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This is a story about the decay of society, the spreading epidemic of white trash mentality, and the violent legacy bound in blood, passed from father to son.

Broken mirrors covered the wall opposite from where Zack sat in the family’s cabin. His father had glued hundreds of mirror shards to the wall, arranging them in such a way that groups of pieces suggested different shapes within a massive spider web of black paint and glass. Zack felt certain that the sky in hell looked just like this, and the damned looked for shapes in the reflected chaos just as he sometimes searched for shapes in the clouds above Earth.

During the day, sunlight flooded into the huge bay windows and turned the mirrored wall into a beautiful cascade of frozen fire. At night, when the candles were lit throughout the downstairs, the tiny flames writhed within each shattered sliver of glass, like souls caught in traps that would never let them go.

Perhaps the mirrors really were a prison, because his father had made similar displays in many other places. Perhaps the process purged him of meanness. Maybe the creative synthesis allowed him to bleed off and trap some of the violence that saturated his being. The father had never explained it that way, but the son was almost sure that was the way of it.

Zack rarely gazed too long or too deeply at the wall. If he did, sometimes he caught glimpses of his father’s personal demons staring back at him.

Father survived three tours in Vietnam – the first because he was drafted, the others because he liked it. All of that had been years before Zack had been born and decades before he was old enough to understand.

Zack had decided very early on that his father was insane, and it must have been the war that had made him so, but as he grew older, he heard new stories about his father. These were stories that no one would tell around a boy, but they slipped into conversations more and more often as the boy became a man.

He now understood that his father was madman before the war. Vietnam just made him more dangerous. Understanding didn’t change the fact that he had hated his father most of his life. Zack hated him because he’d raised his sons like Marines in boot camp. Zack hated him because he could teach a man to fight but not to love. Zack hated him because the son saw what the father might have been, had he only been able to overcome his own savage nature. Zack grew up striving to be nothing like his dumb brute of a father.

Shaking himself from his candlelit reverie, the young man rose from his chair and let his rage and sadness overtake him again as he walked through the cabin. It was supposed to be a place for his family to rest, relax, and escape the modern world. It was a safe place, a warm place, a place to always be welcome.

No longer.

Squatters had moved into the camp. Their ratty clothes were scattered all about the place, thrown over furniture, over the banister, and on a clothesline strung right through the cabin. Stinking heaps of dirty dishes stained the cherry dinner table his father had built. A pot full of rotten food and maggots squirmed on the stove. Piles of plumbing tools and gear had been stuffed under the steps that led to the upstairs bedrooms. Pipes, wrenches, pliers, clamps, and a propane torch scuffed the polished tongue-and-groove floor he and his brothers had put down. Pictures of people he did not know adorned the walls. A calendar hung among the pictures. Unemployment, workers’ comp, and welfare paperwork was scattered across the coffee table and couch, mostly hidden by beer cans and improvised ash trays.

All of their food – eaten. All of their chopped firewood – burnt.

His fury doubled as he moved upstairs. Air mattresses lay in a deflated mess with melted cigarette holes evident in some places. Soiled sheets and covers of his parents’ bed lay in a misshapen tangle on the mattress, which had its share of cigarette burns as well. The stench of used condoms wafted out of a coffee can beside the bed, where the latex shrunk and curled up like discarded snake skins.

Mother’s large tin washtub sat in the middle of the bed with covers wrapped around it like a nest. She used it to wash dishes, but it most often served as a bathtub for Zack’s baby niece and nephew. Now it contained needles, syringes, crack pipes, cooking spoons, rolling papers, a gallon-sized bag of weed, and an assortment of pills in unlabeled prescription bottles.

Zack bit his lip to contain the scream that fought to be free of his throat. He dumped the rubbers into the tub and took it downstairs. He sat it down and pulled some of the unemployment paperwork free of the junk on the coffee table. He found a name on the document, and his anger burned as he realized he knew the face that belonged to the name.

He locked up the cabin and drove to the little town on top of the mountain that overlooked the river and camp. He dug out a cell phone and skipped through the stored contacts. Knowing that he’d get no signal, he pulled up to the gas station, parked the car, and strode over to the pay phone. He dialed the number for his phone card, entered his code, and carefully entered the number displayed on his cell phone screen. It rang a few times. An exhausted voice answered.

