The Bullet Understands

Sean Bean and Connie Nielsen star in Robin Hood. From Sherwood Forest to the Norman Court, a classic tale reborn for today. The story continues to unfold. New episodes Sundays on MGM+. Hey friends, it's Karamo, talk show host, life coach, and your next best friend. You just don't know it yet. I'm hosting a new podcast called Started on WhatsApp Brotherhoods.

We're going around the world to explore male friendships and all the wins, challenges, and bonds that are made in WhatsApp group chats. And that's exactly where you can listen to it. Right in the app is streaming on the official WhatsApp channel. Just open the app and go to the updates tab to start listening. While you're at it, message your best friend and make sure they listen too. I'll see you there.

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When the rest of his crew had clocked out, and he'd checked to make sure the job site was all buttoned down, Sawyer lugged his tools onto the passenger seat of his truck. He shut the door and moved around to the driver's side wearily. After he started the engine, he lifted himself back out and closed the door. It was far too hot inside to tolerate the vehicle just yet. The cruel sun had been beating down on his windshield since it had risen that morning.

The teal-blue panels of his truck were searing to the touch, and in a way he was surprised his tires hadn't melted into puddles of molten rubber. While he waited for his truck to cool down, He stood and looked out at the endless expanse of desert. Skeletal shrubs dotted the white, sandy knolls, christened with irregular slabs of orange sandstone, and bisected by a single stripe of highway.

tapering ever narrower as it receded towards the horizon. In the distance, the sun hung low behind a sawtoothed row of cliffs, rinsing the sky with hues of saffron and mauve. It was an exceptional sunset, if he'd ever seen one. But it still didn't make up for the heat. Nothing could make up for the heat. It was torture no matter how much water he drank. or how many wet rags he draped over his head. He felt like he'd sweated out his body weight five times over in the time since the job had begun.

His crew had been contracted to renovate the Highway 70 rest stop at mile marker 118. He'd been on the job for almost three weeks then, and was eagerly counting the days until it ended. They were midway through tiling the bathrooms, and the roofers had finished the day before, so now they at least had cover from the sun. Even inside, it was hotter than sin, though.

Sawyer would sweat from the moment he got out of his car in the morning until the moment he got back to his room in the evening. And, being the foreman, he was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. When the cab of his truck seemed sufficiently cool, he opened the door and climbed inside. He pulled out between the line of reflective traffic cones that blocked the exit and merged onto the highway.

His company had put he and his crew up at the nearest motel to the job site, but that was still 40 miles away. He wished he had something to listen to as he drove, but his radio had stopped working months ago. He suspected it was an easy fix, a blown fuse most likely, but he just hadn't found the time to look into it. His truck rumbled past lonely mesas and through vast canyons.

The sky, slowly giving way to night, revealed a rich tapestry of stars. Every once in a while, a car would pass him going in the other direction. their headlights briefly zipping past before disappearing into the darkness. When Sawyer reached the exit for Simmonsville, he pulled off the highway. The motel he was staying at was still another 20 miles down the road, but he decided to make a stop along the way. A few miles down the road towards Simmonsville was a gas station. For the most part.

Sawyer avoided spending his per diem on alcohol, but it was especially hard for him to deny the draw of an ice-cold beer that night. All he needed was to sit below his motel room's rickety air conditioner. with a nice, chilled beverage. Just thinking about it soothed him. He drove along the narrow, two-lane road, and after a few minutes he arrived at the gas station.

a dingy green building with an old Texaco pump out front. It was surrounded for miles by red desert earth and illuminated by a single street lamp that buzzed overhead. Sawyer went inside, grabbed a six-pack out of the cooler, and brought it to the counter. Of course, it being Utah, all they had was 3.2. But that would have to suffice, he thought.

He thanked the cashier, a hard-faced woman with long silver hair, and took the beer back to his truck, setting it in the passenger seat next to his hulking tool bag.

