The Seventh Mile

         He'd been handcuffed with his hand in front of him for almost six hours now. Draven, bruised and battered sat at the table and messaged his wrists which ached as the polished metal of the cuffs dug deeper into his skin. Stark florescent lights buzzed overhead as they illuminated the claustrophobic room, and Draven struggled to focus his bloodshot eyes on the clock just above the door which had just clicked past 1:00 a.m. He ran his fingers through his greasy hair, then buried his face into his flannel sleeved arms. A moment later, the door glided open, and a husky, middle-aged detective entered the room and sat across the table. His brutish voice echoed echoed in the small room.
         "Hi Draven, I'm detective Williams." Draven sluggishly lifted his head, "I know it's been a long day for you and I--"
         "--Can I get these cuffs off?" Draven interrupted, "my wrists are killing me."
         Williams placed a thick manilla file that sat on the table in front of him. He opened it, and examined the first page. "You're fourteen, is that right?"
         "Yeah."
         "You've had quite an ordeal," Williams paused, "we know this wasn't your--"
         "--What happened to my Dad?"
         Williams paused, "He's dead, Son."
         Draven released a shallow sigh as his body relaxed.
         "FBI agents caught up to him just outside of Lacomb, Williams removed his reading glasses, "he just wasn't interested in going without a fight,"
         Draven closed his watery eyes and sat back in his chair as Williams pulled his handcuff key form his shirt pocket and set Draven's swollen wrists free. "I know you've already told the story to a lot of people, but would you mind telling me what happened?" Williams asked.
         "Do you believe in evil?"
         Williams paused, "no," then deliberated for a moment, "I believe people sometimes make bad decisions."
         Draven gazed expressionless into a large mirrored wall behind Williams, "well... You should."
         "Can you tell me about Sam?"
         Draven closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

