Field of Sorrow
By J. L. Young

Four hours into studying for my AP Algebra final and I decided to take a break. I went downstairs to get a fresh glass of something cold. I brought my glass with me into the living room, where I found a bloody bath towel on the floor.

I slipped my phone from my pocket and texted Anya’s number. No signal. “Anya was supposed to be at her girlfriend’s house tonight,” I thought. Her room was left open, so I entered. I saw her phone on the bed. A streak of blood crossed the room, the bed, and the phone.

The door to the master bath was slightly open, so I entered. In the tub was Anya. She was holding her neck. The flow of blood wasn’t slowed by her grip. Her eyes drifted upward. “Why? Who has done this to you?” I gestured before attempting to apply pressure to the wound. Her eyes snapped to me. Anya moved her lips, “I love you, Raven.”

Her lungs and mouth filled with blood as she slowly drowned before me. Her body convulsed and a tear slipped from her eye. I felt for her pulse, nothing. I felt for her heartbeat at her sternum, nothing. I didn’t know what to do.

“No,” I stabbed my fingers forward emphatically as I stepped back. My melancholy drenched my face. In a stammer, my foot slipped on her blood and I slammed against the vanity. My forehead stung, but I couldn’t tell her blood from mine.

I took out my phone and texted 911, but I reached nothing. I tried again, the same result. I checked Anya’s phone, the call couldn’t connect.

I sensed another person and looked toward the door. There stood a masked monster. His clothes painted with the exsanguinated blood of my sister. In his hand, a folded body bag. He grabbed me by the hair, and threw me to the carpet.

I felt the vibration of his voice through his glove, but I didn’t know what he was saying. Another person entered the room, zip-tied my hands behind my back, and threw a shroud over my head. They carried me and put me on something metal. A heavy vinyl bag fell across my leg. Anya was in that bag. I tried to control my fear like dad showed me, but it was too powerful.

The air rushed through quickly as though two people shut car doors. The engine vibrated to life, a gear selected, and we moved. I tried to make note of the turns, but I just couldn’t keep them straight in my head.

We came to a slow stop. The vibration of the engine quit in an instant. Cool, refreshing air flooded the compartment. Strong hands gripped my legs and arms and pulled me from the cold metal. I was lifted up onto a shoulder and was carried then dropped onto hard concrete.

I was positioned on my knees. A moment later, the subtle vibrations of heeled shoes tapped on the concrete. They removed the shroud. A woman, dressed in white from head to toe, spoke. She wore a white leather mask like a luchador with a tall white mohawk. She smelled of rose oil. Her lips formed the words, “Hello, little one. Your daddy got you into a bit of trouble with the Syndicate. This is nothing personal, just business.”

The cliche rubbed me the wrong way and I wanted to say something smart, but this was the real world. I pulled from what I’d learned from my oralism class, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

She cupped my cheek with a leather glove, rolled my head to the side, and saw that my cochlear implant speech processor wasn’t attached. Though her voice was unheard, I saw as she said, “Take her to the farm.” From the corner of my eye, I could see one of her men take action.

The shroud was again slipped over my head and I was placed in the van. 

I awoke to the familiar scent of Anya laced with irony blood. I closed my eyes, but this wasn’t the time for tears. The vibration of the back doors being popped open found my skin. Light found its way through the weave of the shroud. Someone pulled me out and into the fresh air.

The bindings around my wrists were clipped and I was dropped onto an old bed. The thin mattress slipped and my hand felt the exposed iron straps. I removed the shroud and watched as a large man lumbered up a set of stairs. The room was dark save for a cone of light which surrounded a single naked incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling. The bulb switched off. All that was left was the earthy smell of old dust. I chose this time in solitude to grieve for Anya.

Time became irrelevant, but I guess morning came and the light turned on. A masked man lumbered down a set of stairs with a dish of food. He sat it on a table across the room and left. The light went out.

The smell of the food drew me to the table. After I scooped the beans, bread, and partially frozen mixed vegetables into my mouth, I moved to the stairs by memory. The wood was old, warm, and unfinished. I climbed it slowly making sure not to create the minutest of vibrations. I felt for the doorknob and waited there until the next feeding.

I don’t know how long I waited until the door opened, but before the man could close it I kicked him in the back of the knee and he tumbled down the stairs. I slipped out of the door, slammed it shut, locked it, and turned off the light. A kitchen of an ancient house filled my view. Pastel blue painted plaster walls surrounded me. The yellowed linoleum floor had gashes and a large section missing exposing the sub-floor. A back door came into view beside a not-so-recent stove upgrade.

A sudden burst of vibration climbed my legs. I turned toward the basement door and it flexed toward me and snapped back. I took to the back door, grabbed the brass knob, and twisted. Out into a field, I ran.

Cottonwood trees lined a creek not far from the house. On the other side, a pickup truck fitted in with the landscape. The unkempt thorny weeds stabbed into my bare feet. I endured and kept moving until I stepped into some soft dirt and fell. It was a fresh grave.

I pulled my foot free of the dirt, “I’m coming back for you, Anya.” A quick glance at the house engendered terror within me. The man stood at the back door. The undergrowth was thick enough for me to hide.