He started his truck and drove back to the highway, continuing west towards the motel. It was fully dark now. The contours of the desert earth revealed only in moonlight. Sawyer had just rounded a bend and was driving through a shallow basin when he noticed someone standing on the shoulder of the highway. It was a man. a man that struck Sawyer as seeming very out of place. He was short and had straight black hair. He wore a dark, stuffy-looking suit and had slick dress shoes on.

He held one hand out towards the highway. A stubby thumb lifted to signal that he needed a ride. Startled, Sawyer hit the brakes. It wasn't a place he'd expected to encounter a hitchhiker. But it also wasn't a place where he'd want to leave someone on their own. The closest building was the gas station, but it had seemed like it was about to close, and it was still a good five miles back.

The motel was even further, at least 15 miles, he guessed. As he approached, Sawyer wound down the passenger side window. sitting high in his seat so he could see the stubby man over his tool bag. You need a ride? Sawyer asked as he came to a stop. A great many people probably would have had second thoughts about picking up a hitchhiker in such a remote area. But Sawyer didn't feel threatened by the man. For one, he was much larger than the hitchhiker.

And if the man did give Sawyer trouble, his framing hammer, and plenty of other tools he could use to defend himself, sat well within reach. Yes, the man said, leaning towards the open window. I would be so grateful for a ride. He had pale skin and dark, sunken eyes, thin lips pulled tight around his teeth.

Sorry, I've got my tools in the front, Sawyer said. I had a tool bag stolen a couple years ago and got into the habit of keeping them in the cab. You can hop in the back seat if you want, though. The man nodded and the rear passenger door popped open. Sawyer watched as the little man climbed into his truck. Did your car break down? Sawyer asked as the man pulled the door shut.

But he received no answer. Where are you headed? He said, a little louder. Oh, wherever you'd be so kind to take me, the man said. Sawyer pulled back out onto the highway. Okay, he said, a little thrown by the man's calmness and lack of urgency. I'm headed to the motel up at Vance Junction. There's a payphone there if you need to call someone and make some arrangements. That's just fine, the man said. My name's Sawyer, by the way.

He waited for the man to respond, but again he'd fallen silent. Is he hard of hearing? Sawyer wondered. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the man's dim, sunken eyes staring straight back at him. I'd play some music, but the radio doesn't work, Sawyer said. That's all right, the man said. Would you like me to tell you a story? The question caught Sawyer off guard.

Um, okay, he said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. What kind of story is it? Well, the man said, like all stories, it has a main character. We'll call this character Man. Man lives in a village. And, as sometimes happens in his village, the food supply is scarce. Man has proven himself as a worthy hunter and provider, so he is sent out into the world to find sustenance for the village. He takes his gun and his horse.

and he rides off into the forest. Man searches for days, but he can find no prey. He cannot even find any berries or wild fruit. But on the third day of his hunt, he does find something peculiar. It's a cave, one he's never seen before. Sawyer could feel his heart rate quickening. Almost there, he thought. Man ties up his horse at the mouth of the cave, his passenger went on. He lights a makeshift torch, and...

With his gun tucked into his waistband, he ventures into the darkened space. He finds that the cave reaches far deeper than he'd expected it to. splintering into a vast network of narrow tunnels and open chambers. To his horror though, he also soon realizes that he is lost. Why is he telling me this? Sawyer thought to himself, his eyes incessantly drawn to the rearview mirror. Man searches around in the darkness for days, and eventually the people of his village become worried.

They send out a search party to look for him, and soon the searchers come across his horse, tied up at the mouth of the cave. Two of the searchers stay back. while a third searcher enters the cavern. Man is deep within the bowels of the cave, and he fears that he will never see the light of day again. Every moment is terror for man. Man can feel nothing outside of his own fear. But surprisingly, after hours spent feeling through the darkness, the searcher is able to find him.

I'm here to help you, the searcher says as he approaches man. When the searcher gets close, man takes out his gun and shoots the searcher dead. The bullet passes clean through his head as he falls to the ground with a damp thud. I... Sawyer tried to interject, but the hitchhiker went right on talking. Man cannot comprehend what he's done. Man can't fathom why he would kill the person that had come there to save him. But the bullet understands. The bullet understands perfectly.

