The scent emanating from the dusty shoe is almost enough to make him vomit. He doesn't look up, he knows who is there. He slowly back pedals on his knees and then turns around suddenly and gets tangled up in his own weaving arms and legs. He pushes himself up on his hands and knees and starts moving again. Then stops. Something is holding his right leg down against the sand. Something dark and oily black. Brandon turns and sees the man's boot clamped down on his right shin. Brandon tries to whip his leg around to knock the boot loose, but his attempt is useless. The force of the boot is too great. Brandon swallows a salty breath, then hesitantly looks up in the direction of his assailant. The sun blares directly overhead and blinds his eyes, making it impossible to make out the figure bearing over him. The only thing that Brandon can make out is the black clothes the man is wearing.
***
The man in black says one word: "Justice."
***
Brandon collapses off of his hands and knees. If he had a revolver right at that second, he would have stuck it to his own temple and pulled the trigger. He finds that odd: if he had a revolver, he would not point it in the direction of his attacker but to his own head. He feels a shadow fall over him. Although his head is face-down in the sand and he can not see anything, he knows the man in black is leaning over him now. Brandon makes one more effort to move away, run away, just leave, go back home, never come to this dreadful place in the first place. The directives flow from his brain to his muscles, but his muscles choose to ignore them. His arms and legs remain motionless. Just as well, he thinks. Better not to struggle. He feels rough hands surround the back of his neck. He feels them close in, pressing deep into his neck. He takes in a restricted breath. He feels his head swimming, consciousness waning away, and everything seems to be happening in slow motion. It was only a matter of time, Brandon supposes. After all, it was his fault. He remembers the day it happened clearly, as if it had happened last week instead of three years ago. He can see the house vividly. He had been at a party that some young kid that he worked with had thrown. The kid was about twenty five, a few years younger than Brandon had been at the time, and he really didn't know him that well. But hey, there was free booze, and this wasn't the first time that free alcohol had made strangers suddenly the best of friends. He drank through the night, and he remembered sitting around the table in the kitchen, drinking beer and playing cards with four other guys. He didn't know who they were either, just a bunch of assholes who had come looking for some free fun like himself. He remembered it was around two o'clock in the morning when a woman in her late forties entered the room. She was wearing nothing but her bathrobe. "Shouldn't you boys be calling it a night?" she had asked as she poured herself a fresh cup of coffee from a blackened pot. The five men at the table looked at each other and started laughing. "I think it's time for you to call it a night, lady!" one of the other men roared, to cheers of laughter from the rest of the party. "Hey, I live here," she had said. This lady was the mother of the kid who was throwing the little shindig. As she bent backwards to drink from her coffee cup, her robe slid off her leg revealing nice looking flesh for a woman nearing fifty. A couple of the guys whistled. "Perverts," the woman mumbled. "Excuse me?" said one of the men at the table? "What'd you say? Pervert? Pervert?! I'll show you a god-damned pervert!" he screamed as he got up from the table and slapped the woman hard on her ass. The woman let out a piercing yelp, more out of surprise than pain. The woman moved so quickly that the man who hit her never saw her hand fly up to slap him across the face. Her attacker just stood there, incredulous. He then grabbed her arm, and whipped her around into the kitchen table. Cards and beer went flying as her body struck the side of the table. She slumped to the floor in front of the table, as her attacker came over and stood above her. "Bitch likes to play rough!" he said. Brandon was the only one who saw the look of utter disgust cross the woman's face before she brought her hand up and grabbed hold of the man's jeans right in the crotch. The man let out a ferocious scream and punched the woman in the face. Now Brandon and the other three men were up off their chairs and standing over the woman. One man grabbed her by the arms, pulling her up, and gave her a hard shove. She landed in Brandon's arms, and as they stood staring face to face, she suddenly spat right into Brandon's face. That dirty bitch, Brandon thought. Then he pushed her down to the ground and started kicking her. One of the men tore off her robe and they all jumped in and took turns kicking her and spitting on her. "Flash your leg at me, will ya?" the man who had taken the crotch damage said, as he started unbuckling his pants. A few people in the adjoining rooms of the house heard the woman's screams but no one seemed to care. They were too busy getting drunk or getting high. The five men in the kitchen took turns raping the woman and then left her naked, beaten body lying there on the floor as they each drove home their separate ways.