#

         The small fire crackled as its warm glow danced off the trees that stood darkly over the makeshift campsite. Smoke hung heavy in the damp night air trapped by the dense forrest. Draven pulled his tattered flannel shirt tighter and used his arms to cover up the gaping holes in his ripped jeans in a futile attempt to keep the chill out. His lips quivered as his mind raced along at a million miles per hour. How the hell did I let him talk me into this? He thought to himself. A few days earlier, his father had stopped by and he was more than happy to tag along just to get away from his mother's drunken boyfriend, but now he was drastically rethinking his position on the matter and silently cussed his poor decision.
         Draven was only five when is mother divorced his father Randy after he had been sentenced to a seven year stretch for aggravated assault. After his release, he'd come by every so often to take Draven on the road for awhile. Considering his mom was jacked up on meth most days, nobody really gave a shit where he was or what he was up to. Over time, and under the wing of Randy's fatherly supervision, Draven's criminal skills had become well tested and refined.
         The cold stung his socked feet where they poked out of his crummy Nike basketball sneakers. A meager voice interrupted the silence, "Keep moving em' around, It'll help keep the blood flowing." Sam sat across the fire with his arms huddled in his grungy and torn Boy Scout shirt.
         "It's not working," Draven sputtered.
         "Walk around then--"
         "--You heard him tell us not to move!"
         "Yeah, I know but--"
         "--But nothing!" Draven snapped back, "just keep your mouth shut, I'm too cold to talk."
         Draven grabbed the canvas knapsack that he had taken from Sam when they first met, and he rummaged through it in hopes of finding any morsel of nourishment. It had been days since he had anything substantial to eat and his vacant stomach was now singing louder than the crickets that filled the night air. "I can't believe he took the last bit of food. You got nothin' else on you?" Sam shrugged as Draven tossed the bag to the ground. "I thought you Eagle Scouts were supposed to be prepared or some shit like that."
         Sam sat in silent satisfaction as he watched Draven wrangle in his hunger induced torment. Days earlier, Sam had been with his friends enjoying his Boy Scout Troop's annual fall campout, and now he was lost and disorientated with these demented idiots who had no business being this deep in the forest.
         "Relax," Draven said with all the phony courage that he could muster
         "I just want to get the hell out of here."
         "My dad will find a way out." Sam released a sarcastic chuckle which pissed Draven off, "What, you think you could do better?"
         Sam raised up his hands which were bound tightly together with a stretch of nylon rope. "You think you cold loosen these up a little," he pleaded, "I can barely feel my hands anymore."
         "Are you bent? He'd kill me if you got away."
         "Come on... ," Sam pleaded, "I can get you out of here."
         "I'm not untying you! My dad says you're his ticket outta here."
         "I've got a compass in my backpack. I can get you away from him." Draven noticed that Sam's hands had turned a bluish color and inside, he felt sorry for him. He knew that Sam was as frightened as he was. Draven pulled his pocket knife out and flipped it open.
         "If you run, I'll put a fucking bullet in your back. Comprende?"
         "Yeah" Sam replied. Draven reached over and cut him free.
         "I'm not even sure if he's coming back." Draven joked.
         "What if he doesn't? It's gonna' go below freezing again tonight."
         "He will."
         Sam couldn't help but stare at the overstuffed black duffel bag which sat on the mossy ground next to Draven. The scintillating firelight illuminated the blood stained Benjamin's and the polished nickel plated 357 magnum pistol. "You guys are the ones from that Crawfordsville bank robbery."
         "Yeah, so what?"
         Sam gazed upwards towards the night sky. "That explains the helicopters. They'll be back tomorrow, you know."
         "They're not gonna' catch us" Draven was becoming annoyed, and he noticed Sam looking at the bag of money and the gun. He pulled the pistol from the bag. "You want this?" Draven joked.
         "No," replied Sam sharply, "I don't like guns." Draven opened the cylinder, and checked the load, "You ever shoot it?"
         "Sure," Draven replied, "lots of times. My dad taught me." Draven bragged. Sam fixated on the weapon.
         The smile slowly disappeared from Draven's face, "You okay?"
         Sam nodded, "Yeah."
         "I didn't mean to freak you out."
         Sam focused on the flickering firelight. "You ever use it?"
         Draven knew exactly what Sam was asking. He snapped the cylinder shut and thrust the gun back into the bag, "It's none of your fucking business, okay?"
         "Sorry. I didn't mean to--"
         "--Just keep your mouth shut." Draven snapped.
         The boys sat in awkward silence and watched the fire morph into a blazing hot bed of glowing embers.
         "You know if we had just met somewhere else...," Draven paused, "we could've been friends."
         A small shy smile crossed Sam's face, "I probably wouldn't fit too well with your friends."
         Draven's eyes shifted downwards, "I wouldn't really know. I don't have any," He looked back up to Sam, "We're gonna die out here, aren't we?"
         "I don't know...  I sure as hell hope not."
         "What is this place? How come we're so lost?"
         Sam exhaled and his steamy breath swirled the still air, "I already told you, it's the Seventh Mile. I warned you guys not to come down here but--"
         "--But what? Draven demanded. It's just a forest!"
         "Just a forest?" Sam knew it was much more than just a forest. It was an evil place of sorts that the Scout leaders had warned the boys on multiple occasions not to venture too far into. Years ago there had been a string of murders in the area, and local legend had it that it was haunted. It was dense, it was dark, it was unforgiving, and there had been more than a fair share of hikers who ventured in but never came out. And now after several days of Sam was beginning to think the tales were true and they too would never find their way out. Sam looked down and noticed Draven's knife lying in the dirt, he reached down in front of him and picked it up. A steely click broke the silence. Sam looked up. His eyes broadened as he found himself staring down the barrel of Draven's pistol. He slowly raised his hands.
"Whoa man, take it easy," Sam shuddered, "I just wanted to look at your knife--"
         "--Shhh," Draven whispered as he put his finger to his lips. The crickets had suddenly become silent and the entire forest stood dangerously still. Draven's eyes grew sharp and focused as he crept to his feet.
         "What? Sam whispered.
         Draven put his finger to his lips as he slinked past sam and made is way to the edge of the darkness. A roupy voice breached the stillness.
         "It's me, asshole." Randy emerged from the blackness and snatched the gun from Draven's shaky hand. Randy was an imposing man whose six foot five frame towered over Draven. Timeworn tattoos covered every inch of his harms and neck, and his bald head reflected even the dimmest light of the glowing embers. Cinnamon red blood trickled from his arms and razor sharp burrs overwhelmed his long filthy beard.  "It's nothing but thickets and brushwood," Randy barked, "I can't find a way outta' here." Randy noticed the ropes laying on the ground and his face face flushed red with anger as he snatched Sam's shirt nearly lifting him off the ground, "I told you to watch him!"
         "I did," Draven growled back.
         "What I tell you about sassing me, boy?" Randy cocked his meaty arm and backhanded Draven across the face sending him to the ground with a thud.
         Sam bounced to his feet and threw his one-hundred and fifty pound frame into Randy with everything he had. Randy toppled like a towering oak landing on top of Draven as Sam fled into the sanctuary of the darkness.
         "GET HIM," Randy thundered. He raised the pistol and fired several shots in Sam's direction.

