Post by Chris Hedges on Oct 14, 2010 15:10:17 GMT -6
GOOD SAMARITAN
By: William C. Rasmussen
By: William C. Rasmussen
Beth noticed the dead cat at the side of the road that morning during her quick run to the grocery store. Oh, no, she thought. The poor thing… Toeing the brake, she carefully maneuvered her year-old Accord off of the quiet, two-lane country road and onto its right-hand shoulder. She killed the engine, and hesitantly climbed out of the car, listening to the cooling engine’s ticking in the silence.
The dead animal was about a hundred feet behind her, positioned just inside the bike path which paralleled the road. Beth timidly set off toward the road kill, wondering what in the world she was doing. She could get hit by another car, injuring herself…or worse. But it didn’t stop her.
Thirty-one years old and single, with no prospect of marriage on the horizon at all, she had traded the vagaries of male companionship for the more stable and much safer warmth and affection she received from her “babies”---a pair of cats and as many dogs: two female tabbies, and a male Lab and Golden Retriever. Simply put, she’d become an animal lover, in spite of the stigma associated with it by certain people. And now she just couldn’t stand to see an animal of any kind injured or mistreated.
Or dead, she realized, upon reaching the cat and confirming that fact. At least it appeared to be a fresh kill with very little blood, only a small, lipstick-like slash beneath its whiskers. She stared at the animal more closely. A big, black tabby. Geez… She hoped it hadn’t suffered much.
Looking back up, she peered closely at her surroundings, noticing the dense wooded area flanking her side of the road, the few houses sitting well back from the other side of the road like sentinels, and the complete absence of any other vehicles at this time of day. Unsettled, a shiver contorted her spine. And with a sigh, she thought, Now what do I do?
Emitting a slight, unlady-like snort, she quickly walked back to the trunk of her car and popped the latch. Rummaging around through the trunk’s contents, she knew she had something in there that might solve her problem. There! she said to herself. Buried beneath uncounted loose tools, several cans of oil, a half-filled container of windshield washer fluid, a batch of old magazines, some bundled newspapers, rags and other debris, she spotted several cardboard boxes, collapsed and lying flat atop the shallow compartment housing her so-far unused spare tire. She wrestled one of the boxes free and took a good look at it. This could work, she thought with a nod of her head.
A little more excavation amidst the gross accumulation in her trunk revealed an all-purpose roll of duct tape. She smiled. Grabbing the tape and one of the remaining cardboard boxes, she slammed the trunk lid down and began constructing one of the boxes on top of her trunk, reinforcing it with the duct tape. Satisfied with her results, she made her way back to the dead cat, with the collapsed cardboard and the just-built box in tow.
Glancing up and down the road, she brought herself up short when she realized there were still no other cars about at this hour. Granted, it was only 8:30 in the morning, and she did live near the country, well outside the city limits of Memphis, but she would have thought that by now someone would have passed by. Hmm…she thought, continuing on, …then why do I feel weird, like someone’s watching me? With a shake of the head to shed her unwarranted paranoia, she stopped and stooped down to her task.
Using the leading edge of the collapsed cardboard box, she eased it under the cat’s corpse with a grimace, then carefully dumped the body into the box she had just built. She was surprised that other than the slight, familiar cat odor, there was no evidence at all of decay. Well, it’s still Spring, she thought, with its accompanying cooler temps. Obviously retarding the process of decomposition.
So, folding over the flaps on top of the box to secure her grisly cargo, she regained her feet and hefted her dubious prize to her chest. She bent over to retrieve the collapsed box and, like an usher in a funeral procession, began the short trek back to her car.
Upon reaching her Accord, she briefly struggled with the car keys in her pocket before popping the trunk lid. She cautiously placed her cargo in the trunk as a belated hum…or whine, reached her ears, tugging her head around. As she watched, a dark-colored, late-model Hummer H3 purred by, moving considerably slower than the posted speed limit, before pulling away with a sudden burst of speed.
