Eziekiel Of The Rockies

By Will Huston

Eziekiel woke, sitting up and immediately doubling over as coughs overtook his breathing, filling his dwelling with the sound of violent expulsions as spat into a bucket. What felt like
several long minutes passed, and the coughs faded away into the occasional bit of phlegm punctuating his murmurs. “Must have been the damp,” Eziekiel croaked, his voice like the well’s piping –
rusty and of rare use.

Eziekiel stood upon shaky knees, clutching the bedside table as his head swam. He surveyed the space, a sort of bedroom with a rough bed of hides and old blankets, a cluttered table with bits for
repairing the rifle, and a coat rack. Eziekial took a moment to browse the rack, as though he had a choice, before pulling off his winter coat and walking out into the kitchen.

The kitchen is a small space furnished with a small wood stove nestled into a corner, a large wardrobe that he had rigged to be a pantry, an old wooden table whose varnish is peeling off, and a
chair that groaned at the weight of a user. Eziekial’s lip remained firm, his eyes apathetic – he had seen this space thousands of times, and he no longer cared.

He walked over to the wardrobe, letting it creak open, he looked over his stock. Shelves of disorganized and precarious jars and tins of food were before him. After a few silent minutes of browsing, the only sound being the occasional stifled cough and
the sound of the wilds outside, Eziekial decided on a simple meal of bread and smoked venison. Just as he is sitting down, he let out a hacking fit. After composing himself, he let out a groan,
looking back to the wardrobe. With a bit of effort, Eziekial jumped up, and went digging in the wardrobe’s depths for some vaguely remembered remedy.

Instead, he found an old photo frame.

He bit his lip and opened the frame, slowly. Letting the ages yellowing photograph bring the memories back, he wanted to forget, but he wouldn’t forget her. It took a few moments to let it sink in,
a much younger depiction of Eziekiel, in his early twenties at least. His hair is combed and well kempt, his smile modest and touching as were his deep hazel eyes. His clothes were alright,
he didn’t come from a rich family nor did he come from a poor one – he did his best with what he had.

He then looked to the other form in the parallel frame; a young girl of 19 sat there, his sister. Anna’s unblemished face produced a sweet smile; her eyes were deep and comforting.
She had a beautiful face, angled to a rounded, her cheeks skinny and somewhat shallow. Her hair is smooth, caressed in a large braid behind her.
Eziekial stifled a sob as the scene came back, the rich boy, the shattered bottle, and his sister, her eyes without depth, and an inky pool forming around her midsection.

He barely knew what happened next, his mind is blinded by rage and fury. The next thing he knew, the broken bottle had claimed another.

The boy’s father presided over the scene in an open doorway, an eerie silence about him. His face isn’t contorted with rage, but instead, with a deadly stare. His eyes pierced Eziekial’s mind and filled him with fear.
Eziekiel could only run then, the father had vowed to kill him, and one couldn’t face the big iron of his, nor his gang.

All that Eziekial could do is run, he escaped the dangers that he faced in Tennessee and found himself moving farther and farther west. Soon enough, Eziekial came upon an isolated village on the base of the Rockies in Idaho.
But even then, he felt as though there is nowhere safe, this is compounded by the fact that there isn’t enough work to go around in the little village, especially if you weren’t local. So, he looked to the mountains.

With the last of his savings and the sale of his old Ford, Eziekial funded his move into the mountains, staking himself a claim along a lonely riverbed, and building a small yet sturdy shack against the hillside.
Eziekial is branded a hermit, but he is much rather an exile by the forces against him, and his own paranoia.

Gradually, the memory of what had caused him to go into hiding slipped into the background, and he actually began to relish the liberation from society, the solitude of living on the cliffs and amongst the evergreens. He found a peace, and for 30 years, he lived alone, away from the quarrels of civilization.

Yet, there it is again, the misery of the early years, coupled with the blaring truth that he is becoming a clumsy and weak old man. On his worst days, a walking stick is required to traverse the old paths that he would bound about earlier in life. He is growing old, and there is no way to stop it.

“Enough” he thought aloud, “I just need to clear my mind, that’s all.” He walked out of the kitchen, and back into the bedroom. He took his rifle off the wall with finesse, pulling back
the bolt slowly. The rifle is always in good condition, he made sure of that.

Eziekiel stepped out into the damp mountain air, casually readjusting his leather jacket as he took in the scene. Too cold for the birds to be out, but close enough to spring to maybe catch a deer,
grazing amongst the groves. He began down his regular path, a winding trail that often stretched across the river in shallow areas. It is also the easiest path to catch game on.

Time passed on, and with it, Eziekiel’s doubt grew. He had seen little in the way of tracks, nothing really fresh, and soon enough he would be at the creek’s basin, and then he’d have to turn back.
He crossed through the stream again, the clear waters wiping away some of the finer layers of mud on his boots. He leaned against a tree, and let out a sigh. “Who am I fooling; I’m too old for this.”
Eziekiel muttered, entertaining the thought of going home.

