death, and I am free to hunt and take from the beast what it has stolen from me.
Currently, I’m in a hotel room in Knoxville, Tennessee, but tomorrow I will be in the woods of Mascot, hunting and tracking down the creature. I have little in the way of preparations but plan on meeting my brother, Marcus, for lunch tomorrow, and begging him for money.
Such a beast is not worthy of life, and it will feel the full rage of my humanity before the end. I will either succeed or die trying; there is no middle ground, and no running away.
March 2 nd
My meeting with Marcus went better than I expected. I haven’t seen him since my wedding. He never called after the incident with the beast, but did write me a letter when I was in The Garden. He promised he’d help me if I ever got out and needed him. I asked him for four-hundred dollars over tacos and he gave me six hundred. Also, he told me he talked to my old boss and he could get me my old job back. I took the money and said that I needed a little more time off before I went back to work.
He understood and told me he’d brought a gift.
Outside the Taco Hut where we were having lunch sat my old truck. I’d failed to recognize it because he’d painted it red when it was once navy blue. He’d kept it safe for me all these years, did all the repairs and oil and transmission changes throughout the years and even got new tires put on in the hopes that I’d be free again one day.
I thanked him and went to my truck. The outside was a brilliant cherry red, but the inside was still the same as I recalled, minus the candy wrappers my son always left behind on the dashboard.
Marcus and I parted ways and made promises to see each other more often in the future.
I spent the remainder of the day buying supplies: a good backpack capable of supporting a rolled up sleeping bag and one man tent, dried foods, granola bars, weather radio, plenty of water bottles, rain coat, hat, gloves, waterproof matches, flashlight, Pop-Tarts, and a local newspaper, tent, and sleeping bag.
By the time I’d purchased the items and stored them in my new backpack it was getting near dark. I made one last stop at a dead end gas station and filled up the truck and bought four handmade sausage biscuits only offered there; I hadn’t had one in years and was dying to sink my teeth into them.
I was nearly out the door when a young lady called out my name.
“Russo, is that you?”
When I turned to look she was unfamiliar to me. She had long unnatural red hair which was curly, a petite five-foot two frame, and a pretty face. She wore a faded X-Files T-shirt and pink and black shorts that showed off her shapely thighs.
“Russo,” she repeated when I said nothing. “It’s me, Heather. I run my father’s farm. You and your wife used to buy corn and fresh strawberries from me.”
I suddenly did remember her. She was younger then, a college student studying agriculture and working on her father, Herbert’s farm. She was kind, smart, shy, and cute. But the years had been kinder to her than me and I caught myself gazing over her body more than once. I felt guilty. She only smiled more, flashing pearly white teeth.
“I remember you. My wife loved your corn and my boy always ate your strawberries with vanilla ice cream,” I replied, saddened by memory. “How is your father?”
“The Lord saw fit to take him. I’m running his farm now full time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I have to go home now,” I spat, and headed for the door. I
Currently, I’m in a hotel room in Knoxville, Tennessee, but tomorrow I will be in the woods of Mascot, hunting and tracking down the creature. I have little in the way of preparations but plan on meeting my brother, Marcus, for lunch tomorrow, and begging him for money.
Such a beast is not worthy of life, and it will feel the full rage of my humanity before the end. I will either succeed or die trying; there is no middle ground, and no running away.
March 2 nd
My meeting with Marcus went better than I expected. I haven’t seen him since my wedding. He never called after the incident with the beast, but did write me a letter when I was in The Garden. He promised he’d help me if I ever got out and needed him. I asked him for four-hundred dollars over tacos and he gave me six hundred. Also, he told me he talked to my old boss and he could get me my old job back. I took the money and said that I needed a little more time off before I went back to work.
He understood and told me he’d brought a gift.
Outside the Taco Hut where we were having lunch sat my old truck. I’d failed to recognize it because he’d painted it red when it was once navy blue. He’d kept it safe for me all these years, did all the repairs and oil and transmission changes throughout the years and even got new tires put on in the hopes that I’d be free again one day.
I thanked him and went to my truck. The outside was a brilliant cherry red, but the inside was still the same as I recalled, minus the candy wrappers my son always left behind on the dashboard.
Marcus and I parted ways and made promises to see each other more often in the future.
I spent the remainder of the day buying supplies: a good backpack capable of supporting a rolled up sleeping bag and one man tent, dried foods, granola bars, weather radio, plenty of water bottles, rain coat, hat, gloves, waterproof matches, flashlight, Pop-Tarts, and a local newspaper, tent, and sleeping bag.
By the time I’d purchased the items and stored them in my new backpack it was getting near dark. I made one last stop at a dead end gas station and filled up the truck and bought four handmade sausage biscuits only offered there; I hadn’t had one in years and was dying to sink my teeth into them.
I was nearly out the door when a young lady called out my name.
“Russo, is that you?”
When I turned to look she was unfamiliar to me. She had long unnatural red hair which was curly, a petite five-foot two frame, and a pretty face. She wore a faded X-Files T-shirt and pink and black shorts that showed off her shapely thighs.
“Russo,” she repeated when I said nothing. “It’s me, Heather. I run my father’s farm. You and your wife used to buy corn and fresh strawberries from me.”
I suddenly did remember her. She was younger then, a college student studying agriculture and working on her father, Herbert’s farm. She was kind, smart, shy, and cute. But the years had been kinder to her than me and I caught myself gazing over her body more than once. I felt guilty. She only smiled more, flashing pearly white teeth.
“I remember you. My wife loved your corn and my boy always ate your strawberries with vanilla ice cream,” I replied, saddened by memory. “How is your father?”
“The Lord saw fit to take him. I’m running his farm now full time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I have to go home now,” I spat, and headed for the door. I
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