A shiver ran down Sawyer's back. He was perplexed by the story. But from his confusion came a breath of relief when he saw the motel just up ahead. The building's pink stucco walls stood out against the surrounding darkness like a bastion of hope, and he was glad this strange ride was coming to an end. Well, we're here.

Sawyer said as he pulled off the highway and rolled into the motel's gravel parking lot. When he came to a stop, he turned around and was shocked to see that the back seat of his truck... was empty. When had the man gotten out, he wondered. He couldn't have just dove through the window while they were barreling down the highway.

When Sawyer got out, he peeked into the back seat, looked in the bed of the truck, even underneath the vehicle. He looked around at the parking lot, gradually melding with the rough desert terrain that surrounded it. He couldn't see a soul. The fine hairs on his neck stood on end, his eyes wide. He locked his truck, but not before grabbing the beer off the passenger seat.

When he got back to his room, he cracked one open, still trying to make sense of the bizarre allegorical story the hitchhiker had told him. But the bullet understands. The bullet. understands perfectly. He didn't have the slightest idea what it could have meant. He showered, and then he laid down on the bed, the ragged spring mattress screeching under his weight.

His heart was still thudding. When he got to the job site the following morning, his experience with the hitchhiker seemed more like a bad dream than an actual memory. Should he tell the rest of his crew what had happened? It didn't seem like something he could explain without sounding like he'd lost the plot. And maybe he had lost the plot. After all...

What proof was there that he'd even picked anyone up at all? But no, he must have. He could remember the man clearly. His pallid skin. His dark, sunken eyes. He even remembered how dirty the man's fingernails looked as he pulled the rear door shut. The hitchhiker didn't seem like a hallucination. But if Sawyer was being honest with himself...

He didn't really know what a hallucination looked like. Sawyer's crew began to arrive for work while he was pondering this, and it seemed something was concerning them as well. They were huddled around a car belonging to one of the stonemasons, the driver's side door hanging open as they appeared to intently listen to something on the radio. One of the apprentices...

A young man named Lupe noticed Sawyer looking and jogged over. Boss, did you hear what happened? Lupe asked when he got near. Sawyer frowned. Happened. No. What? he said. There were two bodies found on the side of the highway this morning, Lupe said, grimacing as the words came out. A husband and wife, apparently. They were dumped on the side of the road near the Simmonsville exit. The words nearly knocked Sawyer to the ground. Oh my god, he said.

Do they know who did it? Lupe shook his head, a bead of sweat sliding down his forehead before settling on the bridge of his nose. I don't think so, he said. Sawyer suddenly felt cold, even though it was already scorching out. Had he picked up the murderer? The thought of having a killer in his car made him queasy.

After a few minutes, his crew turned off the radio and slowly started to get to work. The bricklayers started mixing up mortar. The tilesetters hooked up the wet saw. Sawyer's mind raced. He wanted to tell someone about his eerie experience the night before, but there were aspects of it that he couldn't explain, and he knew how that would make him look. Ultimately, he decided he had to keep it to himself.

and attempted to go about his day like normal. But it wasn't something he could easily forget. Especially not when he noticed a police car pull up just outside the job site later that morning. Two officers sat in the car, watching him and his men work. Eventually, they got out and began to make their way over. Nervously, Sawyer went out to meet them. Hey there.

one of the officers said, hanging his hands from the Velcro straps of his bulletproof vest. He had close-cropped hair and wore impenetrably dark sunglasses. I'm Detective Ambrose. This is Detective Purcell. Are you Sawyer Barrington? I'm... Yes, Sawyer said. How did you know my name? That's not important right now, Detective Purcell said. Like his partner.

Purcell had short hair and blackout sunglasses. The only thing that told him apart from Ambrose was the fact that he also had a goatee. The men almost looked to Sawyer like they could have been brothers. Mr. Barrington, Detective Ambrose began, we got a report that you stopped by the old Simmonsville Texaco station last night. They said you bought a six-pack, Detective Purcell added. Is that true?

