Free Absolution River by Aaron Mach

element of the earth much like fire and water. His purpose was simply as a tool for those who would need to achieve their ends. He did not care about their ends, but simply the journey to those ends was where he found his calling. As the bulb that lit the room swung to and fro it illuminated a wooden board with hundreds of scratches in the manner you would score a tic-tac-toe game. Four slashes with one diagonal across. On the desk was an old phone with the message light flashing. He spit onto the floor again and pushed old candy wrappers off the phone and picked up the receiver. He dialed one and held the phone to his ear.
    “Hey Sol, its Arch, got another job for you; like the others. Need it done soon, you got three weeks. You know what I want you sick fuck, let me know when it’s done.”
    The message ended and Sol returned the receiver to its home. He sat there for a moment and turned around in his old swivel office chair. He put his hands behind his head and swallowed his spit this time. He looked up at the wooden board with the scratches and thought for a moment. Getting up, he moved toward a large wall locker in the storage room. He unlocked it slowly to reveal a hand grenade with a pull switch tripwire attached to the grenade’s ring. He removed the tripwire and opened the locker cautiously. Inside of the locker on the left interior of the door hung old dried-up pieces of ear he had collected during his journey of self-discovery. They had been decades old now and could not be deciphered as anything human at this point. In the main compartment of the locker were a set of well-worn fatigues and an assortment of rifles, pistols, and hand grenades. He pulled out a sniper rifle, one that he had spent many nights with staring down the scope looking at the very same individuals whose pictures hung on his walls. As he was done inspecting his equipment and removing the rifle, the light revealed the right locker door interior. In it were horrific images of him and his victims in Vietnam. One particular image showed him calmly smiling while lying on a mound of burnt bodies. His hand behind his head and eyes closed; like a day at the beach. He slammed the doors shut.

XIV
    The drifter began to open his eyes. He noticed he was in a small one-room cabin with a large fireplace on one side. There was movement somewhere and it sounded like someone was cooking. He slowly opened his eyes and was welcomed by the warmth from the fire and the smell of cooking. His level of hunger was blinding and the wonderful aroma in the room only made it worse. It was dark outside and the rain was still coming down hard. His foot had been wrapped and elevated on the end of the bed. He began to get up and the figure came over to him and grabbed his arm. The wounded man flinched and pulled back hard. It had been a long time since someone tried to touch him without the intention of hurting him. The figure backed up and moved back over to the kitchen. The man got up on his own and hung over the bed.
    “My name’s Eli. Found you face down in the mud ‘bout a mile from here. You’re a heavy son of a bitch. What’s your name?”
    There was no answer, only a look from a face covered in mud. Eyes piercing.
    “Come on, I cooked up your catch. Ain’t much but put some potatoes in there, it’ll do for tonight. Come on, ain’t gonna bite.”
    The man limped over to the table and sat. In front of him was a bowl of the squirrel he caught earlier that day in a stew. The old man sat on the other side of the small table. He said a prayer for them and the food and he began to eat. He poured a large glass of whiskey nearly to the top and drank half of it.
    “What’s your name?”
    There was no reply as the drifter began to devour the stew. He looked intently at the bottle of whiskey and the old man got up to grab another glass. He poured it half full and the drifter drank it all.
    “I see you like the brand. Made it myself, not sure what you’d call it but