Koom Valley

Spatter. 

That’s the name for blood splashed on a window.

They always get it wrong in movies. To get the splash of blood they show, you need to cut an artery. Better yet, a deep chest stab will leave a splash of blood on the ceiling. If you cut off a limb, the blood gushes out in time with the heartbeat. Jet…Jet…Jet…Jet

Those are the only ways to get the kind of blood spray they show in the movies. Every time they show some guy get punched and spit a wad of blood they’re just being dramatic. A punch will leave drops of blood maybe five millimeters across. From a baseball bat, the drops are about two millimeters across. From a gunshot they’re even smaller, nothing but a fine mist.

At the corner, I have to wait for two guys on the sidewalk to finish killing each other. There’s no wondering what set them off. It could have been anything. Or nothing. 

Sharp needle pricks tell me that a mosquito is on the back of my neck. No sudden moves, no swatting. The blood they drink makes me think about the blood on the window, makes me wish I could stop thinking.

As they finish, the man on top pants, occasionally throwing another sloppy punch, the man on bottom bubbling and trying to protect himself, I shuffle on past them. No sudden moves. Look at the ground. Ignore them and they won’t care about you. 

Behind me, Archie and Chuck are doing the same act. We’ve learned it well. We had to.

We’ve learned a lot in the last three days. None of it good, but all of it useful. Never cook in the open. When they can see you, don’t move fast. Don’t make them think you’ll attack and usually they leave you alone. 

Through the red speckled glass door, shiny plastic wrappers twinkle under the artificial lights, everything still lined up in neat little rows. The automatic doors open and a wall of cold air rushes out to meet me. For the first time in days, the sweat dries off of my face, and it feels wonderful. Chuck and Archie feel it too. We should look around to make sure it’s safe. But we don’t. 

First thing, I put every can of food from a shelf into my backpack. Packed for a camping trip, the last three days weren’t bad. Now there are no more Vienna Sausages. All of us are hungry, and we need food that doesn’t have to be cooked. Chuck goes for bug spray and first aid supplies. 

Archie is heading for the counter to get a map. The waterproof topographical map of the national park that I got as a birthday present was amazing, but now the park is behind us and we need a new one. The streets of New Orleans make no sense.

Click. 

Click. Click. Click. Behind the counter a man aims a revolver at us. Still wearing his uniform, the name tag pinned to his dirty, unwashed shirt says “TOM”.   He is bigger than all three of us combined.

Tom’s wordless scream catches me by surprise. Unsure whether to run or fight, Tom’s charge catches us halfway between. Archie is the closest to the counter and gets the brunt of it. He flies into the drink cooler, and the glass shatters with a crack. 

Tom crashes into me and the butt of his gun hits my head. I don’t even feel the impact. All I see is white.

A second later, I’m on my hands and knees, and Tom is on Chuck, trying to punch while holding him down. Staggering and blinking, pulling myself to my feet and pulling out my hatchet, I walk behind the couple twisting on the floor. 

The drops of blood from a hatchet are about two millimeters across.

Heaving the corpse over, I help Chuck up. I blink away the last of the sparkles. Chuck lifts his shirt to wipe Tom’s blood from his face while I look around for Archie. 

The blood from a cut artery gushes in time with Archie’s heartbeat. Jet…Jet…Jet…

Rushing to Archie, glass crunching under my hiking boots, I’m already pulling out a cord for a tourniquet. 

Working fast, I can’t help but laugh. Four days ago, I was tying knots for my first merit badge; now I’m tying one to save a friend.