An Accepted Journey Jacob Ritteman A year ago I was still living a normal life.

The country hadnt gone to shit, and, more selfishly, nor had my life. Nope, a year ago I could still call Fargo a home; a refuge during college with the closest immediate family member two hours away. The day before the oddities began to happen I found myself hanging out with a group of high school friends poring over fantasy football results. It wasnt a party, but rather an event just for the fantasy league to gather, bullshit, and get drunk. When the sun began to set, The Awesome Blossom League was well on its way to being poisoned via alcohol. Whiskey had been my main drink that day, and it had induced a darkness to overcome my psyche. I slipped away from the group for a cigarette and about halfway to the filter paranoia began to play its familiar role. An argument broke out in my mind; one side valiantly attempting to squash the paranoid opposition, but this attempt proved to be in vain. Once the fire consumed the tobacco of my third cigarette, I let it drop and walked inside. The only evidence of my 15-minute-presence was the smoking cotton of the filter. I began slinking through hallways, careful with each step as to not produce a telltale creak. My friends voices grew louder even when stationary, their drunkenness ridding inhibitions one civilized quality at a time. The paranoia began to sustain until a drunken douche bag I once considered a friend brought up a name-scarring topic. It included an alcohol-induced mishap where I berated a friend of mine to the brink of destroying the life-long friendship. Not many people had heard the tale, the only positive fact about the entire situation.

Further topics began to crop up analyzing me as a person so I leaned against the wall to get comfortable. Ten minutes later I sunk to the floor and sat in silence, absorbing every syllable, vowing to never forget the inhumane insults. No tears ever slithered from my ducts, but soft heart tissues hardened. A coat of armor sprawled across my body like an outer layer of epidermis, tethered to my bones at the joints. I remained in the hallway curled up under the insults for a half hour in total before someone inquired of my whereabouts. After an audible round of cluelessness they set out to search, ensuring that I hadnt been within range of their crippling tongues. I managed to hole up in the bathroom feigning sleep by the time they pinpointed my position, and the night resumed. Later that night I found an opportunity to sneak up behind one of the high school acquaintances. Even now, in full retrospection, I cant seem to recall what brought about the urge; perhaps all rationality had been discarded after my hallway therapy. He was standing at a table with three others, talking and laughing. No feelings of revenge, vindictiveness, nor joy; the urge to scare the guy just came about. I began creeping up behind him and the hallway closed in, creating a long, narrow passageway cast in darkness. At the end of the tunnel the four men remained, standing at a table, but it seemed as though their scene had traveled a quarter mile from its original position. Despite the quick prank mutating into a trek, I crept forward with silent, shuffled steps. I paused every hundred feet, thinking I had seen my target cock his head to pick out a sound. The shuffling shifted to tiptoes when I came within twenty feet. At 10 feet his head cocked once more, but quickly turned back as a new joke spat across the table. I stalked across 7 feet when an agonizing pain suddenly shot through the phalanges of my left foot, resonating and reverberating stronger and stronger until a cuss of pain escaped my

lips. To my surprise, my target didnt turn at the sound, although itd been a mere 3 feet away. Had he been laughing? The pain subsided and I limped the final three feet. I came within one, and poised to pounce. The man turned, seconds before the strike, revealing a face with melted facets. My legs wobbled limp and I collapsed into darkness. #

I awoke in the hallway, standing alone and staring out a wood-barricaded window. 2x4s lined horizontally up the window leaving an inch of space for sunlight to seep through. Moments trickled by with beads of sweat as my mind whirred to regain footing. The house in which we had partied the day before had died. The hallway walls staring at me from both sides had lost most of their paint; what was left was bubbled up and rippled. I strained my senses to determine if I was the sole soul in the residence. My immediate surroundings were uninhabited, but the sound of thousands of marching footsteps faintly fanned in with the sunlight. I took eleven steps and emerged from the house. The sunlight didnt induce a cringe, but instead the amber hue of the neighborhood seemed to grace my eyes better than the dark one seeks when restless. Whether reality or a result of my drunken stupor, Fargo had become a favela. Lawns ceased to exist, roads narrowed, and houses had somehow condensed into tall, patched-up cabins. Perhaps even stranger, were the streams of confused citizens flowing from residences without purpose. I knew I had somewhere to be, somewhere to go, but it eluded me. Instead of lingering between streams, I decided to join my fellow travelers; I imagine the man behind me, whose rancid breath patted the back of my neck, didnt notice the addition.

