Norman’s hand falters. He looks at me and I can see he’s more sad than afraid. He doesn’t think I’ll do it. I cock back the hammer and place my legs a little farther apart.
“Put the gun down,” I order him. I’m also thinking pretty fast about my next move.
Norman’s gun hasn’t moved. “You wouldn’t,” he says.
I pull the trigger.
The gun jumps in my hand. The sound of it is deafening. Norman throws up his hands as if that would protect him from the bullet. His gun falls to the ground. There’s this frozen instant, his face clenched up like he’s expecting pain or death to come to him at any moment. He’s on the tips of his toes. An instant. Then his eyes open. Just as he realizes he hasn’t been shot, I rush forward and swing the gun at his head. I feel the grotesque impact shudder up my arm. His legs give out like they’re made of water and he falls to the ground, unconscious.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say to him as I bend over to make sure he’s okay. It’s a terrible thing to strike people you love. Trembling, I look over him closely. He’s bleeding a little from where I hit him, but he’s breathing. He’s okay.
“Unh,” Eric says into the tree.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, without looking at him. “It’s over now.”
But it’s not really over, not yet. There’s still those other three. I pick up Norman’s gun and release the clip. It’s full of ammo. Somewhere between 10 and 14 rounds, I'm not sure which. I don’t know guns very well and I don’t have time to count. I push the gun into my pants and then pull my shirt over it.
I have to think fast.
Going over to Eric, I open up the backpack, and look for something to tie up Norman with. I can’t find anything, so I do what I think I have to: I untie Eric from the tree and then from the rope itself. I have to use that. I just have to hope with every fiber in my being that Eric doesn’t get in his head to walk back to camp. I push him face first into the tree.
“Stay,” I tell him, like he’s some kind of dog.
Eric doesn’t have anything to say to that.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” I tell him. I pat his back. Again, like he’s a dog.
Then I go to Norman and roll him over and tie his hands behind his back. In case he wakes up, I stuff a clean sock in his mouth from our backpack and tie it with a shirt. Then I roll him back over and tie his legs to his arms. When I stand up and see what I’ve done, for a minute, I think I’m going to be sick. Norman, who was like a grandfather to me, is tied up like a criminal. I did that. My diseased father standing with his face against a tree. What a family.
I feel horrible so I squat down next to Norman. I’ve never really touched him before, but suddenly I kiss the top of his head. “I’m really sorry about this,” I say. I see the lump on his head where I hit him, fast turning a ugly, vicious blue color, and I have to get up and stop thinking about what I’ve done. I need to focus on the future.
I shake my arms and jump up and down a little. Then I close my eyes and try to feel bad. I’m so full of adrenalin that it’s hard to get myself to cry. I jump up and down again and then take a deep breath. Closing my eyes, I see all the people who have died. I see my best friend’s hair begin to curl and then smoke and finally burn. I help carry people I’ve known for years to their funeral pyre. I roll over Eric and see the dark blood roll from his eyes. Then, deep inside me, from some depths I thought I’d forgotten, the image of the man I know now is my father comes to me. My real father. From before the Worm. He’s in bed, holding my hand. His face is round, his brown eyes deep and caring. He’s giving me his ring and he’s telling me in his warm voice that I can do it. I can do it.
I’m crying now, real tears. Once the crying starts, it’s hard to stop. Before I know it, I’ve succeeded far better than I meant to. I’m not just crying, I’m sobbing.
But this is what I need.
I got some acting to do.
63
I stumble out of the woods, sobbing and wiping my face with my arms.
I notice Boston and Sidney standing angrily by the last remnants of the fire. They have their arms crossed as they watch me move toward them. Pest is at my side before I know it. He puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me forward.
“He, he, he killed him,” I tell Pest through stuttering sobs.
“I know,” he says. I’m having a hard time breathing because I’ve been crying so much. My breath is coming in quick, shallow gasps. It’s not fake.
“He, he, he shot him,” I tell Pest.
“Quiet, now,” Pest says to me. I close my mouth to try to stop the gasping, which is embarrassing. Pest’s arm around me is strangely comforting. I look at him. He’s so small. Strange how solid his arm feels. He smells like smoke and corn and honey.
