The Stalker

© 2010 Rob Krabbe / NoonAtNight Publications
From the book "Chaos to  Order and Back Again." by Rob Krabbe, available HERE

Whoa! The smell was something he would never, ever forget. He had seen a dead body before, "lots of times," he thought to himself as his chest heaved, painfully, repulsed by the air he was trying to inhale. He pulled the heavy growth of vines and branches from over the face and almost vomited. This particular dead body was just a little different. He had not ever seen one that he himself had caused to be among the dead. That was the difference that was causing his heart to bang against its confines like a ball-peen hammer trying to club its way out of his chest.

It had only been a few days, but Tristan was horrified, and at the same time intrigued, at the changes in the body's appearance. The face was almost unrecognizable as anything but a ghoulish kind of pudding plopped onto bone. If he didn't have such a problem on his hands, he would be fascinated by the decomposition process. He had been back to check on it three times since that fateful day, and each time, try as he may, he found his pulse increasing and his breathing becoming shallow, as if it were the very day he had done it, all over again. He snuck in small quick breaths, as best he could.
The increase in the number and quantity of insects, worms and other just plain gross things was the biggest surprise. The body was being eaten a million tiny mouthfuls at a time. It didn't look much like anything that made sense anymore. Tristan would never forget that what lay there hidden under the brush in this remote gully was indeed very real; the body of his guilt, the end of his innocence, the one he had personally killed.

The smell had changed too. As bad as it was today, he noticed that it wasn't as bad as it had been on previous days. He had puked instantly on one of the days because it was so bad.

Tristan looked down directly at the eyes. He had avoided them thus far, but what was left of the eyes seemed to somehow be satisfied that he was enduring torture beyond measure at the outcome of their little contest. Now it wasn't about winning. It was about a death that was undeserved. It was about what Tristan felt, now that he was a cold blooded killer. And . . . it was about what would happen when people found out, and what he would do when he was put in prison or worse.

He felt the tears welling up again, and then without warning, he vomited again into the same area of brush he had puked in several times before. He heaved trying to sneak another breath into his hungry lungs in between the gut-wrenching spasms without sucking in a glob of vomit. That was a skill he had mastered after that first day. He had almost choked to death on his own essence that day, almost ending up side-by-side with this organic feast in the forest. "What a banquet that would have been," he thought. "Two bodies for the price of one." He couldn't help thinking he'd have been better off.

He began to place the vines and branches back over the body, covering it up as best he could without actually touching the rotting corpse. He would have buried it, but he found he could not touch it without passing out. That had been his second worst mistake; that day it happened, and he had woken up with his arm across a dead man's chest. He laughed at his little joke; the name of a really good pirate movie.

Suddenly and painfully, he sucked an entire lung full of air in as the body jerked violently, and seemed to roll up on one side, shuddering, and then laying back down. Tristan fell back away, screaming. He hit his head as he bounced on the muddy ground, a rock pounding a nice dent in the back of his head, and he almost lost consciousness. He tried to stop the burning feeling in his lungs, and now on the top of his head, by holding his breath as he looked at the corpse. It moved again. He felt his heart trying to escape his chest as if it were a wild and desperate animal, yet he himself seemed frozen unable to move. Then a huge and vicious looking rat, a really big one with smiling meat-slicing teeth, reared up and squealed at him, before scurrying out from underneath the body and running off into the forest, his big fat rat muzzle stained with his mushy meal. Tristan was sure his heart would just explode, but after a few minutes it seemed to calm down. He had no idea how long he had been laying there. He finally calmed felt he was safe enough to move.

He sat up, "crisscross applesauce," as his teacher, Mrs. Jamison called it, and then just plain wept. How could he, only eight years old have done such a thing? He never meant to be a killer. He was confused; how could he even feel compassion for the dead, if he was indeed a cold blooded killer? What would become of him? What would God do, if there really was a God? It had not been intentional, but then he knew that was a lie, too. He had started off the contest without thought to the possible consequences, and he knew that was enough to make him guilty. And then, for whatever reason, he had pulled the trigger, and there was no getting around that.

"Please God, can't we just go back to the moment before? Please God? I won't hurt anyone or anything ever again! I promise!" He tried to look up into the sky, but his tears were too full now, and he couldn't see anything except a slurry and foggy storm of guilt. He wept so deeply that his gut hurt even more than before.