Now what was that about, she wondered, staring at the receding vehicle.
Then, bending over, she grabbed the roll of duct tape and collapsed box, and set both of them into the trunk as well.
Sliding behind the wheel, she cranked the engine, and pulled a U-turn, heading back toward her townhouse. She couldn’t go to the grocery store now. Not with what she carried in back. Later, she thought.
When she arrived at her place, she drove immediately to the complex’s large dumpster and gently tugged the box out of her trunk, depositing it in the open garbage receptacle. She wasn’t sure if what she was doing was right, or even allowed, but she didn’t care. She simply couldn’t leave the animal carcass at the side of the road. The cat deserved to have some semblance of dignity in death, she argued to herself. There was no way she could just leave its body out in the open to slowly rot and decompose like all the other carcasses she had…seen…of…late...
Abruptly, that thought bothered her. Because over the past few weeks, she realized, she had noticed an inordinate amount of road kill in the immediate area. Dogs, cats, raccoons, opossums, she recalled, and even a deer or two had met their sad, bloody fate on the narrow, nearby roads. Was there a pattern, she considered, or was it mere coincidence. She didn’t know.
Reluctantly shrugging off her concerns, she idled her car slowly back to her townhouse, checking on her pets foremost on her mind.
# # #
The following day she handled a 10-1/2 hour shift in downtown Memphis at St. Jude Children’s Hospital, where she worked as a nurse in the Blood Donor Room. She absolutely loved her profession, but it really pulled at her heartstrings to be around the countless number of children afflicted with one or more of the many debilitating and life-threatening forms of cancer. While she realized the hospital saved the vast majority of their young patients, providing them at least with a better quality of life, she nevertheless felt a tremendous sense of loss when one of their children succumbed to cancer’s ravenous appetite. And though there was a profound difference between humans and animals, it was this symbiotic association with her young charges, she believed, that allowed for her mirror-like relationship in spirit with her “babies” and creatures in general.
# # #
That evening, as she neared her townhouse after her lengthy drive from work, she spied at least from a distance what appeared to be another fresh “victim” on the side of the road. It struck her as quite odd that she should happen upon yet another dead animal so soon after her encounter with the tabby. Nevertheless, she simply could not pass this one by, either. For some unknown reason, she had seemingly overnight become obsessed over the humane treatment of animals, if lately only in death.
Experiencing a bit of déjà vu, she virtually repeated her actions of the previous morning in dealing with this road kill, which turned out to be a young German Shepherd…and one sporting a leather collar. Her spirits had lifted briefly, until she discovered that there was no name or ownership tag attached.
While toiling at her grim task, a couple of cars had cruised by, their drivers slowing ostensibly in deference to her close proximity to traffic, but more than likely to gawk at her as well, as if she herself had been involved in a car accident. But it didn’t faze her. And when she was finished boxing up the animal, she continued on to her dumpster where, to her chagrin, she unloaded a second carcass in as many days.
# # #
The next day, during a break from her nursing duties, she found herself sharing a table in the hospital cafeteria with another nurse and skimming through the morning newspaper, when an article buried on the last page of the first section caught her attention. A chill went up her back as she picked out the pertinent details of the story, whose caption read: SUV MOWS DOWN DOG; REWARD OFFERED. “…late Saturday afternoon when, according to eyewitness reports, a dark blue or black SUV, or perhaps Hummer, deliberately swerved off the road and ran down a two year-old Border Collie, baffling its owner, Gus Swanson, who witnessed the bizarre incident...” “…others who were so stunned by the episode they failed to identify the car’s driver, obtain a license plate number or further description of the vehicle…” “…the dog is expected to recover…” “Mr. Swanson has offered a reward in the amount of…” “…occurred at the intersection of…”
Oh, my God, Beth thought. That’s just a mile or so from my house! Could it be the same…?
“Molly,” she cried, dropping the paper on the table. “Did you see this article in the paper about—“
“What?” Molly replied, somewhat irritated by the distraction.