Boston and Sidney watch as Pest leads me to the fire and sits me down. I hug my legs and sniff and try not to make eye contact with them. They’re staring at me with unhidden anger.
“Where’s the other one?” Boston asks me.
I point toward the woods. “He’s going to burn him, him,” I say, having a little hiccup at the end.
“That’s what we should have done,” Boston tells me acidly.
I feel Pest stiffen. “Hey,” he says. “She just lost her father.” His voice cuts like a razor. I look over to him. His blue eyes look at me with sadness and compassion. I try not to think of Norman tied up like a slaughtered pig.
I see Boston has something more to say until Sidney grabs his arm. The two step away from the fire and begin talking to each other rapidly. I pretend to bury my face between my knees, but I’m really trying to keep a better eye on those two. I feel like I can handle Pest. I can talk to him. Those two have been lied to once too often, and I only have Norman’s gun to rely on if it comes to that. I keep an eye on the woods. Part of me imagines the hell that would break out if Eric came out of the woods, walked to the fire, and said, “Unh.”
That would not be good.
Then I feel Pest get up. I look up at him, perplexed.
“I should help Norman,” he explains, looking blankly at me.
I clutch at him. “Please don’t leave me alone with those two,” I whisper. I sure am doing a lot of begging lately. I really detest it, but it works.
Pest looks at Boston and Sidney and his eyes narrow. He nods at me and then sits back down. This time, however, he doesn’t put his arm around me, which, surprisingly, shockingly, I should say, makes me a little sad.
“Thanks,” I say. I wipe my eyes and wonder, out of the blue, what I must look like after days of travel without washing. It’s a stupid thought to have, but it does shoot through my head. Why I should care what I look like is beyond me. I don’t have time to reflect on that stupidity though because Boston and Sidney come walking up to us.
“We’re leaving,” Sidney says.
“We’ve got to let the President know about the return of the Worm,” Boston says.
I don’t know what to say. It’s my first bit of luck in a very long time. I just nod. For a minute, I think I might thank them for helping me out, but in the end, I decide that silence is best. They don’t like me much anymore, I can tell. Who can blame them? I brought history’s worst plague right in their camp and lied to their faces about it.
“Goodbye then,” Pest says. There’s no love lost between him and Boston, that’s clear. The two kind of glower at each other until Boston does that thing where he realizes he’s hating a little kid and he sighs. That happens a lot with Pest.
“You be careful with this one,” Sidney says to Pest, pointing at me. “I’ve seen some liars in my day, but this one.” He makes a hissing sound. I feel my face flush at that. It’s true though, so what can I say? In fact, I’m in the middle of doing it right now. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to defend myself. I want to tell him, “I’d like to see what you’d do if it was your father,” but it’s better not to say anything.
Pest doesn’t say anything. He just moves a little closer to me.
I keep my face down as Boston and Sidney break down their camp. They do it even faster than they set it up. In just a few minutes, they’ve packed up their horses. I notice they’ve left almost all the venison they had dried. They must be planning to move fast.
Finally the two of them swing up on their saddles and walk the horses toward us. Both Pest and I stand up as they approach. The two of them silently glower at me for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” I tell them. I am sorry.
Sidney stops looking at me and turns toward Pest. “Good luck to you,” he says.
“We’re coming back,” Boston says then. The way he says it, it’s hard to say if it’s a threat or a promise or what.
“Good luck to you too,” Pest says. I look over to him and feel that funny wrong feeling I get sometimes with Pest. There’s like layers and layers of meaning in it that you wouldn’t expect from a kid. Maybe Boston and Sidney have this feeling too because they both kind of half-smile at Pest, like they don’t know what else to do. Then they turn their horses away, get up on their horses, and start riding east, from where we came. They finally vanish from sight around the corner and a minute or so later, we can’t even hear the horses. I wave of relief hits me. I feel like I weigh nothing. I could almost laugh.
“Well, they’re gone,” Pest says.
“Good,” I say.