Suddenly, he heard what sounded like a loud roar or groan coming from deep within the body, and he jumped up, screamed, and ran off down the creek bed as fast as he could. The tree branches and leaves seemed to blur by, he was running so fast, and he could think of nothing except getting away. He slipped on some mud, fell against some more rocks and slid, out of control, right into the creek. Splashing into a thick stagnant pool, he rolled over and a mouth full of really scummy creek water went into his throat. It tasted horrible, but he didn't have time to get sick again. He wiped the slimy algae off his chin and stumbled up onto his feet and continued running, sure that death itself was chasing him.

He was confident he was being followed now by something deeply horrible. "Maybe it's the ghost of . . . . . . ahhhh!" He screamed as he heard a branch break somewhere behind him, and he ran as fast as he could. The forest now whipping by him at light speed, he felt ripping and searing pain in his body. He thought he certainly was close to death; his legs were burning and his cheek bleeding from scratches of rocks when he fell, and the branches that whipped his face as he ran.

He knew he couldn't go home. They would know. His mom and dad were superhuman in their ability to see when something was wrong, and this would be like a big neon flashing sign. How he had hidden what he had done so far, he wasn't sure. It was probably due to the fact that his parents were both so busy this time of year. They were always complaining about taxes; how the government was like a big growing cancer and how the liberals should all be lined up and shot. Maybe this was all his dad's fault, he thought, as he considered any way possible he could put the blame on someone else for his apparently evil mind. Suddenly, and in fact sadly, he knew his parents really had not even given him a thought in the past few weeks. Maybe he was suffering from neglect; maybe the jury would have mercy on him because of that?

He knew one thing, if he came in crying, and running, and scared, they would instantly know he had done something horribly wrong. He definitely had to calm down before he went home. He could tell his mom later, after he had calmed down, that he had just slipped and fallen in the creek. That was the truth, anyway. Just not all the truth. He wouldn't tell her he had been checking on the corpse of a body he had murdered, or that she should turn him into the police so he could be fried in the electric chair, or anything like that. He laughed in the middle of his tears. "Why was he laughing?" he wondered, and, at that moment, was sure he really was evil. Then he figured this was what his dad was always telling him was his "penchant for sarcasm." Where did his dad think he got that from anyway? He chuckled to himself, the humor almost shoving aside his torment. Almost.

He just couldn't stop thinking about a life lost, for no good reason. How could he live with himself?

He gulped in a dry-heave-extra-breath, that kept shaking his whole body every so often, even though he had stopped crying. He hated those kind of trailing heaves. They were always a dead give away, and could creep up any time, even a very long time after a good cry, unexpectedly giving away the very best of secrets.

Tristan ducked into the garage. It was a barn really, he knew, but they had not moved to the farm with the intention of actually farming, just getting out of the city, so they all called it the garage. Its coolness, in Tristan's mind, was because there were so many cool places to hide, a billion or more spiders, and a couple of rat snakes that called it home. His dad parked the family cars in it, and a riding mower that Tristan lamented he would never be taught to drive now that he was a murderer.

That one hurt. He had fantasized endlessly about driving that tractor. His dad had promised him that he would teach him to drive it by himself that very summer, but Tristan knew that killers didn't get to do those kinds of things.

He was suddenly awash in all the things he would never do. Once they found out about what had happened, his life would be over. No high school, no driving a car, no dating girls; of course that dating girls part was more of a relief, as he could not really imagine himself touching a girl without feeling much as he did about touching the corpse.

Suddenly, Tristan realized he had fallen asleep in a pile of hay and an hour or so had passed. He could tell by the waning sunlight. He stretched and went over to the door and peered out. That's when he knew his secret was out and it was all over. His heart stopped altogether.

A police car was parked in the driveway, and its lights were flashing.

He was surprised to find he felt a tiny bit of relief. He thought it was weird that the worst and most horrifying thing that could happen had happened, and yet it brought him a sense of peace. He took a full breath and tried to exhale, but it came out in trembling bursts, as he slowly walked towards the house. He didn't want to be a killer anymore. His head down, he felt like he wanted to cry again, but the tears had dried and no more would come. It was over and he knew it.

He had never, ever meant to kill. He had taken his dad's 22 rifle, and just wanted to play around in the forest pretending to be a secret service agent. He had known it was loaded, but never in his wildest dreams did he know what he would do. He hadn't even considered that he was capable of such violence. One minute he was tracking an innocent life, lining up his victim in his sights, pretending to be the secret service guy, like the ones in the movie about the president, and the next thing he knew, he'd pulled the trigger.