“Hello?”

Zack was clenching his teeth too tightly to speak. He relaxed. “Hey, Pat. It’s Zack, bro.”
Pleasant recognition dispelled some of the weariness from the other voice. “Hey man! Long time, no hear! How you been?”

Zack exhaled heavily. “Been better. Look, I hate to call this late, but we’ve got a problem at camp. Do you have Gary’s phone number handy?”

“Jill’s dad? Why?”

“’Cause him and his wife are shacked up at camp. They’ve trashed the place, got clothes all over, and a ton of other stuff – you know what I mean – you know what they’re into. They didn’t break in though; not sure how they managed that.”

“I gave them a key.”

“WHAT?” Zack took a breath and made himself calm down. “What? Why in the hell did you do that?”

“They said they just needed a place to stay off and on, once in a while, and they swore they’d dried out, and Jill wouldn’t give me a minute’s peace until I helped them out. I’m sorry, man.”

The phone creaked as Zack clenched it. “You were just trying to help them out, but here’s what you gotta do now: You find him, and I mean right now. You tell him that he’s got two hours to get down here and get his shit, or I’m burning it all.”

“Dude, it’s after midnight.”

“I don’t care.”

“That stuff is everything they own.”

“Then you’d better get moving. Two hours from right now.”

Zack hung up the phone and drove back to the camp. He took down all the pictures and the calendar and threw them into the wash tub with the drugs and rubbers. He carried it out onto the deck, dumped it into the fire pit, stacked some drift wood on top, doused it with gasoline, and lit it up. Inside the camp, he laid down one of the dirty sheets and piled all the clothes, paperwork, and trash on it, tying up the corners after he was finished. Only the ice chest and plumbing tools remained.

He stacked the dirty dishes in the tub, filled it three-fourths full of river water, and dumped an entire gallon of bleach into the mix. Then he went back to his chair and waited.

About forty minutes later a vehicle pulled up and stopped outside. Three voices talked and laughed as the car doors slammed.

Gary walked into the cabin. His sunken cheeks and eyes, yellow teeth, and receding gums made his face a leather-bound skull presiding over an anorexic torso, spidery arms, and pencil legs. Anyone with eyes could see the monkey on Gary’s back was more like a gorilla.

A younger man and woman followed him into the camp. Zack recognized neither of them, but after a quick appraisal, in his mind he dubbed them Crack Whore and Meth Head.

Gary smiled and extended a hand. “Zack! Great to see you! Man, it’s been ages.”

Zack didn’t move to take the offered hand. He didn’t match Gary’s toothy grin. “Get your shit and get out. If I ever catch you down here again, I’ll break your damn neck.”

Meth Head quit flirting with Crack Whore and stepped forward. “Chill out, dude. We’re here to get it. There’s no harm, no foul. It’s all good.”

Zack nodded his head towards the large bundle tied in the sheet. “I already gathered it up for you, Gary. Just load it up and get out of here.”

Gary licked his chapped lips as he decided how to best ask the important question. He opted for the direct approach. “Where’s my candy? Is it in there too?”

Zack scowled and spit. “Nope. I burnt it all.”

Gary said something, but Crack Whore screamed over top of him. “YOU BASTARD!” She moved towards Zack, but Meth Head cut her off with his own advance.

Meth Head roared as he pushed against Zack’s chest. Zack let himself fall back, let the momentum carry him back a couple steps. He threw his arms wide to keep his balance, and as his hand swung down, it fell across Peacemaker, the ax handle his father kept for just this kind of party. His fingers wrapped around its worn, smooth circumference. Meth Head came at him again. Zack laughed.

* * *

Pat had called Gary and relayed Zack’s message. Then he fought with Jill for the better part of an hour before he decided to get out and get some air. Jill knew her parents were human fungus, but she loved them all the same. Pat couldn’t blame her, but he was tired of bailing them out over and over again. As he drove aimlessly, he found his truck was headed towards camp. He’d heard something in Zack’s voice, a hard, ruthless edge that had never been in his older brother’s voice before. It worried him. It couldn’t hurt to swing by camp and make sure everything had worked out.