Yes, Sawyer said. I just wanted a beer after work. It's the only place around here you can get one, far as I know. Uh-huh, Detective Ambrose said. jotting something on a notepad he'd pulled from his chest pocket. And what time would that have been? Maybe 7.30 or so, Sawyer said. Right, said Detective Ambrose.

And did you happen to see anything when you were out that way? Did you see anyone that might have looked suspicious? His partner added. Sawyer imagined what they would say if he told them about the hitchhiker. Uh-huh. And where exactly did you drop this man off, Mr. Barrington? What do you mean you can't remember? Do you black out often? And what about violent tendencies?

Do you have any of those, Mr. Barrington? No, Sawyer said. I didn't see anyone. He thought for a moment, and then, deciding to feign ignorance, added, What's this all about, anyway? Oh, so you don't know, Detective Purcell asked. Well, I heard someone on my crew mention something, but I don't really... There was a double murder.

said Detective Ambrose. A husband and wife on their way to Moab. They were beaten to death with a blunt object of some kind. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Mr. Barrington? asked Detective Purcell. God, no, Sawyer said, trying to pack as much authentic shock into the statement as possible. Uh-huh, Detective Ambrose grunted.

And would you mind telling us what you did after you left the gas station? Sawyer swallowed, his throat dry from the fine desert dust that seemed always to be floating in the air. Well, I went back to the motel, he said. I showered, had a bite to eat, fell asleep watching Northern Exposure. Basically the same thing I've done every night since I've been on this job.

Would anyone be able to corroborate that? asked Detective Purcell. Sawyer's heart was beginning to race. I don't know, he said. Hey, should I be talking to a lawyer or something? Detective Ambrose frowned. Now why would you need a lawyer, Mr. Barrington? Nobody is accusing you of anything. And you don't have anything to hide, do you? His partner asked.

No, I'm... Look, I know how these things can go, Sawyer insisted. That's all right, Detective Ambrose said, flipping his notepad shut and placing it back in his chest pocket. Yeah, I think we've got everything we need for now, Detective Purcell agreed. From the same chest pocket, Detective Ambrose pulled a business card and handed it to Sawyer. If you do think of anything else, though...

I hope you'll contact us, he said. Together, the two of them turned and began walking back to their patrol car. But even after they were gone...

sawyer could still feel his heart drumming away in his chest did they suspect he was involved it certainly seemed that way but what evidence could they have There couldn't be anything connecting him to the crime. Could there? When his crew broke for lunch an hour later, he was still turning the question over in his mind.

While everyone dug their bagged lunches out of the cooler and looked for a shady place to sit and eat, Sawyer walked over to his truck. He wanted to inspect the back seat, to see if there was anything the hitchhiker had left behind. Anything that could prove he had actually picked someone up. That he wasn't just delusional. He opened the rear passenger door and leaned inside, inspecting the area where the man had sat.

and running his hand over the cloth upholstery. He looked under the rear bench and saw a few crunched-up water bottles and an old neon vest, nothing that hadn't been there before. As he lifted his head, He noticed something faintly reflective, wedged into the seat cushion between the bench and the backrest. He reached in and pulled it out, opening his hand. to reveal a brass shell casing. It looked old, almost antique, its surface gritty and oxidized. He couldn't tell what size it was.

But it looked like it was made for a small caliber weapon. A .380, perhaps. Sawyer knew it wasn't his. He didn't even own a gun. He'd shot a few throughout his life. but he'd never felt the need to buy one. He turned the empty casing over, studying it in his palm. And as he did, he was again reminded of the peculiar story the hitchhiker had told him.

He slipped the shell casing into his pocket, wondering if he should turn it over to the police. He could tell them that he'd been in shock, that he'd forgotten to mention picking up the hitchhiker when they'd talked to him before. But would that actually prove anything? Or would it just make him look suspicious? It wouldn't eliminate him from being a suspect. The detective didn't say they'd been shot.

