Deserter

By Blake Kimzey 

The men had been running through the woods for hours. The snow was coming down in nickel-sized flurries, swirling through the conifers. Everything was white, with bits of brown and green peeking through the ground at the base of trees and where outsized boulders broke through the powder. Each of them was wounded, bleeding through and at certain risk of frostbite. The late afternoon light was fading and the sun was arching beyond the mountains. Nightfall would come soon. By now the man in front had come to rest behind a large pine tree, his tracks through the snow leading to where he was now doubled over, breathing hard, wiping snot from his upper lip. His ears were burning and his chest was wheezing from where the bayonet had come within inches of his right lung three days ago. For now the blood was clotting and his adrenaline was keeping his entire body numb, and the cold was setting in. He crouched low and held his knife firmly by the handle. He listened for the sound of his pursuer, snow crunching underfoot or branches breaking, but there was no sound but the wind and the whir of the snow and the tops of the trees swaying back and forth. The man reasoned night would fall before he would see or hear anything else.

The shivering set in immediately. His uncovered head was beaded with ice, where the sweat had frozen and the greasy strands of hair were formed into place as if by mortar, sculpted with a trowel. He pulled his tattered gray coat tight around the chest and blew warm air into his hands. He was lucky enough to have the coat and had had to leave everything else behind. A single bullet pierced the canvas of his tent and in one erratic motion he was on his feet and lunging through the snow banks and further into the woods. That was this morning. Now that he had been resting for a while he could feel the wet stockings on his feet from the gaps in the sole stitching, the wool soaked through and his feet frozen from toe to heel. Elias was a deserter and his brother, Gus, was on his trail. The alternative to meeting his brother would be a slow death, for he would surely freeze bit by bit until a soft delirium set in and the world went black. Elias wasn’t sure which he preferred, but he kept his ear tuned to the woods, for the sound of anything, another man.

For two hours he had been seated in the snow, his head resting against the trunk of the tree. He had found a stone that could fit easily in his palm and he still held a firm grip on the knife in his other hand, as if the handle and the blade had become an extension of his arm, his fingers numb, starting to look dark blue and black around the tips. There was hardly any food in the camp when Elias decided to leave. He had received a letter from his wife saying Indians were on a scalping rampage and had last been seen a days trip south of their home, on the Buffalo River. It would take Elias days to reach Arkansas, but he had slipped out of camp in the early morning. There were hundreds of wounded and the officers, Gus among them, had been meeting for hours the night before, trying to reason a strategy to hold off the Yanks.

Elias nodded off, the cold gripping his body and his mind the only part still active, listening. By now nocturnal animals were roving the woods, scampering, stopping, listening for prey and predators alike. Elias was one of them, though he was fading. There were wolves and foxes, he knew, and hook-beaked birds perched on branches high above. The moon was cutting through to the snow covered forest floor and the sky was cloudless and the stars, where there was a break in the canopy of needles, were clearly visible. It was a beautiful night.

For the first time in hours he tried to move. His feet were out in front of him and his arms were at his sides. He was a statue, his wool coat and its folds frozen into place; his trousers had hardened and even bending his knees felt like he was breaking through a thin vein of stone. Crouching once again was the hardest part, and he only assumed the position after he heard a sound in the woods, from what direction he couldn’t tell, coming his way. Elias dabbed at the maroon spot on his coat where the blood was sticky and cold. He saw a blur to his right, coming toward him, not 60 yards away. The heavy breathing was that of a man.

“Elias!” the man shouted.

Elias firmed his position, felt the tree trunk hard against his back. The knife and the stone felt loose in his grip. Maybe Gus had also been resting before picking up the trail, following the footprints by moonlight. Elias bounced on his knees and rotated his shoulders, trying to get the blood, which was moving slowly through his body, back into circulation. His body was numb and slow to respond. It felt like he was a puppeteer, operating the strings from high above the stage.

“Elias!” Gus drew near, struggling through the snow. The powder was knee deep and Gus was breathing heavily. The chase was as fatiguing as the flight. Gus was no longer holding his rifle; he only held the bayonet, and he was limping badly.

Elias stood up for the first time in hours and in those hours he had become an old man, brittle, slow, cautious. He pushed the knife out in front of him and almost lost his balance. He clutched the stone with all the energy he had left. Gus was close enough to see the shadow of his face, gritting his teeth and struggling through the snow. And then Gus stopped, ten feet from Elias.

The two men watched each other, their hard breaths clouds of condensation rising toward the moonlight. Elias turned the stone over in the palm of his hand and drew the knife close to his side.

“Elias,” Gus said, between breaths. “You’re a coward.” Gus blew snot from his nostrils, held the bayonet blade out and started to walk slowly toward Elias.

Elias once again steadied himself and felt the tree at his back. He would not strike first. Gus lunged toward him and the bayonet blade cut through the air. Elias shifted to his right as the blade sliced through the shoulder of his jacket, drawing blood. This fresh wound drew new life into Elias’ body, made him feel alive, primal, the way he had felt when he had been stabbed with a Yank bayonet days before. They were strangers on a battlefield, but Elias had killed the young man who stabbed him. It could have gone either way, but Elias maneuvered, sliced the boy’s throat and ran him through the gut with his own bayonet. It only took a moment.

By now Gus was turned back around and facing Elias. There was only anger in his face. He came at Elias again and when he did Elias swiped the side of Gus’ head with the stone, hitting him square on the jaw. It wasn’t a fair fight now. Gus had been limping, was probably badly wounded. As Gus hit the ground Elias saw the bone sticking through his pants, a badly broken leg that should have been set hours ago. Somehow Gus had managed to wade through miles of snow in pursuit.

Elias dropped the stone and extended his hand. Gus was still holding the bayonet blade. He kicked at Elias’ shin with such force that he brought his brother to the ground. Gus sat up and ran the bayonet through Elias’ stomach and held it there and twisted. The two brothers were face to face. Elias gripped the knife and with what energy he had left stabbed Gus in the ribs; he was frantically sifting through the snow when he found the stone. Elias tried to hold it tightly in his hand but his energy was failing. He felt the bayonet being pulled from his gut and he let out a guttural scream for mercy. At once Elias held the stone firmly in his palm and smashed it into Gus’ temple. The two brothers crumpled into each other.

There was no more resistance. Only rest. They were laying like snow angles on the ground, their limbs extended in every direction. From high above the wind picked up. Trees started to crack, swaying in the cold, branches snapping and falling to the ground. Gus and Elias were breathing their last breaths. The cold was taking them. The snow around their bodies was growing black with blood and their eyes were growing heavy. Within minutes the darkness would take them, these brothers from Arkansas. Later, a midnight snow would fall from the heavens and cover their bodies by morning.

_______________________________________________________________

Blake Kimzey's fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in or is forthcoming from Monkeybicycle (USA), The Lifted Brow (Australia), Red Line Blues (USA), Untitled Books (UK) and Short FICTION (UK). He is currently working on a collection of stories and a picaresque novel. Born in Texas, Blake has worked as a bicycle tour guide in France and now lives with his wife, Artist Danielle Kimzey, in Iowa City.