Windkill

The transmission abruptly stopped, and Cal almost ripped the receiver from his ear as he raged. Never in his life had he been so mad, so ready to kill. With an inarticulate scream, he faced north and ran.

Somewhere ahead was his wife, the woman who tortured him for the last year and forced them to come to this valley. Cal wanted to find his children, but he knew he could not let Marilyn go without help. As much as he hated the woman, he had loved her once and there was the slight possibility that she would recover from the insanity that had claimed her over the last year to become the woman he once knew.

Still, the idea of leaving her to her own devices was so appealing. If she wanted independence, then now seemed a damn good time to let her have it in spades. The ghosts could take care of her, and Cal would have his family without the disturbance of Marilyn.

It was a vicious dream, one that would never happen if he could act. To leave Marilyn in trouble went against Cal’s grain. He knew that such an action would leave him a shell of the man he wanted to be. He would no longer have honor or dignity, the only two traits Marilyn had not corrupted.

So he ran north, hating the woman to the last fiber of his being while hoping his children were alive and well.