As he cleared the last lazy curve and camp came into his headlights, Pat stopped and blinked, trying to make sense of the scene before him. Gary and Frank lay face-down in the road. Both were bleeding. Neither moved. Both were half buried under a pile of sheets, clothes, and trash. Frank had an ice chest sitting on his shoulders and head.
Beside the heap, Zack stood like some kind of monster right out of a slasher movie. The way he stood – his posture, his bearing – for a second Pat would have sworn it wasn’t Zack standing there at all. He looked just like their -

Zack turned into the headlights and broke his brother’s train of thought. His nose and lips bled, framing his snarling teeth in a grid of glistening crimson. In his left hand, he clutched Amy’s pony tail, forcing her to her knees before him. A gouge in his right shoulder dumped blood down his arm, coating it in living paint that shined in the head lights. His right hand held Gary’s propane torch. It was lit.

Pat saw the torch, the pile of clothes, the bodies under the clothes. He didn’t want to accept the obvious conclusion, but Zack’s face forced Pat to believe. His brother was about to set three people on fire.

Just then, Zack brought his knee up into Amy’s face. He held her up by her hair for a second, and then let her drop to the ground. He kicked the pile of clothes so that part of it tumbled on top of her.

Pat launched out of his truck. “Zack! Zack! Don’t do it, man!”

Zack looked up at his brother. “Stay out of this, Pat! Don’t come any closer!”

Pat stopped. “Think about this. Do you want to run from the Feds? Do you want to go to prison for the rest of your life? Over these three miserable shits? They ain’t worth it, man!”

Zack wavered. “I- I- They deserve this! Filth!”

Gary and Frank struggling to stand.

Pat thanked God that Zack hadn’t killed them yet. “I know they do, but you can’t go to jail. We all need you on the outside. It’s not too late. No one’s dead. We can clean this up. Just drop the torch. Walk away. I’ll fix this, but you gotta help me out.”

Zack closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. He thumbed off the gas feed to the torch and dropped it on the ground.

Pat relaxed some as he watched his brother remember himself.

Zack opened his eyes and surveyed the scene. He nodded an unspoken thanks to his brother. “Get this trash out of here before I change my mind. If you can’t keep me clear, I won’t hold it against you.”

Pat scrambled to the pile of clothes. “Jill can patch these three up, maybe even sneak a couple x-rays if her friend is on shift tonight. God knows she’s done it enough times in the past.”

“She’ll call the cops on me. Either her or her mom.”

Pat stood and met his brother’s eyes. “No, they won’t. I’ll see to it. Come with me. We’ll get you fixed up.”
Zack looked at his injuries as if he’d not realized he was hurt until Pat pointed it out. “Don’t worry about me. It’s not as bad as it looks. Just get them out of here.” He turned and walked back into the camp. The privacy gate slammed and locked behind him.

* * *

Zack stripped his clothes off and bathed in the river rapids. Remaining naked, he took a bucket of water to camp and boiled it. He used the sterilized water, soap, peroxide, and rubbing alcohol to clean up his shoulder. It needed stitches, but he had nothing on hand to do it himself, and he couldn’t risk the emergency room. They asked too many questions. He settled for a gauze bandage and some medical tape.

As he worked, fresh candles cast his naked body in soft tones. His mind wandered to plans for the morning. He’d clean the camp from top to bottom, sterilizing what he could and burning what he couldn’t. He’d ensure no trace of Gary’s crew remained, no hidden stashes. Then he’d go to town, restock the things that had been used up or destroyed, and buy new locks for the doors. If his shoulder allowed it, he’d cut and chop a new stack of wood. He’d drop copies of the new keys off with his parents and explain what had happened. His mom wouldn’t understand. His father would.

Zack settled back into his chair. He faced the wall of mirrors and wondered if he’d judged his father too harshly. Maybe a man really couldn’t overcome his nature.

He thought, If I ever have a son, tonight will be one of those stories he never hears as he’s growing up. The tiny candlelight souls trapped in the mirrored wall seemed to agree.

After a few minutes, he closed his eyes. Zack rarely gazed too long or too deeply at the wall. If he did, sometimes he caught glimpses of his own personal demons staring back at him.

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