Police were dispersed sporadically in the streets, grimacing at civilians. The red and blue flashing lights of their squad cars absorbed all offering from the Sun above. We marched, aimlessly, toward some unknown destination like a drunken Trail of Tears. # Fargo had disintegrated. Familiar locales no longer existed. The people had evaporated. Even the amber hue had morphed into a cold, steel blue. I found myself walking down an empty street. No cars, no people, no sound. To my right stood the only semi-intact structure in sight; a dilapidated church. It was ancient in its stone and mortar walls, and its stained-glass windows had been peppered with debris. Its roof had been blown out by what couldve only been a volley of blitzkrieg, exposing its rafters. From those rafters, hanged the hooded victims of a madman. # Three days later I found a college friend wandering the ruined streets of Fargo. Rachel was her name, and her personality wasnt as remembered. Rather than looking for others, she insisted upon a party she had heard about. In spite of the decay all around us, an unexplained absence of citizens and cars, I agreed. We walked sixteen blocks to a house owned by a man who strongly resembled a guy I once knew. The recognition wasnt reciprocal, but throughout the night the resemblance I spotted earlier began to evolve into exact identification. I knew the guy, this Ness, as he was called, but he didnt offer the slightest favor in return. After three hours of dropping hints, attempting to get his head where mine was, I dropped it.

The party, though college-influenced with hard alcohol and drugs, carried on through the night to the wild and mystic beat of polka music. Snacks had been laid out, chips and crackers, but as Ness began to feel the nights effects, he pulled out a bowl of fresh snacks. Ness set in on the living room coffee table with care, and dropped his big frame into a leather recliner before it. His eyes lit up with a hunger I hadnt seen since those starvingAfrican-infomercials, and he dug in with a dirty hand. The snack first appeared to be something like potato skins, but as he shoved more and more into his bearded mouth, I noticed the snacks beginning to quiver; potato skins dont quiver. The polka music intensified and Ness started laughing, cackling, rather, maniacally. His hungry eyes released the bowl before him and fixated on my curious ones. The cackling didnt stop. Do you want some? Without waiting for a response, he slid the bowl across the coffee table. It came to a stop just before toppling over the edge, onto my shoes, and I leaned in for a closer look. The snacks werent quivering anymore, but at that proximity an odor became apparent, and the brownish rectangles had a peculiar rotted look to them. Human flesh. The cackling laughter erupted into inhuman howling. I took two steps back and looked to Rachel. She had drunk herself into a crazy mess; droopy eyes, twitchy lips, and mangled words. I wanted to leave but couldnt. Something about the house rooted my feet within its walls. I moved to the left, toward Rachel, and Ness moved right, sliding his chair along with him, his eyes never leaving mine. Once I came to a halt, he reciprocated and smiled. His eyes revealed he remembered.

A clown entered the scene. He approached me, bells jingling the length of the living room, and handed over an envelope. His makeup featured a happy mapping, but tears were flowing steadily from the face underneath. Once the envelope transferred from shared possession to sole possession a pitiful smile inched halfway across his lips. The smile disappeared and he walked away, sitting on the armrest of Nesss chair. I examined the envelope and saw it hadnt been sealed, but sewn shut with the stalks of yellow daffodils. After ripping the container open, I removed its contents; a single sheet of paper donning disjointed words: Wrought in Death and Equity, My existence has never been pure. Sought after by not a single entity, My remaining choice was to kill her. The words of a serial killer. The walls began to melt; their paint dripping over the baseboards onto the floor. The cackling returned, distorting the thumping polka music and, once again, my legs failed me. # The hunt of the serial killer began three weeks after the first envelope. Clues had been delivered to me via courier: an additional one from the clown, one from a fortune teller, and another from an elderly lady. The final clue, from the ancient lady, led us to the last standing neighborhood of West Fargo. Five buildings remained intact in the area, with rubble and other debris had scattered across the desolate streets. Like everywhere else I had been, cars were still absent. I had never

