THE BUTCHER'S BILL

Prologue

                                                   THE  BUTCHER’S BILL  

                                                               Prologue                       

     Christopher Fielding didn’t mind that the rain saran wrapped his clothes to his body like cool compresses against the fevered noon-day sun. He used the back of his hand to wipe away fat raindrops that hung from the end of his nose. He had a rain poncho, but wouldn’t wear it, because the rain flowed off of it like a down spout on an eaves trough to soak into his boots.

     He felt his pack back shift and heard the antiseptic bottles roll inside his metal first aid kit when he wrestled each boot from the mud’s suction cup grip. The exertion reminded him of being back home in a gym doing leg presses and curls. He wasn’t looking forward to the rain stopping because that would mean mosquitos and ants would swarm. Rain bounced on the mud like black blisters percolating from the mucky field. Even with his boots done up tight, mud sucked up and spewed out of them as he walked. He saw the black water snake and stopped letting his boots sink deeper.

     Christopher heard the muffled spit of gunfire through the static of the rain. A thump hammered so hard into his shoulder it knocked the wind out of him and pulled him out of his boots. Sprawled into the mud, he snorted to keep the muddy waters out of his nose. He laid face down in the puddle blowing bubbles between stutters of breath before his brain told his head to turn. He didn’t feel pain. The bullet must have missed he reasoned; he was alright. A gush of warmth soaked his skin. Bright red blood ran from his shoulder and followed the line of his arm. Christopher watched as his blood traced his hand print and he thought of the white chalk outline police draw around a dead body.

     A thick treaded sandal on a small foot splashed in his blood. Christopher was at his mercy. He thought of a prayer. He wanted to feel hate, but there was no hatred between them. They didn’t know each other. They only knew they came from different countries and one of them would die. The word mercy could not be translated in either language.

     From under the mud, Christopher grabbed the sandaled foot, forgetting about the pain in his shoulder and knocked his assailant backward. Without his boots to weigh him down, Christopher was on top of his attacker and bent his arm back until he could hear and feel the snap which sickened even him-self as the gun splashed into the water. Christopher knelt on his assailant’s arm, fishing around for the gun, knowing the screams were too high pitched to be a man’s. With the gun in hand, it was his turn to play God. It struck him then that he had a choice. He had never considered any other option but shoot to kill. He didn’t know if he had any pity left in him.

     The corpses he had bagged, tagged and shipped had become nothing more than inconvenient paperwork. Without looking inside a body bag he could tell by the smell if it was a fresh kill and by the shifting of weight if the corpse was whole or in pieces. The bodies had stopped being sons, brothers, and husbands and were only a number to be meticulously recorded for the butcher’s bill so statistical reports and ratios could be compiled.                                   

     Christopher took his eyes off his assailant for just a second to look at his rifle. It was plugged with mud and he couldn’t take a chance that it might jam. Killing up close was personal. He truly believed there was no excuse to hit a woman, and felt compelled to protect the weaker sex. It was how he was raised, who he was. He would be killing a part of him too.

     He watched her tiny frame shake and wasn’t sure if it was tears or rain that ran down her face and he thought of his sister and was suddenly tired of being numb and afraid to feel. They were face to face and he was her just five minutes ago and the prayer he said for mercy had not yet been licked off his lips. And it was his turn not to pray for mercy but to give it. “It’s your lucky day,” Christopher said putting the gun into his pocket. He saw the sole of his boot sticking out of the water and went over to put it on.

     The single shot was loud and unexpected. Blood gurgled up Christopher’s throat making his tongue convulse. He was mildly surprised. He knew better than to listen to his emotions and forgot about the rule of the game: if you get me, I’ll get you back even harder and he thought for a second he had enough time to go for his gun and get a shot off. But he chose not to. Christopher dropped to his knees, the rifle slapping his chest as he slumped into the water. No more bubbles floated in the red stream.