Turning away, Eziekiel began walking home, until he he heard a branch snap behind him, turning quickly on his heels, Eziekial caught a glimpse of a deer glancing at him. Hurriedly he cracked the bolt of the rifle, and raised it to see the whitetail disappearing into the trees.

Still, Eziekiel would not let it be lost; he gave chase, bounding through the briars and underbrush as though it were nothing. His body once again full of the vigor of his younger days. Just as
he began to pant, the deer reached the crags on the cliff-face, rounding quickly around a thick mass of tree and brush. He kept after, confident he could get a clear shot soon. “Just a few more feet,”
Eziekiel thought, his lungs burning. He reached the bend, seeing that he had a clear shot, only to realize that the ground beneath him had come loose.

Eziekiel’s remembered the sensation of falling, a huge boulder tearing itself from the face as though at the wrath of a god. Eziekial tried to get hold of the cliff, but instead, his skull was acquainted with the rocky face, and all went dark.

Eziekial woke, the sky above him was growing dim with the curtains of twilight. His first instinct to sit up proved folly as his skull throbbed. He grasped it, stifling a cry as he felt a warm liquid ooze into his hand, pulling it away, he saw an inkling of blood had collected on his palm. Eziekial looked around, his skull had managed to overshadow the pain in his legs, as now he noticed that one had been bleeding for a while. Leaning over and ignoring the spike sent through his mind, Eziekial groped his thigh, observing the hole in his leg with remorse and worry.

Eziekial looked up, observing the growing darkness as his most prominent threat,  he stood up shakily, having to put the majority of his weight on his “good” leg, he hobbled a little, looking about for his rifle or a stick to prop himself on.

He found the rifle first, it’s once powerful form broken and crippled. Its stock was splintered, and the barrel was bent at an odd angle. As much as he wants to take it, he can’t in its current state. Soon enough, Eziekial had found a fairly dry, thick branch, with of which he began his journey home.

Eziekial set out, letting his instinct guide his journey as he hobbled throughout the disorienting woods, a growing fear of nighttime predators began to set in. The sky has since grown dark, and Eziekial finds himself freezing in fear at every rustle of the underbrush. His mind was so preoccupied, he didn’t hear the gurgle of the stream until he was upon it.

Gazing with disbelief, Eziekiel cast his eyes across the stream, his eyes filling with joy as he saw the familiar trail running parallel with the creek. Despite his pain, he pushed through
the stream, its form flowing seamlessly around him. After backtracking for a few minutes, Eziekiel saw the dark shadow of his shack in the darkness. Eagerly hobbling up, he pushed inside, greeted
by the long-cold coals of a dead fire, and a cold house. Still, he is happy, for he is safe.

—

Eziekiel is not as safe as he would like to admit, the next morning he awoke in ill manners, his thigh felt as though it were a tree-stump, stubborn against all attempts to remove it from
this area. He pulled back the blankets and gasped. His leg is inflamed and swelling. The gash in his thigh oozed yellow pus, and any attempt to walk on it caused Eziekiel to scream in agony.

Over the next few hours, Eziekiel scolded himself, scolded himself for leaving the homestead on such a ill-mannered day, scolded himself for running after that deer through the wilds as though he
is but a boy chasing after a dog, and scolded himself for not paying more attention to his wounds instead of just heading straight to bed. The weather did not help either, for the next day it
rained, coming down in torrents, and he could feel the damp getting to him, making him even more ill. His cough had returned, this time with renewed animosity, Eziekiel could find himself to barely be able to gulp down mere morsels with the cough.

Another night passed, and Eziekiel woke, his leg has swollen and is looking very ill. Even after applying the strongest drinks he had to it, and dressing it in thick layers of cloth. The pus and the smell of rot remained. Eziekiel had no choice but to try and make the journey to the village, a romantic hope that penicillin had since improved in quality and quantity since his isolation began.

He set out mid-morning, after a meager ration of jerky and bread and a suffice amount of alcohol to dull the pain. A leather pouch carried the last of his coin, hopefully enough to buy the remedies to his ills. The sky is oddly dull, sort of a light gray drenched in a blue hue, Eziekiel did not notice this, and just kept on.

Nor did he notice, the gradual fading of the clouds altogether, and increasing intensity of the blue hue as he went along. Soon enough, even the trees faded into blurred shadows of what is. Eziekiel
noticed none of this, for his mind is focused on the road. Soon enough, Eziekiel wobbled, dropping beneath the last coherent tree on a tuft of all too green grass. He let out a yawn, stretching out
as sleep began to take over. “I’ll…just take a…nap.” He murmured, his eyes fluttering.

“That’s quite alright, Eziekiel, you’re much deserving of a good rest.” A voice said.

Eziekiel looked up, to see the vivid ghost of a photograph he looked at not too long ago, before his eyes fluttered once again and he drifted off into his last sleep.