spent much time in West Fargo, and found myself fascinated by the five buildings positioned like a geometric shape around a modest playground. It took Rachel a week to recover from that night of Ness, and during the journey to the five-building square we encountered two other people who were tracking the serial killer as well. Kincaid, a well-built guy who suffered a superficial blow from the killers axe, had been limping through an intersection with an arm wrapped around Kays shoulders when we found the pair. Kay was not attractive, but her demeanor demanded infatuation. Upon arrival, we stood in the middle of the playground discussing our next move, hoping another courier would appear. The skies no longer offered the cold blue hue, but instead enforced a transparent black reminiscent of the stool a liver disease victim passes. Deathly silence still lingered in the neighborhood. The smell of decayed flesh lingered in my nostrils, but the light breeze carried a more potent trace of the stench to my senses. Our square was overlooked by darkened rows of windows making each building seem as though speckled with spider eyes. Each of our party kept an eye on a different building, with Kay and me alternating watch on the fifth. Trees swayed softly, their naked limbs like rakes blindly trying to comb the air for shedded clothing. A scream erupted from the fifth building. The four of us pinpointed the noises origin in unison, just in time to spot a hatchet tumbling awkwardly through the air from a soulless window. A bloody thud confirmed a member had been hit. Kincaid flew to his back, his eyes rolling upward upon landing. Rachel screamed. I turned to her just as a cloaked man performed a broad stroke with an axe which found its stopping point halfway through her neck. He attempted to yank the blade free but Rachels spinal cord clung to it with vengeance.

Kay removed a cell phone from her pocket and approached the hooded killer. His glinting eyes flashed toward her and a purple-toothed smile revealed his undying confidence. Once in position, Kay held the phone before her as if steadying it for a snapshot to remember the time a serial killer buried an axe in a womans neck in the middle of a playground. Her right hand came up to the phones screen, her pointer finger hovering an inch from its surface. She steadied the camera once more, and then pretentiously tapped the screen. An echoing bang escaped the phone. An unseen object plunged through the killers forehead and yanked the hood from atop his head as it exited. A gun app on her phone had completed the mission. The man dropped to his back, and Rachel tipped over sideways, the axes heavy handle guiding her head to the wood chips below. The fall snapped her cord, pushing the axe clean through, and I looked to Kay. She smiled, nodded, and whispered, Good luck. # Five months after that scene in the park I was on the run in northwestern North Dakota. Before leaving the playground, I found the serial killers motorcycle, and got out of Cass County. After passing through a few small towns I started to hear more and more about the murder of a college-aged girl in West Fargo. At first I helped shed some insight on the topic, but that only gleaned goofy stares that analyzed my sanity; apparently, the murderer of the young girl was still at large. A few towns after learning this, I started seeing my face tacked up in businesses. Once west of Devils Lake I pulled into a small town gas station to refill the bike. I kept my head down, trying to avoid prying eyes, until I learned an old high school friend, John, was in hiding for murder. I had overheard a couple young guys discussing the matter, and it became evident that they were sympathizers.

I grabbed a Coke and moved toward the duo. Their mouths snapped shut once they noticed my presence, and the dominant of the pair turned around. I began to ask of Johns whereabouts and the dominant interrupted in Latin. The silent partner split away and ran out to the gas pumps, the dominant one simply smiled. Youre fucked. Moments later my motorcycle flew the coop. My right foot switched gears while my left hand throttled the engine until it whined a warning of waning. The gas needle showed nearly empty, but I couldnt afford anymore stops in the area. I revved on until the sites lost all familiarity. The prairie of North Dakota dissolved into a barren desert with a twist of the trottle, and I realized the motorcycle was in fact a dirt bike. After this revelation I abandoned the two-lane highway and took off into the desert dunes of night. # It must have been the dry climate that kept my tank from emptying, for the bike didnt begin sputtering until the sun started peeking over the dunes on the horizon. I passed over a sandy mammoth and found a 60 degree-angled hill on the other side. The bike stalled, and, just before its front wheel tipped to the hillside, I caught a glimpse of an encampment in the west. The bike whizzed down the hill faster than it had departed the gas station. At the hills base was a less-intense incline which rose a hundred feet to the encampment. I braked every few seconds before the landing, intending to prevent a wreck. 7 feet before the v-shaped landing, my ass slid back on the seat and I yanked the handlebars toward me, somehow pulling off a wheelie.

