Circle of Revenge
By: Steve Bolin
I vaguely remember stuffing his body in a large canvas sack and then driving to my country cabin. I buried both him and the gun near a thicket of trees in the woods of my property. When I told my wife of our daughter’s death, trauma consumed her. Sorrow snapped her mind and she hanged herself two days later.
My head was spinning. Everything was suddenly surreal. This must be a dream. Perhaps the image of Brian’s decomposing corpse was a figment of my imagination. If this was the case, then I had nothing to fear.
I made my move and reached for the gun. Maybe I jarred the weapon, maybe not; but it went off. I don’t remember anything past the moment I grabbed at the barrel. I didn’t see a flash. I didn’t hear it fire. I didn’t feel pain. The bullet in my brain muddled my senses.
This wasn’t how I had expected to die, but life is a fragile thing and death is always ready to embrace another soul in its icy grip. Death had claimed Brian and now it held me as well. Suddenly, blackness swallowed my mind as crimson fluid poured out the back of my skull and onto the brain-splattered recliner.
* * *
Darkness.
I awoke to find myself constricted by a heavy, moist weight. I rubbed my fingers together and recognized the texture of the crumbling softness: dirt. Someone had buried me.
Like a mole digging its way out of a tunnel, I scratched at the soil covering me. It was a slow, time-consuming process. I didn’t stop until I was free. Fortunately, it was a shallow grave.
After digging myself out, I recognized my gravesite. It was the same hole that I had planted Carl into two weeks ago. Maybe this poetic justice was his idea of ironic wit. Could an undead corpse have a sense of humor?
I stood over the empty grave, brushing the dirt and mud from my clothing. I ran my fingers through my matted hair and noticed a hole in my forehead. Hesitantly, I reached around to the back of my head and found that a large section of skull was missing.
My wet, gore-coated hand returned and I looked at it. Chunks of gray brain matter and dried clots of dark red blood clung to my pale, withered fingers. The reality of the situation hit me.
I was dead.
Whoever said that dead men tell no tales hadn’t met me – or Brian either. Right now, I wasn’t interested in telling tales. I was interested in only one thing. Revenge.
Anger fueled my desire for vengeance, anger at Brian for killing me and at his son for murdering my daughter. I vaguely recalled the swift apprehension of the son, who now awaited trial in a maximum-security penitentiary. With justice for the son assured, I focused on Brian.
I didn’t know if it was possible to kill a man who was already dead. One thing was certain though; I aimed to find out. I knew where to find the stinking corpse of Brian Clemmins. I slowly moved across the wooded landscape of my property with fierce determination.
Since Brian had buried me in the same place that I’d buried him – that was to say, on my property – I reasoned that the undead man would likely be making himself at home in my log cabin. I headed in that direction.
As I stumbled along from tree to tree and moved closer to my log cabin, I had time to ponder a few things. One of those things was my very existence. After all, I was dead. Aren’t dead things supposed to stay dead? Whatever God watched over this planet certainly had a strange sense of humor.
I saw this as an opportunity, perhaps the same one given to Brian. I tried to think of other explanations for my undead state, but something seemed to be hampering my reasoning skills. With half my brains missing from the gunshot, I should consider myself lucky to think at all.
It didn’t matter; revenge required little processing power. As my log cabin home came into sight, I moved around to the back where my tool shed was located. The lock snapped under the undead strength of my hands and I entered the shed. I quickly located the double-barreled shotgun on the back wall and loaded a couple of shells in it.
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