He said they'd been beaten to death with a blunt instrument. Perhaps the casing could serve as some kind of evidence, though. Maybe they could get DNA or fingerprints off of it. Yeah. He thought. Your fingerprints, you moron. He shouldn't have touched it, he knew. For the rest of the day, he could feel the little brass shell casing in his pocket.

Even though it was small, it felt as heavy and burdensome as an anvil. There were times he insisted he would call the detectives and hand it over to them as soon as his shift ended. And there were other times he felt telling them about the casing was a terrible idea, that he didn't need to give them any more reason to look at him than they already had.

He was still weighing the two options when the day ended and he left the job site, at least until he'd gotten a few miles down the highway, at which point he sporadically decided to wind his window down. and huck the shell casing out. He watched it whiz out into the desert, disappearing among the blur of sand and cactus flying past.

Immediately, the cloud of dread that had been hanging over him lifted. Now he could leave the previous night behind, he thought. He may not have been able to explain what had happened. but at least he could work on moving past it. He looked out at the open highway, at the evening sun seeming to melt into the rocky hills and mesas that marked the horizon. One day...

It'll just be a distant memory, he told himself. A few minutes later, he pulled into the motel parking lot. A dozen or so moths orbited around the neon sign out front. their paper-thin wings flapping hastily. He shut off the engine and stepped out. But before he could close the door, something caught his eye. Standing on end. In the middle of the back seat was the shell casing. How did it get back into the truck, he wondered. Had the wind swept it back in? It didn't seem possible.

He'd watched it fly clear into the desert. And how was it standing up like that? As if someone had just placed it there. He opened the rear door and reached inside. snatching it off the bench. As he walked to his room, he held it between two fingers and examined it, as if it contained a hidden message that he was trying to decode.

When he got to his room, he dropped it in his pocket and unlocked the door, taking a concerned glance back at the quickly darkening landscape before heading inside. He set his keys on the laminated countertop next to the boxy old TV set and cranked up the room's AC unit. Then he grabbed one of the remaining beers out of the mini-fridge and flopped down on the bed. He turned on the TV and took a long swig from the bottle. The suds fizzed against the roof of his mouth.

The man on the news was explaining that a singer named Mark Sandman had died on stage in Italy the previous night. A doctor had apparently tried to revive him, but the singer was pronounced dead en route to a nearby hospital. He had apparently suffered a heart attack. Sawyer had never heard of the singer, but for some reason the story reminded him of his father's passing. His hadn't been a heart attack.

It had been caused by a condition called Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. The doctors had said it was caused by something called prions in his father's brain. Sawyer had tried like hell to understand what was happening. But before he could even grasp the situation, an official from the hospital was sitting him down and asking him about funeral arrangements. While he was lost in the memory of those confounding final hours with his father,

He was startled by the sound of a heavy-handed knock. Had it been on his own door, he wondered, or one of the doors next to his? He muted the TV and rose slightly in the bed. As he did, it came again. It was his door. Thankfully, the blinds were drawn so nobody could see inside. He sat up slowly.

making an effort to mute the shrill screeching of the mattress's springs. He had no idea who it might be, but he was weary of alerting them to his presence. The past 24 hours hadn't exactly put him at ease. Maybe if I just ignore them, they'll go away, he thought. But a few seconds later, he heard a voice that he recognized. Mr. Barrington, are you there? It was Detective Ambrose. Sawyer sat perfectly still, his eyes wide, jaw clenched tightly. Another series of thudding knocks struck the door.

Open up, Mr. Barrington. It's the police, Detective Purcell called out. We know you're in there, Detective Ambrose added when Sawyer didn't respond. Inside. Sawyer stood on unstable legs. He set the remote and the half-finished beer down on the nightstand. It's in your best interest to answer us, Detective Ambrose shouted through the door.

I don't think it is, Sawyer said, wincing as soon as the words came out. Should have kept your mouth shut, he thought. Just open the door, Mr. Barrington, said Detective Ambrose. We have a few more questions to ask you, his partner added. My lawyer told me not to answer any more questions, Sawyer lied. He tried to sound assertive, but the words came out shaky and terse. So, Mr. Barrington decided to seek counsel after all, did he? said Detective Purcell. What else did your lawyer tell you?

