Part II
The boy fourteen, and soon to be forever marked sat quietly as the road carried him forward. It was a road paved in comfort, the kind granted by birth, but one that would soon betray him. A road that had already broken many souls and left them scattered along its unseen edges.Through the glass, automobiles drifted past in flashes of steel and light, while tall oak trees stretched high into the skyline. His pupils wandered aimlessly, trying to follow the blur of shifting scenery, never settling, as though searching for something they would never find.His mind circled back to his parents, their lessons, their warmth, their world. That was the only truth he knew. Beyond them lay a mystery, a silence he had never dared to question. And yet the road pulled him deeper, toward a house he had never seen, toward an uncle he had never known.The oaks kept streaming past, their shadows dragging behind until the sun itself sank into the horizon. The forest grew thin and wiry, animals peering out from its darkened edge, their eyes glowing faint against the oncoming night.
The boy’s eyelids grew heavy. Slow. Reluctant. His body slackened as the dark closed in, and finally, in silence, his eyes shut for a few fragile seconds.Then the boy’s parents took a sharp turn. The road narrowed, thinning into a single, lonely path: no lanes, no passing, no choice but forward. It felt as if it existed only for them, leading them where it wanted, not where they chose.
And then headlights. A tow truck burst into view, barreling straight toward them. It moved with urgency, a beast on wheels, and when it struck, it was like jaws snapping shut. Metal shrieked. Their car’s teeth and jaw caved inward with the crash.
The boy’s eyes shot open. Adrenaline surged like fire through his veins.
Beside him, his father gripped the wheel, his face drenched in sweat. His foot slammed the pedal, shoving the car into reverse, tires screeching against the asphalt. His voice cracked out, raw and desperate, filling the car with terror.
“Oh shit oh shit NO! PLEASE NO, PLEASE, NO!”
The mother and son were frozen, their breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. There were no words, only the heavy weight of fear and sorrow pressing down on them.
The tow truck slammed again and again into the car, each impact jarring their bodies and rattling their bones. Slowly, inevitably, the vehicle teetered on the edge of a steep cliff. The world outside the windows became a dark, yawning abyss, swallowing everything whole.The boy felt the darkness press in from all sides. His mind emptied; there were no thoughts, only the waiting. Waiting for something to happen, or perhaps waiting for nothing to happen ever again. Time stretched, infinite and hollow, as the night held them suspended between terror and oblivion.
The boy awoke to a blinding light, searing against his reddish pupils. He lifted a trembling hand to shield his eyes and tilted his head carefully, every movement slow, deliberate. His neck protested, stiff and sore, as he shifted his heavy skull to the left.
Before him stretched a wall too white, almost plastic in its brightness, sterile and alien.
“He’s awake!” someone shouted, their voice sharp and urgent, echoing off the cold walls.
A nurse and two doctors stared at the boy, unsure what to say. He drew in deep, shuddering breaths, each one rattling through his chest, while the staff tried to steady themselves.
“Where are my parents?” His voice was gravelly, strained, almost breaking into a shout. He pressed a fist to his mouth, coughing harshly, the sound wet and wrenching, before he turned back to them.
“Where the fuck are my parents?!” he shouted again, the gravel of his voice compressed deep into his lungs. His palms pressed into the hospital bed, lifting his torso as his heavy skull bobbed with the effort.
“Excuse me where THE FUCK are my parents?!”
“Sir, calm down,” the nurse said, her voice trembling. The doctor and the second nurse took a cautious step back, uncertain how to contain the boy’s rising panic.
The boy drew in huge, shuddering gasps of air, trying to swallow, trying to steady himself, trying in vain to grasp the truth of what had happened.
“Just take a seat,” the doctor said gently.
Slowly, mechanically, the boy sank into the small chair tucked into the corner of the hospital bed.
“Your parents… tragically… passed away. A reckless driver,” the doctor continued, his words cautious yet firm.
The boy’s eyes seemed to dissolve, pupils heavy and wet, though not a single tear fell. Inside, a storm raged flooding, twisting, pounding against the walls of his skull. He stared down at the pale blue tiles beneath him, frozen in a silence so thick it felt eternal.
“What happened to the reckless driver? Where is he?” The boy’s voice, though low, carried the weight of stone, unwavering.
“The police are searching for him. They will find him,” the doctor replied.
The boy drew a deep, trembling breath, his chest rising and falling like waves.
“Who will… um… who will look after me?”
“Your uncle is waiting in the lobby,” the doctor said.
