Goodbye Eli

Chapter 7: Unmasking Your Hero

The stick of smoked pheasant sags in my hand as I sit in front of the fire the masked man made for us. Somewhere in the back of my distant mind, I know I should eat. He is staring at me. Or at least, I think he is. It feels like he is. But my stomach will retch if I do. It already did once and every so often it flips like an Olympic-level gymnast.

I rub my bruised neck where the collar had been. My fingers inch up to my hairline and I feel a knot in my hair. I pull away to find red crusties all over my fingernails. When did I hit my head?

Probably when the chief hit me. My hands clench to fists as the struggle replays in my mind. The weight of his body trapping mine, the panic coursing through every cell in my body. Then I remember the sword in his chest. The blood.

But sitting here now, I hardly register the memory. I can see his body clear as day in my mind, but everything is numb, as if far away. It was the same for the others. When we stopped for the masked man to scavenge the dead, I felt nothing. Well, nothing until my stomach twisted, and I wretched its contents all over the edge of the bridge.

I hear a sound beside me and blink, dragging my mind back to the present. Something soft and heavy gets draped across my shoulders. A fur blanket? The weight of it draws back the frazzled strands of my mind and I pull it closer. The masked man reaches down to gently remove the uneaten stick of meat from my hands and I let him. I guess he figured out what I hadn't yet: I won't be eating anything tonight. His movements are slow and careful—like a handler approaching an abused shelter dog.

Maybe he hates me. I tried to apologize earlier for what happened back with the rope bridge but he said nothing in return. What did I say again? Maybe the words never actually left my mouth. Maybe I imagined it.

"Do you want me to leave?"

His words startle me. I forgot he could speak. This is the first time he spoke since that night with the raiders.

Do I want him to leave? The question bounces around my mind and I can't seem to concentrate on it long enough to answer.

"I want..."

I look at him. Every inch of his skin is covered—hood drawn down, black scarf pulled up, and dark, red-rimmed goggles over his eyes. I hardly remember what his face looks like. I remember the bruises and the swollen eye but that's it.

"I want to see your face."

The words slip out faster than I can think to stop them. Why do I care? I don't, I think. But I welcome the distraction, otherwise my mind will cycle through the events from earlier today for the hundredth time.

Moments pass, and when I start to wonder if he heard me, he takes a seat an arm's length away, cross-legged, arms relaxed, hands resting in his lap as he faces me. Waiting. For what? I stare for a long moment.

Oh.

He's waiting for me. He wants me to unmask him.

My stomach does another twist, or maybe it's less of a twist and more of a flip. Why me? That dark, soulless, goggled stare takes me back to hours earlier and I remember the blood. The death. But then I see something else. Something deadly, something dangerous. A panther who, instead of sinking its teeth deep, closes its eyes, rolls over, and exposes its belly at my feet, offering itself willingly.

Suddenly, I want to. And slowly, an odd feeling stretches across my chest as I reach out, pausing midway. My fingers tremble. Am I scared? In the shadow of this morning's terror, nothing can scare me. Or maybe it's this aching emptiness settled deep in my gut emboldening me. I glance between my fingers and those empty goggles. He says nothing, so I don't either.