#

         Sam's heart pounded as he sprinted at breakneck speed through he darkness. Bullets whizzed past him striking trees that had only been inches from his head. He knew Draven was hot on his heals, and Randy right behind him.
         "Sam, Stop!" Draven shouted from the distance.
         Sam knew if they were to catch him, he was dead. His lungs screamed for oxygen and he feared that if he didn't get a chance to rest he would likely pass out. Sam dragged himself through the razor sharp thickets, and had managed to put some distance between Draven and Randy before he was able to stop to catch his breath. Sam gasped for air as he tried to stabilize his legs which felt like blobs of gelatin. In the distance, the bluish beam of Draven's flashlight sliced through the darkness. Sam released a painful grunt and resumed his escape. He didn't see the low branch that jutted out from one of the trees, and in an instant, he was lying dazed and bloody on the ground. Despite his dizziness and the bloody laceration on his head, Sam managed to scramble underneath a nearby patch of thickets as Draven's footsteps drew dangerously near. Sam listened as he wrestled to control his hyperventilating. The dry leaves crackled under each step as Draven drew closer. His flashlight beam searched the surrounding trees. Draven was now within a few feet and Sam watched helplessly as the beam traveled along the ground and up to his face.
         "Dad!" Draven yelled.
         "You find him?" Randy's voice echoed in the distance.
         Draven glared down at Sam who still gripped his knife. There would be hell to pay for this and he knew he would be taking the brunt of it, but he knew if his father were to catch Sam, he would kill him slow.  Draven's voice quivered as he shouted into the darkness, "No!"
         "Well keep looking, he can't be far!" Randy commanded in the distance. His voice was much closer now and Draven knew time was short.
         "You gotta' get the hell outta here," Draven whispered, "he'll kill you now if he finds you."
         "Come with me," Sam pleaded, "Please... Come on!"
         Draven considered the offer, but knew he could handle the subsequent beating he knew he'd get from his father. Time had run out as he looked over his shoulder in the direction of the approaching footsteps. Sam got to his feet and extended his hand toward's Draven which had his knife in it.
         "Keep it," said Draven, "now go before he catches us both." He turned off his flashlight and vanished into the darkness to intercept Randy before he got any closer.

