No Man's Land

Chapter 3

        They sat in the ruins of an old motel with a small fire crackling in the lobby's center against the sounds of waning rain. She stoked it with the tip of her makeshift spear, charring the purplish-black blood smeared across its sharpened tip. He starred at her as she worked to grow the blaze. Her frame was sharp. Her skin, tan and smeared with black, was taut against her muscles and bones. Her eyes were focused intensely on the glow of the burning pieces of ply wood and brochures. She looked like a skeleton against the fire, with her bones being brought forth through the hazy glow cast against sharp shadows. Everything about her presence was dangerous and wild. She saved him, hauled him to these ruins, and they sat in silence as she worked. He mustered up a sound from his throat.

        "Do you need help? He asked. She looked up at him with her intense gaze. Her eyes piercing his, locking to meet him.

        "No." She said sharply.

        "Thank you for what you did. I would've been done for if it wasn't for you. I've never seen those monsters before, I only thought there were Leather Skins out here," he said, desperately trying to open a dialogue.

        "You were unlucky. This area is mostly vacant, hounds don't usually roam this far. There isn't much food left for them."

        "Hounds?" he said, confused. Moving closer to the heat of the fire, "Those don't look like any dogs I've ever seen."

        "Leather Skin hounds. They scattered after the bombings, gone feral. Some aren't dangerous. We had a couple back at the settlement..." She caught herself, realizing she's uttered too much to a complete stranger.

        "Settlement? There are more people out here?" He said excitedly, at the prospect of potential salvation. He noticed her withdrawing from him, settling little farther back, brushing her finger tips against the shaft of her spear. "No, no, I'm not interested in hurting you or anyone else. The only reason I ask is if you or your people know a way out of here. You see, I'm a fighter pilot for the United States Air Force...," he motioned to the patch on the right sleeve of his flight suit, the emblem of the United States Air force, now black with ash, "...and I was shot down by one of those damned aliens. All I want is to get back home. Maybe I can help you and your people too." He reached for her hand, as a sign of reassurance, only to be met with the rusted tip of her spear at his throat. She raised her self of the ground, looming over him.

       "Don't touch me. I've already done you a kindness by not leaving you to die. We don't need your help and I don't need you slowing me down either. I don't know you, for all I know you can be just another raping, raiding psychopath." She pressured the spear a little bit upon his trembling Adam's apple. "Tonight you will sleep on that couch back there where I can keep an eye on you. In the morning, we will go our separate ways. You won't follow me. If you do, I will kill you." She backed down, setting her back up against the front door, spear laid across her lap. He retreated back to his original position, pride wounded like the bruising around his neck from the hound's tongue, sitting in silence with the steady drum of rain filling the void between them. They sat for a long time like this in a hostile purgatory, him neither damned nor saved. He felt weary and tired but mostly starved. Realizing the last time he ate was at morning mess, he reached around to his emergency kit and reveled the water and MRE from within. Without haste he ripped open the package, and devoured the mealy, preserved food. She raised her eyes to him at the sound of the tearing package. Shoving pieces of pound cake and salted meat in his mouth, he only stopped chewing to suck down water. He didn't care that everything tasted like rubber and dirt, at this moment it was the best meal he had ever consumed. He stopped his ravenous feeding momentarily when he noticed her gaze fixated upon the half eaten pound cake sitting on the torn MRE covering. Never in his life prior did he see someone's eyes stair that intently, like they were starved themselves. Despite her hostility he felt the need to help her as she did for him. With a confident hand he outstretched his arm, pound cake ready, to her as if to declare a truce. Hesitantly, she took it and then shoved the cake into her mouth, accepting the peace. The tension of her eyes dissipated as she closed them, savoring the sweetness. Not moving from his spot on the opposing side of the fire, he spoke.

        "My names Ken, Ken Meredith." He said, truly testing whether the waters were safe. She was silent for a moment, wary.

        "Beth. Beth Sutton," she spoke in a softer, but still strong tone. For the rest of the night, before he passed out from exhaustion on the musty, old lobby couch he knew the threat of her spear at his throat disappeared for the time being.