He wasn’t bright and went around to the front of the house. I proceeded down the embankment and into the creek. It was deeper than it looked. I had to swim to the other side. My hands slipped on the muddy branches, but I managed to climb the near-vertical bank.

I reached the truck, it had been left derelict years. Wasps found home in every seam on the body. A scan of the horizon revealed a white limestone road. A fresh lifting of dust hung in the air. I looked back at the house, the man couldn’t be seen. I stayed low and went to the road.

The hot stone made walking difficult, so I ran. I don’t know how far I ran and I didn’t care as long as I was away from that place. A car appeared on the horizon. I flagged it down and it pulled alongside me. Cautiously, I moved to the darkly tinted window and it rolled down. A whiff of rose oil, the same worn by the woman in white, struck my nose.

She sat forward, her mask in place. Her lips moved as her body forced the words from her mouth, “Get her.”

Another woman popped open the door and attempted to grab me, but my bloodied and mucked feet moved without protest. The car’s reverse lights came on as the door struck the woman, she fell and was pulled under the wheel. The driver whipped the SUV around and threw it into gear.

Across a shallow ditch, I ran. On the other side was another field. Golden wheat as tall as my waist slipped past me as I ran. The driver broke through a gate and tore into the field. The sun glinted off the windshield as it pursued.

There at the edge of the tract, farm implements rested waiting for the harvest. The woman in white’s SUV was getting closer. It must’ve gotten bogged down in the loose field as dirt, wheat shocks, and stems were thrown into the air by its tires.

I reached the edge of the field and the crushed gravel stabbed at my feet. I called out to anyone there. The Sun was high in the sky, but the place seemed to be empty. By the time I reached a steel building, my feet couldn’t take the punishment any longer.

I banged on the door of the garage-like structure. The door opened. A guy stood in the doorway. “Help me,” I pleaded. I looked back, the woman in white took aim through her window and shot the man in the chest. He fell over the threshold, but I couldn’t stay there.

I ran into the shop. Other people were there among the equipment. “Help me,” I struggled to vocalize as I fell to the floor. Two of them picked me up and hid me behind a large green tractor. “I’ve been abducted. They killed my sister. Help me, please!”

One of them drew a pistol and looked around the end of a farm machine. A bullet drilled through his skull. The gun skidded across the concrete floor to my feet. I waited until a target presented themselves. A tall lanky man wearing a balaclava entered view. I shot the inside of his thigh, put two in his chest, and one in his head.

I pried the rifle from the henchman’s grasp and handed to the farmer who helped hide me.

“Why do they want you?” the farmer asked me.

I mimicked the shape of the words, “My dad is a Special Agent for the FBI.”

He reacted to something said by my pursuers. The farmer tugged on the bill of his veteran’s hat, took aim, and yelled to those beyond it, “Go fuck yourself!”

I pulled the farmer behind the set of three tires attached to the tractor.

A full minute of weapons fire attacked the structure. Lead streaked past us on the concrete floor. I could feel the impacts of the bullets through the tractor, I didn’t have to imagine the sound, the vibrations were terrifying enough.

The bullets ceased as quickly as they started.

Beside the tire, the farmer aimed the rifle. He caught sight of someone through the holes in the thin sheet metal and fired. His target fell. Another target presented themselves through the door and he pulled the trigger.

The farmer cranked up his hearing aid and gestured for me to be quiet. He listened intently for movement. The gravel shifted, but it wasn’t the sound of someone walking, but crawling. He fiddled with his hearing aid again and quickly moved to the frame between the garage and the walk-through doors. A quick glance through one of the bullet holes revealed a woman crawling away. She appeared unarmed.

Cautiously, the farmer walked out with the rifle aimed at the woman in white. I saw her mouth the words, “Please, Sir, don’t shoot!,” as I reached the door frame. Blood had soaked into her white top and corset. Something glinted in the Sun as she turned over. I unleashed the remainder of the bullets in the pistol into her chest.

In her hand, a small .380 caliber pistol fell to the gravel. She laid there staring blankly from behind that white mask. I kicked away her pistol.

He threw the rifle down, moved over to the bed of a pickup, and rested his arms on the rail. I watched as his mouth moved, “I thought when the war was over I was done losing my friends.” He took a breath, “I guess the war is never over. The enemies change, but it goes on and on.”

I rested my hand on his arm, “I’m sorry I brought this war to you.”

“I don’t think you had a choice. Who were they?”

“Members of the Teague Syndicate, my dad has been working on the RICO case that’ll put them away forever.”

“I’ve heard of them on T.V. That war has been going on for a long time.”

“Where am I?” I asked.

“I guess they brought you here unawares,” he surmised and told me.

I nodded. “I have to send a text, do you have a cell?”

He slipped his flip phone from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Dad, it’s Raven. I’m alright. I have bad news. I’m on the Old Mill Road and SR twenty-six. You might want to bring the team and some ambulances.’

I closed the phone, handed it back, and held out my hand, “I’m Raven.”

“Gunny Sergeant Lawrence Tuttle, friends call me Law. I guess I have some calls to make too.”