The nurse guided the boy down the sterile hallways to the lobby. He still wore his hospital gown, the fabric hanging loosely around him, a pale ghost among the pale tiles. The hospital itself felt drained of life walls and floors coated in a muted, lifeless white, the light harsh and unfeeling.
Silence clung to every corner, heavy and suffocating, as if the building itself remembered the broken, the lost, and the dead who had passed through its halls. It was a somber, invisible weight pressing down on the boy’s shoulders, a quiet song of despair and emptiness that seemed to follow him with every step.
Then he saw him.
Uncle Sam’s posture was rigid, his spine unnaturally straight, his body radiating a silent authority. One foot tapped lightly, almost impatiently, against the pale hospital tiles.The nurse guided the boy toward him, then stepped back, leaving the two alone in the cavernous lobby. Uncle Sam towered above the small crowd, nearly seven feet tall. He was broad and imposing, but not overweight his frame was all hard lines and controlled strength. A buttoned black coat hung over black sweatpants, and his scalp was shaved clean, a black mustache sharp against his pale skin.Silence stretched between them like a taut wire. Then, without a word, Uncle Sam turned and gestured for the boy to follow. His footsteps fell heavy against the tiles, each one echoing like a drumbeat.
They emerged into the hospital parking lot. The asphalt gleamed darkly in the rain, slick and reflective under the dim lights, each blackened puddle shimmering like shattered glass. The lot was empty, vast, and silent an eerie stage for the encounter to come.
Uncle Sam leaned against the red truck, his massive frame pressing into the weathered metal. The truck was caked in dirt and grime, the interior layered with rust and the lingering scent of neglect. With a deliberate motion, he reached into his pocket, produced a cigarette, and placed it between his lips.The flame of his lighter flared, cupped in his large hand, casting a brief, flickering glow that pierced the black fog of the parking lot. The small spark danced in the darkness, reflecting off the wet asphalt like a dying star.
“Get in the front, kid,” Uncle Sam said, his voice low, calm, but carrying an unmistakable edge.
Rain tore down from the sky, pounding against Uncle Sam’s windshield like the tears of some colossal, unseen infant, its sorrowful gaze fixed on the dark abyss below. The wipers swept back and forth in relentless rhythm, slicing through the sheets of water while the yellow glow of the truck’s headlights pierced the gloom.Uncle Sam’s eyes were sharp, predatory, scanning the blackened world beyond the glass. His large hands gripped the battered steering wheel with practiced control, and his spine hunched slightly, leaning forward as if the darkness itself demanded his vigilance.
The boy could not sleep. His wide, unblinking eyes traced the motion outside the skeletal, elongated spruce trees rushing past in streaks of shadow. For a moment, the forest seemed alive, its long, skinny trunks staring with empty, unseeing pupils as the red truck carved its way through the storm.
Hours passed. Deep into the night, neither of them slept. The paved road had long since disappeared, replaced by a narrow, winding dirt path that led through a forest so dense it seemed untouched by man. No houses, no lights, no signs of civilization appeared for what felt like endless hours.
Finally, Uncle Sam brought the red, rusted truck to a halt beside his cabin. The engine sputtered and died, leaving only the soft rustle of the wind through the trees and the distant drip of rain from the leaves.Uncle Sam flicked the last remnants of his cigarette into the damp grass. His heavy boot crushed it underfoot, leaving nothing behind but a scattering of ash and a quiet sense of finality.
The boy claimed the smallest bedroom in the cabin, leaving Uncle Sam to occupy the spaces below. Dawn crept over the horizon, the orange sun spilling its light through the narrow window and casting long, sharp shadows across the boy’s unrested face. He had not slept; the weight of the previous night pressed heavy on his eyelids.Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he let his feet touch the worn wooden floor, then turned toward the closet. Shirts and pants hung neatly from their hangers, each article of clothing staring back at him like silent witnesses. He examined them closely every piece a men’s small, fitting him perfectly, yet carrying the unmistakable scent of a life lived elsewhere, a life he was now forced to step into.
Now dressed, the boy carefully made his way downstairs, each step pressing into the spruce wood planks that groaned under the weight of his bare feet. The living room was stark, almost oppressive: a worn sofa, a lone window, and a large Confederate flag mounted firmly on the wooden wall. Its presence sent a sour, sinking feeling curling into the pit of his stomach.No technology cluttered the room; the space felt frozen in another era. The square windows scattered across the walls offered fractured glimpses of the outside world, letting in slivers of pale morning light. The boy hesitated before settling onto the sofa, his gaze inevitably drawn back to the flag.