It sounded like a cap pistol, not loud at all like he had expected. Not like in the movies. Not even like his games, with the sound turned up only half way. It wasn't even real sounding. But it was real enough to kill. It was like slow motion when it struck an obviously mortal wound, and the body seemed dead in midair, before it hit the ground. He wasn't even that good a shot, but this time he had been extremely good. To kill with a single shot. His aim had been perfect and the head-shot, deadly. He guessed he would have made a good secret service agent. Not now though. Secret service agents did not go around killing randomly.

But it was over now.

Tristan couldn't put it off any longer. He numbly walked into the house, and found his family was sitting quietly while the policeman was talking. They seemed to know he had come in but were not looking directly at him, except for his dad, who gave him a quick glance. In that glance was a very clear look of disappointment. His mom had obviously been crying. His dad had asked his brother to go to his bedroom. His brother was wickedly disappointed, as would be all little brothers who were possessed by evil spirits, as Tristan suspected was true with his six year old brother David.

The policeman was saying, "Do you want me to step outside while you talk to him?"

"No." His dad replied as he turned to face Tristan. Tristan felt a sadness, in his dad's eyes as they looked into him. Tristan looked at the floor but it didn't take the bad feeling away. Then his dad spoke and every question stabbed at Tristan and hurt him. It was really all over.

"Did you do it, son? Did you take my gun out that day? Did you do this horrible thing?"

His mom broke out crying again, and that was all it took; Tristan simply collapsed in a confessional, weeping heap. He had not meant to kill, and yet he had. He told them everything. How he had been playing and stalking his victim. How it was only a game. How he had been perfectly quiet and sneaky. How he had tracked and aimed and then how his brain just decided do it without asking him. How he saw himself pull the trigger as if it were a dream. How the head had jerked to the side and the spurt of blood, and the body, already dead weight, had fallen lifeless to the forest floor. How he had covered up the body to hide his mistake.

The policeman told them that Mr. Dawson had reported finding the body this morning, and it was just a matter of time, considering there were only two other families within ten miles; and a good thing Tristan had confessed; something about, "it would go easier on him."

His dad sighed, and put his arm around his mother who was calmed a bit, but still whimpering. "Why shouldn't she be crying," Tristan thought, her little boy was a cold hard killer.

"Boys will be boys." Dad smiled nervously, trying hard to ease the moment.

"Yeah", his brother chimed in from the hallway, "I've done bad stuff like that, too."

"David you get back in your room!" his mom yelled out, and then turning on his dad, "Honey, how can you say that?!" She flashed an angry look at Tristan's dad, and he smiled an awkward smile and tried to salvage the moment.

"Listen, I'm not saying that I condone killing, but I did the same darned thing when I was just a little older than he is now, honey, and I grew up alright! It's not such a big thing, is it really? Officer? Help me out here." Looking around to see if anyone was buying, he found that, of course no one was. God bless my dad for trying, thought Tristan.

Then the policeman, mercifully stepped in.

"Well it is a crime, no matter how you cut it; the piper has to be paid here. We can't just wink this away. Killing is killing, accident or no; and well, we have a confession now and it isn't anywhere near being an accident, and Mr. Dawson is pressing charges. I guess it's not the worst thing a boy could do, but that bull was Mr. Dawson's most prized breeding bull and there will be a judgment of restitution I can tell you—at a minimum—if not some time in juvenile hall. Juvenile hall is a tough place to spend time, I can tell you."

Then Tristan saw it. Almost imperceptible, but he saw it. The policeman actually winked at his dad, and Tristan knew. There was hope!

Tristan allowed himself to look a little more pitiful and scared. Oh sure, he knew his life was over, as far as a good grounding would do and that was bad enough, but he would pay the price gladly.

"Well I guess, we can do this the easy way, this once," the policeman said, exaggeratedly, back to dad. Tristan considered how adults really thought kids were dumb.

His dad sighed again, and looked at Tristan sternly, which he did really well, and agreed with a grumble that he would go next door with a check for the cost of the bull. He mumbled something about how Tristan would be paying that back for several years.

Tristan couldn't help his smile breaking out on his face like an uncontrollable seizure. It was his first real smile since the killing. He would have a tomorrow, after all, even if it was in his room doing his time. He thanked God, in case there was one, and decided he would write a note to Mr. Dawson by way of an apology. Of course, he decided he would do that only after his mom insisted on it, and he promised he would hand deliver it and he would never again touch anything of dad's again, especially his .22 rifle.

Tristan listened to the rest as if he were reading someone else's story. He was mostly considering how close he had come to the gas chamber, how long he would really be grounded, and wondering how long it would be before he would be able to see all the bones on the corpse.