Brandon heard that three days later the woman had been found dead in a lake behind her home. One of the attackers must have gone back to the kitchen to clean up their mess and remove any trace of their crime. It had been the violent man, the one whose family jewels had been severely injured by the woman. That man was stupid, but he was smart enough to know what would happen if he didn't at least hide the woman's body. He had drug her body out to the lake behind the house and weighted her down and then walked her out to the middle of the lake and let her drop to the bottom. If she had still been alive after the brutal beating she had received, she was surely dead now. When Brandon had heard the news, he froze motionless. He had helped kill someone and he knew it. He and four other men that he didn't even know and wouldn't even want to know had raped and savagely beaten a forty-seven year old woman and now she was dead. For the next few weeks, he hardly ate anything. He could not believe what he had taken part in. He didn't know how he was going to carry on. It wasn't until six months later that he got a phone call from one of the men who had been with him that night. His name was Todd and he had been living with the same thoughts as Brandon had running through his head ever since that night. Todd asked if Brandon was okay and Brandon said that he felt as okay as a person who murdered a defenseless woman could feel. Why? Todd said that the reason he was calling was because two of the other men who had been there with them that night had just been found dead in a hotel room a few miles from their hometown. Police had found cocaine all about the room. So they died of a drug overdose, Brandon had said. No, Todd corrected him, the police had found hand prints around both of their necks: they had been strangled. Someone had murdered them. When Brandon asked if Todd thought that their murders were connected in any way to what had happened previously, Todd could only shrug and tell him that it was doubtful, but possible. Todd just wanted to make sure Brandon knew so he could be "aware". As if Brandon hadn't been losing his mind as it was, now he had to deal with the fact that two of the four people who had committed the heinous crime had been murdered. In a way, he was actually pissed. Not that the two people's lives had come to a premature end, no, they probably deserved that. He was angry that he still had to go on day after day with the weight of this whole thing on his conscience, and the two men who had been killed had in effect been granted a pardon. They no longer had to live each day with dark memories haunting them until each night, when the nightmares took over. Brandon didn't sleep much for several more weeks. He tried to pass the days reading and just trying to get things back to normal. He had finally gotten his life back in some sort of order when not more than three months after Todd had called the first time, he called again. "Listen, Brandon. Remember that guy who got his nads crunched by that woman. Yeah, well, he's dead. Strangled. Out in Nevada." Brandon dropped the phone receiver. Nevada was three states away, but somehow that distance scared him more than if the guy would have been strangled next door. Three states away meant that whoever strangled the guy went to a lot of trouble and effort to track him down. Premeditated. And the guy had been strangled. That was too much to be coincidence. Brandon heard yelling from the fallen phone receiver and bent slowly to pick it up. "Brandon, listen," Todd was saying. "I know a place out in Maine A relative of mine lives there. I'm heading out there for awhile, I don't know how long. Maybe forever, I don't know right now. I just know I can't stay here. I'm just letting you know, if you want to come to. The only reason I'm asking you is because I need gas money and I'm flat broke. So I can go with you or without you. I just know I sure as hell wouldn't stay here. It's too close. Too close to what happened Three out of us five are dead."
So Brandon had packed up a few things and headed out with Todd to Maine. Not too many people would miss him, he figured. He didn't have many friends back home and his Mother didn't really give a damn what he did. So he moved half a continent away to start a new life. He hoped that maybe he would at least escape the demons from back home by moving. He and Todd moved in with Todd's aunt for a few months and worked a bunch of part time jobs and finally moved in to an apartment of their own. It was old and dingy, but it had two floors and it had a nice view of the lake if you looked out the back windows on the second floor. He had a new life. And he was trying his best to forget his past; to start anew. And, he had to admit, life was pretty good. He had moved here over two years ago. Things had started looking better and better. He had hoped that he had escaped the past. But he knew. He knew.
Those old memories fade as Brandon takes one last look into the eyes of the man who's mother he had helped to murder, then closes his own eyes. As the last breath of oxygen reaches his brain, it allows Brandon one last thought: I wonder what Chantel will be wearing tonight I hope it's something blue.
***
The man in black says one word: "Justice."