Through one of the windows, he caught sight of Uncle Sam. Shirtless and glistening with sweat, the man’s muscles flexed rhythmically as he lifted weights. The early sun caught the droplets on his skin, turning them into small, burning embers of orange light. The boy felt a subtle shiver crawl up his spine, equal parts awe, fear, and unease.
Later, they sat at the table eating cereal in near silence. Uncle Sam’s crunches were loud and deliberate, each turn of the spoon a sharp punctuation in the quiet room. The boy’s bites were delicate, tentative almost fragile his movements careful as if the act of eating itself demanded precision.
“What do you think of the place?” Uncle Sam asked, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made the boy shift slightly in his seat.
“It’s… alright,” the boy muttered. “Do you have a TV or a computer or something?”
“Hell no.”
“Why not?”
Uncle Sam’s eyes scanned him carefully. “Anything stick out to you?”
The boy’s gaze fell to his empty bowl for a long moment before he lifted his head, meeting Uncle Sam’s stare. His eyes were wide and round, nearly protruding, held tightly by heavy eyelids that could barely contain them. The intensity of his gaze seemed to anchor him to the chair.
“Your flag,” the boy said finally, voice low.
“Got a problem with that?” Uncle Sam snapped, his tone sharp.
“Yeah. I do.”
Uncle Sam shifted a soggy clump of cereal with his spoon, bringing it to his mouth slowly, deliberately, all while keeping his eyes locked onto the boy’s. The silence stretched, taut as a wire, each bite a quiet challenge in the space between them.
THUD!
The boy collapsed onto the spruce floorboards, a burning red bruise blossoming across his cheek. Uncle Sam rose to his full height, towering like a predator in the small room, his muscular frame almost brushing the ceiling.
“I’m gonna make a fucking man out of you, boy,” he growled, voice low and threatening.
Stars erupted in the boy’s vision, and a high-pitched ringing stabbed at the hollows of his ears, sharp enough to feel like it was drilling into his skull. Pain radiated through his head as he pushed himself upright, hands clawing at his hair, pulling it back as if to staunch the invisible flood of red-hot agony in his brain.The door upstairs slammed shut with a deafening finality, echoing through the room, but the boy barely registered it. His mind was a storm, nails raking across the wrinkles of his thoughts, scratching, digging, tearing, leaving his terror raw and unrelenting. Every heartbeat was a hammer; every breath a jagged blade cutting through his chest.
The boy sank onto the edge of his bed, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Outside, the sun bled slowly into the horizon, dragging long shadows across the world as it sank lower and lower. Tears carved swift, glistening trails down his face, streaks of sorrow that seemed to burn as they fell. His heart hammered violently, each beat thudding into his stomach, twisting with grief and anger. It ached for the parents he had lost, a hollow, unfillable ache that clawed at every corner of him. He longed desperately for something, anyone, to fill the void that now defined his world.
Hours passed, though time felt suspended, stretched thin like a taut wire over the empty room. His tears slowly dried, leaving his skin slick and tight, like cracked earth beneath a merciless sun. Outside, the dying light of the day seeped into the clouds, painting them in distant, unreachable colors, a quiet reminder of a world moving on without him.
Thump… thump… A piercing, aching creak ran through the floorboards. The boy’s head jerked toward the sound, and there, beneath his door, he saw the polished leather boots of Uncle Sam.
The door swung open with a deliberate force. Sam stepped inside, a rifle dangling loosely at his heel, his eyes locking onto the boy’s with a predator’s focus. The boy felt his heart surge and hammer against his ribs, each beat a frantic plea to flee but there was nowhere to run. Uncle Sam exhaled, a low, controlled hiss.
“You wanna go hunting?” he asked, voice calm but edged with menace.
“Sure,” the boy said before he could think, words tasting foreign on his tongue.
He didn’t know why he agreed whether it was some instinct buried deep within, raw fear, or something entirely unknowable stirring in the dark recesses of his mind.
Once outside the cabin, the air was thick with the damp scent of wet leaves and the lingering smoke of a campfire. Shadows of animals flickered across the forest floor, moving quietly among the tall, skinny trees. Uncle Sam reached into his back pocket and handed the boy a heavy, cold pistol, the weight of it unfamiliar and intimidating in his small hands.
