Page 17 of Catching Camila

John

Wednesday 12:23 a.m.

John trekked through the brittle grass, his head down, one around wrapped protectively around his stomach. It cramped again, a sharp pain twisting his insides. He fought the urge to throw up, swallowing hard and wiping sweat off his brow. He was sick. So sick.

He kept his head down, his body hunched over and his hands protectively around his stomach. A few hours ago he'd given in to thirst and drank from a trickling steam. Now his stomach was revolting. The half-eaten jelly donut he'd snagged from a backyard picnic table had come up a while ago. His empty stomach churned with nothing to calm it.

Two days of searching for the silo in his vision. Two days of starving, running, of being constantly afraid. And now he was going to die from a drink of water.

He should go back and talk to the girl at the ice cream shop.

As he’d run away from her, the voice in his head encouraged him. You shouldn't trust her. They are all your enemy. All of them.

John blinked and shook his head. She was his enemy? The pretty girl with the understanding eyes? He thought about her soft tan skin, the dark hair cascading over smooth shoulders. You don't have to do that, she'd said. Her voice echoed in his skull like a song he couldn't shake. She'd gone back to feed him, not turn him in, and still he had run. Can't trust them, the voice said. None of them.

Each person that he’d encountered struck an off-key chord in his head. Stay away, his instincts said. Yet, something had been different in that one moment beside the dumpster. Somehow he'd been drawn to her, to her face so open and inviting, her hands outspread to say Come as you are. No alarm bells. No instinct telling him to run. Then she'd gone inside and he'd doubted himself, so he'd fled.

What he wouldn't give to go back there now and stand beside her for just one more moment.

Her voice swam around his head, soft and lyrical. And that smile. He could see the curl of her lips as she'd turned to go. He could run back and wait until she left for home. He could approach her then and hear her voice, see her smile, feel…what? Feel less alone.

Bile rose up his throat, the hot acid burning his esophagus. John stopped, put his hands to his knees, and gagged. Then he lifted his bloodshot eyes to his surroundings. They'd find his body here beside the rusty tracks, the wildflowers dancing beside his bloated corpse. Or, more likely, no one would find him but the vultures.

Help. He needed help. There was no way around it. His skin might crawl every time he was around people, but if he didn't ask for help soon he'd die. Plain and simple.

Ten minutes later he came across a tiny four-pump gas station sitting between tall pines, on a long gravel driveway. It was empty except for one rusty pickup in the back. A metal Walt’s Crawlers sign creaked lazily in the breeze. A freezer hummed in front, the word Ice written in huge blue letters capped with snow. John eyed the padlock on the freezer, his throat tightening. What he wouldn't give for ice right now. His eyes flicked to the Quick-E Mart behind the pumps. The interior, glowing with blueish white florescent light, looked empty, but he spotted the clerk. He seemed to be sleeping with his head slumped to one side. How would he react when John limped up, asking for help? It didn't matter. Too late to turn back now.

His stomach tightened like a fist as he walked to the door. He looked down and saw the tight blue running shorts and his dirty, bare feet. He knew he looked homeless and crazy.

I'll just walk in and say “Hi. I'm John. Can you help me?”

He took a deep breath and pushed inside.

The smell hit him first.

His hands flew up to his mouth as the putrid, decaying stench hit him like a wall. He stumbled back, his shoulder slamming into the door. Good God, what happened? His eyes flicked around the place: metal shelves with bags of chips, beef jerky, canned peanuts and candy. He spotted the trail of blood along the back by the beer fridge.

On the tile, bloody prints tracked toward the door, huge and animal. He spun, trembling. He had to get out. Fear raced up his spine as he turned toward the cash register. The clerk's back was to him, slumped in a chair against the wall.

“Hello?” he said, barely breathing. “Are you all right?”

John walked over, his legs threatening to buckle. He put a trembling hand on the man's shoulder. Slowly, he turned the man around.

The clerk fell forward onto his arm. John screamed and jumped back. The mangled body, slumped against the counter, was grotesque. The clerk's throat was torn away, a wide red mess of sinew and bone above his blood-soaked shirt. Wire-rimmed glasses were perched over sightless, glassy eyes. Moments ago this man had been breathing, working, maybe reading that blood-soaked paper. A buzzing began in John's ears. The world narrowed to a pinhole. He was going to pass out.

He put his hands to his knees, vaguely aware of smearing the clerk's blood from his hand onto his clothes. He sucked in ragged breaths. The smell was everywhere. With trembling fingers he drew his shirt over his nose. His vision cleared.

Get food and get out.He took a few fumbling steps toward the nearest shelf, keeping his eyes off the clerk. He grabbed a few bags of chips, beef jerky, and a box of donuts. He found a cloth bag on a rack and stuffed it full. Then he opened the fridge and snagged four waters.

Chiming sounded at the door behind him. John swiveled. A cop pushed in, whistling through his teeth. The tune stopped as the cop locked eyes with John. “What the…?” The cop's eyes traveled past John to the dead clerk. John watched as the cop's face registered shock, then fury.

No,John thought. He’ll think I—

“Hands up!” the cop said, clawing for the pistol at this belt. His hands shook as he pulled the gun out, but the cop locked his elbows and brought the barrel up to John’s chest.

John shook his head, lifting both hands. “I…I didn’t kill him.”

“Jesus,” the cop said, his face draining of color. “Jesus Christ.” His eyes flicked to the body. “Joe has eight grandkids.” The hitch in the cop's voice was unmistakable. The clerk and the cop had been friends.

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