Beth froze. What could she really tell her friend about her recent experiences with dead animals, or her feeling about the dark Hummer she saw the first time she’d ever undertaken her grim pastime. Molly would think she’d gone off the deep end. As it was, Molly and the other nurses in her department barely tolerated her moderately obsessive attachment to her pets; if they learned of her current activities toward those unfortunate animals who had met their untimely end at the side of the road they’d probably recommend her for a 72-hour stay at Lakeside Mental Hospital. Besides, did she honestly think that the Hummer H3 she had spotted a couple days ago as she struggled with her questionable prize was the same vehicle involved in the horrible hit-and-run described in the column? She had no proof of that possibility; and the more that she pondered it, the more remote it seemed. Still, it had occurred quite close to her home and in the same area where she’d performed her Florence Nightingale-like duties twice already…
“Beth!”
“Huh?” she said, pulling herself from her musing.
“What were you going to ask me about?” Molly repeated, eyeing her friend over a folded section of the paper she had been reading as if Beth were mentally challenged.
“Umm…” she hesitated. “I was just wondering if you’d seen this article about… uhh…that poor dog that was struck by a hit-and-run driver…over where I live?”
“Oh, Jeez,” Molly said. “Are you gonna go off on me again about animals’ rights and all that B.S.? I mean, come on Beth, I like dogs and cats as much as anyone else, but you—you take that love and affection thing to a whole different level.”
“Sorry I asked,” Beth snorted, clearly upset with her friend’s response. “You know I care deeply for all animals; you could at least humor me.”
“I try, Beth, I try, but sometimes it just gets old.”
Figuring their conversation on that subject was over and realizing she needed to get back to her post, she said an abrupt goodbye to her friend and navigated her way around the myriad tables and chairs in the cafeteria to the elevator. On the short ride up to the Blood Donor Room on the fifth floor, she thought long and hard about why she claimed friends as bitter, cold and detached as Molly. She thanked the Lord above for allowing her to work with children who really needed and appreciated her skills, and also for blessing her with her safe and healthy “babies,” who showered her with as much affection as she showered upon them.
# # #
Over the next few weeks Beth saved from the ravages of the elements three dog carcasses she encountered on or near the road, one of which, a small Cocker Spaniel, bore its owner’s address on its tiny collar. It broke her heart to deliver the animal, boxed like a morbid gift, to the elderly Hintons, both of whom thanked her profusely for returning their missing pet as tears spilled down their cheeks. The remaining animals she “rescued” were simply placed, like the others, in her dumpster with little fanfare, though she’d been relieved to learn that none of her other dour deposits had elicited any repercussions at all from the management. In addition, she’d seen nothing more of the dark-colored H3 she had observed during the recovery of her first animal weeks ago. And, despite the offer of a reward reported in the earlier newspaper article, no further information had been forthcoming in leading to the identification and/or arrest of the unknown individual who had savagely run down the hapless Border Collie.
During this period of time, she thought often of her unusual diversion--why she did it and for how much longer she would, or could, continue without serious consequences for her actions. She knew she was flirting with the law every time she dropped a dead animal in the tomb-like confines of her dumpster. At the least, she was probably violating some health code ordinance, and could be fined. But, for the moment, she couldn’t stop. For the moment, it fulfilled her, gave her additional purpose. For the moment, she viewed it as her mission in life, albeit secondary to her professional duties in connection with her young, ill hospital patients, as well as the raising of and caring for her own beloved animals. But she enjoyed doing it and believed unquestionably in her rationale.
Bolstering her conviction was the lingering sense of apathy and even out-and-out cruelty she had perceived that morning some time ago in the hospital cafeteria, when she had tried to break through Molly’s steely resolve. She hadn’t forgotten her friend’s outright rejection of her consuming passion; nor had she discarded the fact that animals could be the innocent victims of callous brutality, as evidenced once again by the newspaper article in which the Border Collie had been viciously run down by an unidentified motorist. Since that day she had vowed to treat the animals she pulled off the street with even more respect and dignity. In death, it was the least she could do for them.
