The October Light of August Read Online Free Page A

dead woman. His leg rose and wavered, bent at the knee, then stretched out again.
    Still trying to walk on air , I thought.
    The crow on the fence cawed again, and I automatically looked in all directions. But we were alone for now, and I shot the bird an exasperated look. It's all about you, isn't it?
    The dead woman was still trapped under the warrior, feasting happily.
    Well, it's not as if she'll suffocate.
    The warrior had quit kicking out with his leg and only lay staring up into the bright sky of the morning. I stepped into the parking lot, walked quickly up to the dead man that was still twitching by the dumpster and gave his head a few more solid whacks with the hammer until the movement stopped (and so it ends at last for Shitty-Shorts). I then dragged the corpse, hauling it at least fifty feet away from the feeding dead woman, and shoved it snugly up against the fence. The crow had hopped-flew along the barrier with me and I muttered, “There you go, your majesty.”
    Not for the first time did I wonder why animals never caught the fever. Not even one, that I - or anyone else - knew of. Something to be thankful for ... I turned away and after carefully surveying the area, walked back towards the dumpster, while the rest of the crows began to circle in to feast behind me. I looked to see if I could spot any of the ball-bearings, but I was feeling naked now. Later. I was tired, and the morning was getting late. Let the dead have the day.
    I toyed with the idea of trying to grab what I could off the warrior, but decided it was too risky to get that close to the gnashing teeth – even if she was pinned under her meal. Which wouldn't be for long - already she had wormed herself around and was able to wrap her left leg across the pelvis of the warrior. She wore gray fleece sweatpants. And even though I couldn’t see it, I knew that across her bottom, stitched in cursive, was one word: Pink.
     
     

 
     
     
    I suppose I should back up a bit. I thought that writing this down would just be my version of the final days of my life. Not that I think anyone gives two farts about that, or me in general. I need something to pass the time, now that I don’t find it all that desperate anymore. Being an avid reader, I think, makes you a frustrated writer. So what the hell - I can give it a shot. Is this just an exercise to justify the decisions I’ve made since 'shit got real'?  I don’t see me doing anything a whole lot different given the options I had. I didn’t kill anyone. Or rape anyone. Or destroy anything with random wantonness. All I did was survive for a year and a half the only way I could - by staying the hell away from the rest of y’all.
    So I'll back up, at least to try and give some perspective on all of this. It seems I have more time than I thought to tell a longer story. Or at least more willpower than I thought I had. The tale grows in the telling, as they say.
     
    *  *  *
     
    I had first seen her at the gym. At 4:30 every morning, I would go work out. It was something I had decided that I needed to do, and very nearly abandoned it. Sure, I was unhealthy and overweight. I needed to exercise, and my mother convinced me if I just got into shape, I might feel better about myself and then find the courage to socialize. And maybe go on dates. Left unsaid was the possibility of marriage and grand kids. Baby steps, after all.
    So I joined a gym near the mall – one that was open 24 hours. But I didn't want to work out when a lot of people were around and decided that the earlier, the better. I should be able to get out well before the 6:00 crowd came in. For two months I grimly rolled out of bed at 4:15 and routinely drove the short distance to jog on a treadmill for 30 minutes.
    I met her on the third day of this routine as I gasped and wheezed away, trotting towards hell. Feeling foolish, I decided to give it up for the morning after 20 minutes. Stepping away from the treadmill I felt dizzy and I bent