They moved deeper into the forest, stepping cautiously over roots and fallen branches. Every rustle of leaves seemed magnified in the dense silence, yet no animals revealed themselves. The boy’s pulse thrummed in his ears as he scanned the layers of shadowed greenery.
Then, abruptly, Uncle Sam froze, his finger snapping rigidly toward a branch of a skinny spruce. There, perched with silent stillness, an owl regarded them with round, unblinking eyes.
“You aim. You can shoot that,” Uncle Sam said, his finger pointing rigidly toward the owl.
“Bet I could,” the boy replied, unsure of himself but drawn by something deep inside.
“Go ahead,” Uncle Sam prompted.
The boy closed his right eye, his hands trembling slightly as he aimed at the owl’s torso. He squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, sharp and final, and the owl, once perched with silent pride, collapsed from the branch like a stone dropped from the sky.
“Nice shot,” Uncle Sam said, his voice flat, almost approving.
They walked back toward the cabin in silence, the forest pressing in around them. Uncle Sam carried the pistol loosely, as did the boy, their steps echoing softly on the damp earth.
“Why do you think I have that flag?” Uncle Sam asked suddenly.
“Because you’re racist,” the boy answered bluntly.
“What do you think racism is?”
“Hate for other races,” the boy replied, feeling the words on his tongue.
“Wrong,” Uncle Sam said sharply. “I’ve never hated anything in my life.”
“That… doesn’t make sense,” the boy muttered.
“Because I’m not in favor of the weak. Only the strong,” Uncle Sam explained, his voice even, almost philosophical. “That’s why I love it here. There’s no law or order it’s for the weak. Whatever a man takes, he keeps. Around us, life is divided into pockets of power. To claim what’s mine, I must take it based on my principles.”
The boy fell silent, his chest tightening. He didn’t agree, but somewhere deep, clung for agreement
“Yes,” he whispered after a long pause. His heart ached, pounding, yet strangely still, caught in a silence that pressed down on him like the forest itself.
Soon, the skinny forest blurred behind them. Uncle Sam froze, and the boy mirrored him instinctively. Uncle Sam raised his rifle, eyes narrowing, and aimed at a deer grazing among the trees. A sharp pull of the trigger, and the assault rifle barked into the quiet, the deer collapsing into the green grass as a soft plume of smoke drifted from the barrel like a gentle breeze.
Without a word, Uncle Sam hoisted the animal and carried it to the porch, beginning to skin it with methodical precision. The boy watched silently, his stomach twisting at the sight and smell, yet something in him was mesmerized.
A cigarette clung to Uncle Sam’s lips, glowing faintly in the dim light. Once the deer was prepared, he placed the meat eloquently on a silver dinner plate and set it before the boy.
“What do you think of the chicken?” Uncle Sam asked, his eyes scanning the boy.
“It’s alright,” the boy muttered.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s a bit dry,” the boy admitted.
“Go get the barbecue sauce,” Uncle Sam instructed.
“Where’s it at?”
“The cupboard… actually, the stove. It’s by the stove. Go get it, kid.”
The boy returned, carefully coating the deer meat in smooth layers of brown sauce.
“Hey, Uncle Sam… why did you never have kids?” he asked, his voice quieter than before.
“I did,” Uncle Sam replied, chewing slowly.
“You did?”
“That’s right.”
“They… moved out?”
Uncle Sam swallowed and reached into his pocket, producing a worn brown wallet. Digging inside, he pulled out a single photograph and handed it to the boy.
It was a girl, sixteen or maybe eighteen at most. An emerald necklace glimmered around her neck, catching the light. Her short black hair barely brushed her shoulders, framing a gentle face with a soft smile.
“What happened to her? Where is she now?” the boy asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“She passed on. She’s somewhere in the clouds,” Uncle Sam said flatly.
“Sorry to hear that,” the boy murmured, eyes lingering on the photograph.
“That’s alright. Don’t worry about me. It’s in the past,” Uncle Sam replied, returning to his plate.
They ate in shared silence. The deer meat glistened in the darkening dusk, its texture smooth yet oddly grimy, a chewy reminder of the forest and the violence that had taken place only hours before.
The days began to march forward along the road a road familiar to every man and boy, a road with stops at every turn, though many chose never to leave it. The boy kept walking that road, and the days stretched into weeks, the weeks folding into months.
He moved along its turns and twists, navigating familiar maneuvers in every place he had come to know. The days were spent hunting, the occasional board game offering a fleeting distraction from the monotony.Now, the boy was sixteen, his body and mind shaped by the rhythm of the road, by the steady, unyielding presence of Uncle Sam, and by the lessons harsh and silent that had become his only inheritance.