He just said not to speak with you without him present, Sawyer replied. He was sweating now, even though the AC was blasting and the air in the room was chill. Well, that's fine then, Mr. Barrington. You don't have to answer any questions if you don't want to, said Detective Ambrose. But that doesn't mean you can't help us out with our investigation. All we want to do is clear you of suspicion.

Well, if you don't want me to answer questions, then what do you want from me? Sawyer asked, still standing precariously in the center of the room. We'd like for you to unlock your truck for us, Mr. Barrington. said Detective Purcell. We just want to take a look at the tools you have sitting in your passenger seat. What would they want with my tools? Sawyer wondered, picturing the chrome surface of his chalk reel.

The blunted edges of his framing hammer. And then he understood. They were searching for a murder weapon. Searching for something that would match the wounds on that dead couple. His mind reeled as he tried to piece together his next move. He could comply, take them out to his truck and unlock it. If he was quick, he might be able to start the engine and tear off down the highway.

Of course, they'd chase him, but he'd have a lead. In a fleeting moment of clarity, he stopped himself. Why did he want to run? He didn't have anything to hide.

Did he? He took another step towards the door, still trying to muster a response to the officer's request. And then something else dawned on him. He realized they had stopped talking. He held perfectly still, primed for the slightest disturbance. Mr. Barrington, someone finally said. He couldn't tell which officer it was, or if it was even one of the officers at all. The voice sounded different. Are you there, Mr. Barrington?

The words rapidly devolved into something that hardly sounded human. Sawyer reached into his pocket and felt the rough surface of the shell casing. Man cannot comprehend what he has done, said the voice on the other side of the door. Or was it coming from somewhere else? Sawyer could no longer tell. But the bullet understands. It went on. The bullet understands perfectly.

Thanks for listening. If you like my stories, I just want to make sure you know I have a Patreon. It's $3 per new episode. You get to listen to every episode early and without ads. You also get access to my audiobook, Solace. It's over eight hours long, sort of a cosmic horror slash thriller story. It's centered around this journalist who's trying to understand a bizarre missing persons case.

The Patreon also has its own RSS feed, so you can listen on Apple Podcasts or Spotify or whatever podcasting app you like. And the link to the Patreon is in the show notes for this episode, as well as in the bio for the show. Also, I now have shirts for sale, which I'm super excited about. There's three different designs, a few different colors available in my online store. And the link for that will be in the bio and the show notes as well.

I'll also include links to social media if you're interested in following me on there. But if you're not into any of that stuff, that's also okay, because just the fact that you're listening... to this is pretty cool to me so thank you as a raider scavenging a derelict world you settle into an underground settlement But now you must return to the surface where arc machines roam. If you're brave enough, who knows what you might find?

Ark Raiders, a multiplayer extraction adventure video game. Buy now for PlayStation 5, Xbox Series X and S, and PC. Rated T for Teen. Welcome and enter if you dare. Hi, I'm Hallie Keeper. And I'm Allison Leiby. And together, we're the hosts of Ruined, a scary movie podcast where Hallie tells me the grisly details of a haunting new horror film each week. Whether you're a terror hound like me or a sca-

Garrity can't like Allison. We've got so many thrills, chills, and obviously kills to share with you in every episode. It's the podcast that'll have you saying, that was so funny. I should not have listened to it at night with all the lights off. From the greats like The Exorcist and Poltergeist to modern classics such as Hereditary and Get Out to the freakiest new releases like A Quiet Place and Terrifier, we ruin them all and we'll leave you howling, mostly from laughter.

sometimes because you're turning into a werewolf. Ooh. Listen along as I try and guess the movie's twist, predict who will survive, and answer the hardest question of all. What would you do? So please listen to new episodes of Ruined every... Tuesday on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts. And whatever you do, we're begging you, please keep it spooky.