#

         Draven had somehow found his way back to the campsite, and managed to relight the fire. It had been several hours since he returned and was beginning to wonder if Sam had been able to get away. All the excitement had warmed him up and he was drifting off to sleep next to the fire when he heard the heavy footsteps approaching. Randy emerged from the darkness with Sam in his clutches. The back of Draven's neck broke out in sweat as he rose to his feet. Randy had beaten Sam into a battered mess of blood and pulp. His eyes and nose were almost swollen shut and he labored for each breath. Randy threw Sam to the ground. Draven desperately wanted to help Sam, but he froze.
         "Where did you find him?'
         "You know where," Randy replied as he approached Draven. He pointed towards Sam, "See what you did? He ain't no good to us now! You're a dumb-ass--"
         "--I'm sorry!"
         "And then you cross me and you let him go!"
         "He ain't gonna' say nothing!"
         "You want to bet my life on that?" Randy thundered.
         Draven backed away from Randy, "What about my life, huh? You don't care about me!"
         Randy snapped. He grabbed Draven and threw him violently to the ground and clenched his hands around his tender throat. His eyes bulged as he gasped for air.
         "Dad... Stop! Please..." Draven managed to squeeze a few last words as his vision began to turn to grey.
         Randy glared down to his choking son, "Or maybe you want them to catch me," he murmured, "is that what you want?"
         "Leave him alone!"
         Randy 's head snapped around. Sam had managed to get to his feet and was now holding Draven's opened pocket knife. Randy released Draven's swollen neck. He stood and and took a step towards Sam who was holding the knife in front of him.
         "Get away from us" Sam commanded in his shaking voice.
         "Us?" Randy laughed aloud. He approached Sam and pressed his throat against the razor sharp blade that Sam was holding. Randy pressed harder against the blade until a warm trickle of blood ran down his shirt. His voice was soft and foreboding, "Go ahead...  Push it through."
         Sam froze. A wicked smile stretched across Randy's peat moss mustache. He grabbed the knife and buried his fist in the side of Sam's face. Sam released an agonizing grunt as he fell to the mossy ground. Randy yanked him to his knees then pulled the pistol from his belt, emptied all but one round, spun the cylinder, and snapped it shut.
         "What the hell are you gonna do?" Draven questioned.
         "We're gonna play a little game with your new friend, Draven." Randy jammed the pistol into Draven's gut.
         "Dad, no! I don't want to do this again, " Draven objected and shoved the pistol away, but Randy grabbed his arm so hard he nearly broke it. He walked him in front of Sam who was swaying back and forth on his knees as he struggled to maintain consciousness.
         Randy whispered into Draven's ear with his rotten breath, "Do it, or I'll kill you both!"
         Draven looked down at Sam now sitting in a mud puddle of his own urine. Blood streamed down Sam's face as he looked up in terror. He slowly raised his hands, "You don't have to do this."
         Draven raised the pistol and scowled down the sights at Sam with indignation, "You should've gotten away!" Draven's stomach twisted into a tight knot as he cocked the hammer back.
         Darnel's voice pierced the tension, "Pull the Goddamned trigger!"
         "Don't listen to him!" Sam pleaded.
         "Sorry man," Draven put the barrel up to Sam's head, his hand shook violently.  He paused, then pulled the trigger.
CLICK...
         Sam buckled over and convulsed violently. He vomited across the ground onto Draven's feet. Randy, enjoying his little sick game, chuckled in the background.
         "Again!" Randy commanded.
         "He's a nutcase!" Sam screeched with the little strength that he had left. "Don't--"
         Darnel's greasy boot landed across Sam's broken body with a thud and sent him off his knees and onto his back.
         Draven stood over Sam as he raised the gun and cocked the hammer back once again.
         "Please... Draven, don't," Sam begged, "oh my God."
         Draven's arm felt like a million pounds as he labored to hold the gun steady. Tears streamed down Sam's face.
         "What are you waiting for?" Randy shouted, "Do it!"
         "I thought we were friends," Sam whispered.
         Draven looked down at Sam with Pity. He knew through their suffering, a strange bond had been formed between them, and inside he didn't want to hurt Sam. He lowered the pistol and turned to his father. "Fuck you... I ain't doin' it"
         "What did you say, boy?"
         "You heard me. I ain't playin' your sick game anymore." Draven dropped the pistol to the ground. Terror had engulfed him, as he had never seen his father so infuriated in all his life.
         Randy glared at Draven, "Pick up the gun, Draven," he commanded softly.
         "Go to hell," Draven snapped back, "You wanna' kill him? Do it yourself."
         Randy grabbed Draven's arm, "I said pick it up."
         "No," Draven winced under his fathers grip.
         Randy maintained his grip and backhanded Draven across the face. He looked up rebelliously as he spit a mouthful of blood to the ground. Randy backhanded him again and again. "How long you wanna keep this up, boy?" Draven maintained his disobedience towards Randy. It was no longer about the game, but rather the principle. Father and son were at a standoff, neither willing to budge.
         A weak voice interrupted the perilous silence, "pick it up, Draven," Sam had managed to utter a few words despite his incapacitated state.
         "No," Draven replied, "I don't want to--"
         "--I'm dead anyway," Sam whispered back.
         Randy released his grip on Draven, "you should listen to your friend," He shoved him towards Sam.
         Reluctantly, he leaned over and picked up the pistol.
         Sam looked up to Draven and managed a gentle smile through the blood and pain, "It's okay." Tears crawled down Draven's cheek.
         "What's it gonna be, boy?" Randy questioned.
         Draven stood over Sam in reflective silence as he thought about all the others he killed before Sam. His eyes opened with a hateful glare as he turned,  pointed the gun at Sam's head, and before Sam could react, he jerked the trigger.
CRACK!
         Blood splattered across Draven's face as he watched Sam's complexion disappear into the musty soil.

#

         The clock on the wall no read 4:20 a.m., and Williams sat in stunned silence. Draven was visibly shaken, pale, and emotionally drained. He gazed around the room that seemed to spin in slow motion.
         "Are you okay, son?" Williams asked.
         Draven buckled over and vomited violently across the floor.  Williams reached into a box of kleenex and handed one to Draven to wipe his face with.  He wiped his mouth then buried his head deep into his arms, "I'm going to hell, aren't I?" his voice muffled.
         "I don't know, son." Williams replied, "Listen, your mother is outside, she wants to--"
         "--I don't want to see her!"
         "Okay... You don't have to." The two sat in silence for several minutes. "So Sam thought you were his friend?" Williams asked.  His cell phone interrupted the silence. He pulled it from his pocket and listened to the voice on the other end. "Okay, I'll be right there. Hang tight, I'll be back shortly,"
         Draven sat expressionless as Williams stood up and walked out. A dangerous silence had now filled the small room, just like that of the Seventh Mile, except this time he was finally free from his father's violent torment. Draven stared into the puke green walls as he reflected on his ordeal. He'd been taught well by his father and he feared there would be no turning back for him. For the first time in his short life, he closed his eyes and prayed silently to God to forgive him for what he had done. His future was now out of his control, but he didn't care. All he could think about was what he had done to Sam, and the fact that he'd trade places with him in a second if he could. He wiped his eyes dry then cast them downward and mumbled to himself.
         "He was my best friend..."

End