CRACK
The sound of a shotgun blast sounds with the dawn of a new day. A boy is holding a single-shot makeshift shotgun, as he walks among crows of pine trees he opens the gun and takes out the spent 20 gauge shell, dropping it on the grassy forest floor. Tufts of grass and small shrubs crumple under his tattered old tennis shoes as he goes to pick up his kill- a pigeon he had blown out of the trees. The boy crouches down and picks up the dead pigeon, blood still seeping out of it's wound, and inspects it. The boy picks out little bits of lead birdshot he can see at the surface and puts them into the pocket, inadvertently smearing blood over his faded blue woolen jacket. After checking the birds skin, it's insides, it's eyes, and under it's wings, he slips the bird into a ragged school backpack and turns around, his leather pants creaking as he pivots. He walks back in the direction from where he came, towards a creek and a dingy shack he called home
After an hour or so of walking through the forest the boy reaches a corrugated metal shack in the middle of a forest clearing. The shack is surrounded by a village of old fire pits, a army of ripped and torn plastic bags, a fleet of old wooden posts and barbed wire, and a man sitting on a beach chair right inf ront of the shack's door, a rusted screen door with a sheet of aluminum bolted over it. The boy starts to speak.
"Good morning. You got up surprisingly early today."
The man replies.
"I couldn't sleep. I'm starting to have those spasms again."
The boy walks infront of him.
"I got us some breakfast, George."
George readjusts his position in the beach chair and pulls up his jeans.
"Thanks. Though, you know... maybe he needs it more than me."
He turns away from the boy and points towards the shack.
"Oh. Okay."
The boy walks past him towards the shack. He opens the shack door slowly, taking care the make as little noise as possible. A ray of light illuminates the dark shack, and a bedridden man enters the stage. The boy walks in, and on the other side of the shack the bedridden man rests. To the boys right is a wooden butchering table, stained with the blood of rabbits, squirrels, and pigeons- all of the deer were dead, hunted away by others luckier than them. He walks over to the table and takes the pigeon out of his backpack, laying it on the flat pine surface of the table. He then pulls a folding knife out of his pants pocket, flicks it open, and jams the steel blade in between the birds legs. He flays some of the skin off, feathers and all, and continues to cut off the rest of the skin, making sure not to lose any meat. After 15 minutes of flaying, most of feathers are gone and two good cuts of pigeon are cut out. Once the good meat is gone, he makes a slit in the bird and inserts his fingers into the opening, gripping the intestines and yanking them out. After the intestines comes the stomach... and the liver... and the lungs... and bits of lead birdshot. After everything is out he takes the gutted carcass and the two pigeon filets and lays them on the table.
The boy looks at the bedridden man at the end of the shack. He had the flu, and a blown out kneecap to boot. The bedridden man got it shot out about a month ago, in a skirmish with some other people at Greenwald Junction. Three other people died that day- two guys and one girl. People have grown callous, indifferent to violence, evidently shooting three teenagers who weren't even 17 to death isn't something that many people balk at these days. Or maybe just all the normal people died and the only ones who are left are starfishs, people who would kill their own mothers to live another day. Whatever, those people are dead now. A fair trade, three of us for all four of them.
He peeks his head outside the door and asks George a question.
"George, do you happen to have the pot?"
"No, you were the last pers- actually..."
He pauses for a moment, trying to remember where he last put it.
"I think I left it by the creek actually."
"I was just there. It isn't there, I checked."
George seems to have been struck by a bolt of lightning.
"Bloody hell. I think I, uh, lost it..."
"Where?! How the forget could you have lost the loving pot?! It's like the size of your head!"
"You remember when we tried to get into the Wal-Mart at Greenwald Junction?"
"Yeah?"
"And I went to cook us up a meal with water from the store bathroom when an entire forgetin' horde of cannibals ambushed us?""
"..."
"Sorry."
The boy sighs.
"How are going to get clean water? How are we going to cook?! Do you realize how loving important that pot was?"
"Listen, we can travel light, slip into the Wal-Mart, slip out of it with decent food and some nice comforts. I have an entire plan mapped out and I swear we won't repeat the same mistakes that happened last time-"
"Just give me some time to get ready. I'll be ready in 30 minutes."
THE TRUE STORY OF THE BLOCKLAND GROUP, TO BE CONTINUED