The kid sat on the sofa, staring toward the basement, his hand covering the corners of his mouth, masking any hint of expression. His head snapped toward the door at the sound of loud, insistent knocking.
Knock, knock. “Kid, get the fucking door!”
Knock, knock. “GET THE DOOR!”
“Give me a second,” the kid muttered, dragging himself toward the door. He opened it just a crack and saw a black boy standing there, a cross hanging around his neck.
“What do you want?” the kid asked.
“Talk about the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” the black boy replied.
The kid shut the door slowly, then swung it wide open. A silver pistol gleamed at the black boy’s belt. His eyes locked on it, frozen. The kid readjusted his own pistol at his waist, letting it hang casually an unspoken threat.
“Is there an issue?” the black boy asked, his voice tight.
“No,” the kid replied, voice steady.
A heavy silence stretched between them. Sweat began to bead along the black boy’s forehead.
“Is there an issue?” he repeated, a little louder this time.
The kid tugged his pistol free and let it dangle loosely at his side.
“I gotta go,” the black boy said.
“What are you doing way out here?”
“Spreading the Lord’s name.”
“Does anyone know you’re here?”
“What?”
“Does anyone know you’re… why?”
“Why do you ask?”
The kid inhaled deeply, weighing the moment, then said, “Best you get out of here.”
The kid returned to the living room and, to his surprise, found Uncle Sam sitting on the sofa, eyes fixed on him. The kid lowered himself onto the couch across from him.
“Who was that?” Uncle Sam asked, his voice steady but probing.
“Don’t worry about it,” the kid replied, keeping his gaze low.
“I will worry about it. Who the hell was that?”
“Some black priest,” the kid said shortly.
“Did you tell him to back off?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Later into the night, when the wolves howled deep in the dusk and the silhouettes of animals drifted pale beneath the moonlight, the kid remained awake. He lounged on the sofa, his fist propping up his skull, a bored expression smeared across his face. He had assumed Uncle Sam was asleep, but he very much was not.Then, a painful creak from the kitchen floorboards drew his attention. The kid’s eyes widened as he saw Uncle Sam emerge knife in his right hand, dressed in a white raincoat now drenched in a vivid red, as though soaked in blood.Uncle Sam’s gaze locked onto the kid, studying his frozen figure. Slowly, deliberately, he placed the knife in the sink and turned on the leaking faucet. Warm, cool blue water ran over his crimson-stained palms, melting the dark streaks into the sink.
“Hey, kid… don’t be scared,” Uncle Sam said, his voice low, almost a whisper, but carrying weight like a stone dropped into water. “Just had to skin a deer for dinner tomorrow.” His laugh was soft, hollow, but it lingered, curling around the edges of the room.
“Okay,” the boy muttered, barely audible, his throat tight.
Uncle Sam brought a cigarette to his lips and lit it. The small flare of the lighter illuminated his face for a split second sharp cheekbones, pale skin stretched over something larger than human.
“Come closer,” he said, slow and deliberate.
The boy obeyed, his legs stiff, his pulse hammering in his ears.
“What’s the matter? Come closer,” Uncle Sam repeated, his tone now sharper, almost a command.
The boy’s feet moved, but every step felt heavy, inevitable. There was no room to turn back.
Uncle Sam lifted his long, pale hand into the air, then let it drift down to the boy’s scalp. His fingers tangled in the boy’s hair, pressing, rubbing, controlling. He smiled, but the movement of his lips felt calculated, alien.
Without warning, Uncle Sam removed the cigarette from his mouth and pressed it against the boy’s lips. The kid inhaled sharply, choking on the smoke. It filled his lungs like fire, and he coughed violently, exhaling thick, gray clouds that clung to the air. His small hands covered his mouth, but the smoke burned through his senses.
Uncle Sam’s grin widened, stretching across his face like a crack in porcelain. Rows of silver-white teeth glinted in the dim light as his laughter spilled out, low and sinister, curling into the corners of the room. The boy didn’t understand why he was laughing. He didn’t want to. But still, he forced a laugh, small, shaky, a mirror of Uncle Sam’s, just to survive the silence that hung heavier than anything he had ever felt.
And through it all, the boy realized: he was trapped. Not by walls, not by hands but by the weight of Uncle Sam’s presence, by the certainty that whatever came next would be decided entirely by the man before him.