The bike avoided the potential wreck and rocketed up the slope, covering the century of feet in a manner of seconds. My momentum sprang my companion and me through the air once the ground leveled, and it landed gracefully before two loving, familiar faces; my grandparents. Beside them was a hole in the ground filled with chicken legs. My grandmother smiled, tears leaking from her eyes, and said, Dont worry, everything will be OK. I smiled in return, unable to speak. Your grandmothers right, come with us to the farm. # The motorcycle died once I pulled into my grandparents farmyard, and I coasted up the driveway before it lost all determination. My grandfather was jumping in the yard laughing, but each jump brought him closer to a wooden shed. Fixated upon that shed was a 2x4 with threeinch nails driven downward through its top. My grandfather jumped closer and closer to its deadly position. I tried yelling, but he continued to smile, jumping backward an inch at a time. He jumped back a final time and looked up, the points of the thick nails an inch his eyes. Grandpa looked back toward me and laughed. Ive gotta be more careful. Behind him, atop the shed, a ghastly woman flickered into view. She remained still, but her shawls flapped viciously in the wind. Her eyes werent on my grandfather, but on me. She took a step forward and then another before pausing. Her next step would land upon the wooden board. My grandfather waved to me and shouted across the yard, You should be with your brothers.

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I made it home by nightfall. My brothers were the only ones home and decided they wanted to have some fun. The three of us piled into my older brothers Jeep and headed for the countryside. In my absence, the local bear population of Nelson County had jumped from zero to the hundreds. We turned out of town onto a dirt road, the headlights revealing thousands of mosquitoes meeting their demise while flying between sloughs. We laughed and fought as the Jeep transported us further from civilization. After an hour of driving, Tom, the oldest of us, pulled off the dirt road and into a freshly harvested corn field. The now-useless corn stalks thumped against the Jeeps bumper as we searched for a target. Seeing as we were in bear country, it didnt take long to spot one of the fuzzy bastards. Tom turned off the headlights and eased up behind the bear. The moon provided the only light on the scene. The bear was standing fully erect, and, once in position, Tom gassed us forward and we toppled over the large predator, its thick bones scraping against the SUV beneath our feet. Laughing, we rolled on to do the same for two more bears. When Abner, the youngest, whined about wanting to play video games, Tom compromised for one more bear. A fourth bear was found nearby a slough, far away from the road. Sticking to routine, we eased up behind the thing, and prepared for one last takedown. However, just before Tom hit the pedal, the bear leaped onto the Jeeps hood, smashing it down into the engine parts. Tom shifted into reverse but the Jeep wouldnt respond to his frantic foot presses. Smoke began to sizzle out from the hood. The bear roared a mighty roar and smashed a paw through the windshield. Abner screamed, and the three of us exited, making a break for a nearby barn. In its blind rage, the

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fuzzy fiend didnt realize our escape; we made it into the barn. I turned around just before shutting the door and glimpsed the bear sniffing the air. Its snout slowly turned our way. I slammed the door shut and we took to the hay loft. The door crashed inward moments after we covered Abner in hay. It growled, roared and choked on its spit, coughing it onto the floor of the barn. It began a second attempt to catch our scent, each sniff sounding like gravel in a garbage disposal. The three of us remained still, praying itd get distracted, but it took one minute to close in. Its paws pound the ground as it nears. My heart is in my throat, and my stomach may have released into my pants. Its moist breath peppers my face and drool drips from its razorfilled mouth. Is that panic? Or is it bravery? I break for the exit. Before my ass leaves the floor of the loft, an impossibly big paw slams me back into place. I release a scream. The thick-nailed claws bury themselves into my gut, and the bear drags them from belly button to sternum. Its hot breath and drool nearly suffocate me. My hands grab the foreleg protruding from my abdomen. The bear growls once more before dropping its full weight into that paw; my spine snaps. Consciousness flickers in and out. The bear removes its intestine-coated claw, sucks its snot, and thrusts its long-nailed claws straight into my eyes.

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