# # #
A couple weeks later toward the end of May, Beth was driving home from the hospital after working a long shift that had included a couple hours of overtime. She was tired, and wanted nothing more than to relax at her place and spend some time with her pets. It was early evening and the sun was quickly falling in the west, all the while pulling the dark and the stars behind it as though they were on a tether.
As she neared her complex, barely a couple hundred yards from the main entrance, she spotted in the failing light what appeared to be yet another dead animal in the bike lane on the road’s shoulder. With a heavy sigh she slowed her car, passed by the carcass and guided her Accord well off the main road and onto a large patch of loose gravel littered with weeds and low brush.
She dragged herself out of the driver’s seat, looked up and down the road for traffic, then set off toward the animal lying a hundred feet or so behind her car. Twilight was descending quickly so she picked up her pace, lest she’d need a flashlight to tend to her gruesome business.
When she reached the lifeless animal—a sad-looking mutt, by its appearance—she noticed that this accident had inflicted more damage than usual, at least more than she herself had seen over the past several weeks; blood was still trickling from the dog’s nose, mouth and ears, and its abdomen looked to have been crushed by the impact. “Oh, God,” she muttered, feeling helpless.
She trudged back to her car in the swiftly dying light, prepared to unearth from the trunk of her car the customary paraphernalia to conduct her task, when a sudden, chilling thought struck her out-of-the-blue, needling her back with goose bumps and halting her in her tracks: Why have I never seen any decaying or decomposing animals since I began this morbid undertaking?!
So immersed was she in her musing that she never heard the H3 accelerate toward her, nor did she have any time to jump out of its way. As she turned it barreled into her head on, like a bulldozer, striking her as suddenly as the worrisome thought she’d had mere seconds ago. The Hummer’s impact catapulted her into the air, where she finally came to rest some twenty-five or thirty feet away. The driver finally corralled his vehicle, bringing it to a stop well off the road and with its lengthy chassis screening Beth’s crushed body from any passersby.
Barely conscious, Beth lay crumpled in a heap on her back like a rag doll and couldn’t move. She was scared. Her nurse training told her she was in critical condition, and could very well die. She knew she had multiple injuries, not the least of which could be a broken back or damaged spinal cord. Internal injuries as well, she realized, as pain radiated throughout her abdomen and pelvis. She tried to move her hands and failed that simple chore, couldn’t even determine by touch if she lay on weeds, dirt or gravel.
A grating sound of boots or shoes shuffling across loose stones or gravel captured her attention.
“Help me, please! I need help!” Beth cried, before picking out the black Hummer H3 idling nearby, its driver stepping closer.
“I’ll give you what you need,” a deep, male voice said.
“Wha—who---why did you hit me?” she said, choking out her words as blood pooled into her mouth from her torn stomach.
“I’ve seen what you do with the animals, “ he said slowly. “How you take care of ‘em, show ‘em kindness.” He paused. “You’re a real saint, yeah, you are.”
Dear God, I’m going to die! she thought. This man’s crazy!
“You set me up,” she spit out, beginning to choke on her own blood. “Why are you…doing this to me? Please call 9-1-1…I need a doctor…I can’t move!” She coughed, gagging.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said, as if he had all the time in the world. “Take care of you as good as you took care of all those animals I ran down and killed.”
“What…do you mean?” she pleaded. And despite her dire condition, tried in vain to identify her unknown attacker in the near dark. “I don’t understand.” She began sobbing.
“You done good with the dead animals, and I’ll do the same for you.”
“But I’m not dead,” she cried, tears spilling down the sides of her face. “I’m still alive, please; I’m not dead!”
“I know,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, as he bent down, crouched over her and, with a simple tire iron, clubbed her twice on the top of the head. He then effortlessly folded her now lifeless body into a large, zippered plastic storage bag and, after opening the tailgate, carefully, almost reverently, placed the bag in the rear of his vehicle.
THE END
