One Shot, One Kill.

Chapter 8: Unto Dust We shall return

POV: Christopher Mun

My father didn't return to the dust.

His body didn't, at the very least.

The map attached to Isaiah's journal had led me to the middle of nowhere. I was right in the center of an uncleared land, in front of a small river.

And I was shaking, vehemently.

Only this time, not out of fear.

It was out of anger, and out of disgust.

It was out of disgust for the "do not enter" signs that surrounded the property. For the signs that announced that the property was government property.

It was out of disgust for the smell pungent smell that surrounded the area.

I'd never smelled death before.

But there was a feeling in my gut, a voice in my head, that told me it was the unmistakable smell of death. Of rotting flesh.

It was the water.

He was in the water.

He had been in the water for a month.

Feeling tears fill my eyes, I bit hard on my lower lip. I bit until I tasted blood. I bit to stop the screams threatening to escape my lips.

I took a step closer to the water, and then another.

I was terrified.

Of what I would find, of how he would look.

I remembered my father to be fair skinned. I remembered his skin to have color, his eyes to glimmer. I remembered him to be complete. To be alive.

I took another step towards the water, and then another.

I had to get him out somehow. I had to bury him.

I let out a sharp breath when I felt the chill of the water against my skin. The water was cold, but thankfully, it was not too deep, nor was it too wide. I was certain that if I searched hard, it was only a matter of time until I found him.

However, when I took a few more steps into the water, I realized I had been walking on something, on someone, possibly.

I froze.

Feeling my entire body begin to tremble, I stepped to the side, hoping to get off the body. But it appeared I had only moved onto another body. And when I moved again, I was only standing on top of another.

And I soon realized, that the water I was in was nothing but a dumping ground. It was corrupted, filled with the guts of individuals whom the government hadn't bothered to bury. Individuals who the land had forsaken. People whose families would never get to see them, to bury them. To know that they were even dead.

I could feel my legs begin to forsake me.

I could feel my heart beating hard against my chest.

I felt a soft whimper escape my lips, and I held my breath, feeling liquid trickle down my jeans.

Only this time, it wasn't as cold as the water in the river. No, it was a lot warmer in contrast.

I had wet myself.

And I was still wetting myself. I had not even had an urgent need to ease myself. But somehow, I had managed to make myself even messier than the water made me.

For a split second, I was certain that my soul left my body. And I contemplated getting out of the water. I contemplated heading back to Mrs. Petrov's, and scrubbing my body until the top layer of my skin came off.

Hell, I didn't even know how I would find my way back home. I was pretty sure I too, would smell like a carcass after I was done.

But I could not leave.

Not now that I was so close. Not now, when I finally knew when father was.

Father was an honorable man.

He was a soldier.

He deserved to be buried as the honorable man that he was. He deserved to be buried at the very least.

So instead of running, I stayed. And instead of letting the smell in the water repel me, I reached further into the water. I would wet myself as many times as I needed to, until I got his body out of the water.

I curled my fingers around the fist or the first body I could reach. And I pulled.

I pulled despite the weak, bloated skin.

I pulled despite the bile rising in my throat.

I pulled the body to the surface.

And when I had finally succeeded in getting the body out of the water, and unto the grass, I realized it was not my fathers body. However, he was someone I realized. His name was Caleb Montgomery, and he'd spent most of his weekends at our house.

He was my fathers friend, and colleague.

I remembered Caleb to be the "jovial" one among the group. Aside from my father, he told the best war stories. He'd always told me war stories.

His skin was wrinkled, discolored, bloated.

I couldn't bring myself to look at him. Bending over, I retched, emptying the contents of my stomach to the ground.

My knees failed me. I felt my body drop. Before I realized what was happening, I was on my knees. And I was screaming my lungs out.

I was bawling my eyes out.

I didn't seem to mind the smell anymore, no.

I did not wish to see my father in this state. My heart would not be able to take it. My mind would not be able to take it.

But if I did not, nobody else would.

No one would look for him. No one will find him.

It took three hours later, sixteen bodies later, and four vomits later, till I pulled out a body I could recognize to be my fathers. At the point and time when I did, I had no tears left to cry.

I had stood over him, and forced myself to look at him. To look at his bloated skin. He was barely recognizable.

His skin had lost its color.

He had died with his eyes open. He had died clinging on to his army tag. Unto the tag of the country he had loved so much. Unto the tag of the very country that forsook him.

The sight of his lifeless body beside me suddenly made everything seem real. Made the fact that he was dead suddenly become real. That he was gone, and that our perfect circle was gone. That it would never be recovered.

The fact that my mother was also gone. That I didn't even know whether she was alive.

That just like he had been thrown into this vile pit, she could be anywhere. That she could be dead, and that her body could be lying in the middle of nowhere.

That she could be bloated, just like he was. She could be wrinkled.

That there was a possibility that I would never see her again.

Every brain cell in my body screamed for me to look away.

But instead, I looked on.

I looked on so that I would never forget. So that I would always remember.

Letting out a heavy breath, I knelt down beside him. I wanted to remember my father as the man he used to be. As a man with life. I wanted to remember him as the man who smiled. The man who always beamed at mother with pride, who always beamed at me with pride.

But I was sure in my heart, that the picture of his lifeless body, of his discolored skin, would never leave me.

I would never forget.

I would never forgive.