Free Wasting Away by Richard M. Cochran Page B

howling my name, grinding their teeth expectantly to my
nervous movements.
    As
more came from the fields, I backed away. I backed toward the forested side of
the river and onto sharp rocks and loose sand, stumbling as I stared at my gear.
They were coming from everywhere across the brush and weeds and undergrowth.
    One
stepped into the water, releasing its foulness into the river. Another moved in,
and the others followed until they were standing only a few feet away from me,
making their way through the rapids.
    My
soul screamed for my things, yelled for a way to retrieve them as the dead
surrounded me. I panicked, my heart pumping out a steady beat of fear and
regret, of want and survival. I hissed through gritted teeth and turned. I ran
off through the forest as twigs and saplings slapped at my skin, raising welts
along my arms and legs. I could hear them struggling through the forest behind
me. I could hear their wet, rasping voices as the blur of the woods rushed past
me.
    The
forest floor cut into the soles of my feet, but I didn’t slow. I kept up my
pace, winding through shrubs and brush, past old growth trees, twisted with weather
and age. I made my way to a trail that suddenly parted through the trees.
    Panting,
I kept up my speed, not daring to slow down for the fear of collapse. I held
fast as the sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes and blurring my vision.
What the river had cleansed, the forest gave back, two fold. Dirt clung to me
in fine layers that built steadily as I ran. My feet were black with mud,
running up toward my shins in caking smears.
    My
legs began to give out, stinging with exertion, cramping in pain. A burning
sensation swelled in my chest as my stomach lurched, causing me to heave. The
dry, clenching spasms sent me to my knees, groping the forest floor, wadding up
handfuls of rotten leaves and dirt as a trail of spit hung from my lips. I
gasped for air and fell to my side, naked and exposed, hugging away the cramps
in my gut.
    Splintered
leaves hung from my beard. I must have looked like some sort of Wildman,
hacking away the final remnants of the civilized man inside. I lay there,
gasping for air and tingling from exhaustion. I watched the sky overhead; the
clouds parting like tufts of cotton, drifting slowly through the treetops. I
could smell the raw patchouli scent of years of soil collected beneath me.
Primal images of death and exposure tore at my mind. I saw my death. I saw my
inevitable end as I hacked out the last bits of hope through my acrid mouth. I
clenched my jaw and rose.
    There
was anger in that moment, an evil, hateful emotion that tempted me. I retraced
my steps, winding back through the forest from where I had come. Along the way,
I picked up a fallen branch. I held it at my side and walked with purpose.
    I
smeared away the dust from my eyes, spreading it along my face. I could feel
the fire in my eyes, burning with anger. This feeling swelled into rage. It
burned from somewhere I had never felt before. It rose through me, threatening
to burst.
    Straggling
through the brush and new growth, a body emerged. I waited, paused for my heart
was still pounding. I breathed deeply, held the branch above my head, and took
the first few steps toward the creature. Before it could howl out, I smashed
the branch down hard upon its skull. I heard a pop and suction sound come from
its eye sockets, bursting the white and grey globes from its head. 
    Again,
I swung hard, connecting with a corpse to my left. The branch hit at the base
of its neck, urging out cracking sounds, muffled by rot. I stood upon the
fallen thing, placing my foot on its chest and stabbed at it. The skin tore. It
issued a faint wheeze and I pushed the branch down through its eye. I used all
my weight and twisted until it stopped moving.
    Lurching
low through the wood and brush and thick air, I crouched and threw the branch
up in front of myself, blocking a wild swing. I held firm and kicked out,
sending the body