“Now, explain this to me, Kestrel,” Pest says. I turn to him, confused. Pest is frowning at me and holding out Norman’s gun in his hand. The blood drains from my face. I feel at the the small of my back by instinct, but there’s no gun. That’s the second time he’s done that to me. “Well?” Pest asks.
The momentary relief vanishes.
I’ve got new problems.
64
“Okay,” I say, holding out my hand, “just listen to me before you do anything.”
Pest hisses and starts walking toward the woods. “Did you kill him?” he asks over his shoulder as I follow. For some reason, this really irritates me.
“No, I didn’t kill him,” I say angrily. “Who do you think I am?”
Pest makes a sound between a cough and a laugh. “Oh, I know exactly who you are,” he says. “That’s why I asked.”
My face burns with shame. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you would do anything to protect Eric.”
Suddenly we’re in the shade of the woods and I can’t think of anything to say. My heart is hammering. I left my gun with the blanks back with Norman. I don’t have many options to deal with Pest. I look ahead and see him walking toward Eric and Norman. Most likely, Pest will untie Norman. And then when he wakes up, I’ll be in the same predicament as before. If Pest doesn’t shoot Eric himself. The thought panics me and I jump forward and run in front of Pest.
“Listen,” I say. “Just let us go. You don’t have to kill Eric.”
“Eric’s already dead,” Pest answers. He looks determined and he pushes by me. I think for a second it might be my chance to tackle him. Maybe wrestle the gun from him. But I’ve seen Pest fight. I saw it once last year. Gunner wrestled him to the ground and Pest just wriggled his way from under him and then beat him so bad, Gunner was in bed for two days. He’s small but scary. I will only try when it’s my last resort.
“No, he’s not,” I argue with his back. “Eric told me that some people survive the Worm.”
Pest doesn’t slow down.
“He said that Good Prince Billy told him that.” Suddenly we’re back with Eric and Norman. Neither of them has moved. Eric has his face directly in the tree, his nose squashed to the bark. As Pest turns to me, I continue, “If there’s a chance that Eric can come through, I have to make sure he has that chance.”
Pest eyes me and then glances toward Eric. Then he eyes me again. He has that spooky look I remember so well, the one that seems to hit me like heat vision, like he’s scanning my mind. It’s everything I can do not to look away from him like I usually do. I stand up straighter. Pest gives me that eye for another uncomfortable moment before he walks over to Eric. He studies him. I bite my lip. I don’t want to ruin this moment. Let him think. I’m afraid that if I push Pest too far, he’ll go against me, no matter what the argument.
“He’s never violent?” he asks, turning away from Eric.
“Never.” I shake my head.
“No biting or anything? No growling or screaming?”
“None of that,” I answer.
Pest reaches out and puts his hand on Eric’s shoulder for a second. It’s a gesture I didn’t expect. A touch of tenderness. It surprises me. Then Pest turns away and goes to sit on the same rock where Norman sat while I argued for Eric’s life. He sits and looks at Norman and then to Eric and then to me. He rubs his head with the butt of Norman’s gun. I stand, waiting, my heart thumping in me, planning what I should do based on whatever he decides. My options are not good.
“We’re supposed to kill him,” he says to me, finally. “We all gathered at the Lodge and that’s what we decided, or that’s what Franky wanted us to decide.” He looks at me steadily. “But that’s not what I decided.”
“What did you decide?” I ask. I don’t like how small my voice is now, but I’m afraid of this moment.
“I decided to help you,” he tells me.
I have to sit down. I’m crying a little again, soundlessly, from relief. I have never cried so much in my life. It’s exhausting.
“I owe it to Eric,” Pest explains. He puts away Norman’s gun. “There weren’t many people who would take in a gang of boys from the road. Most people drove us away.” Pest nodded toward Eric. “If he hadn’t let us in, if Eric hadn’t given us a chance, we’d all be dead. I owe him a chance.” Pest stands up and then begins to untie Norman.
“What’re we going to do?” I ask.
Pest shrugs. “We can’t leave Norman like this. He’ll die.”
I nod and help by taking the gag off of him. He groans when the sock comes out of his mouth. I look up at Pest who’s untying the rope. I reach out and touch his shoulder to get his attention.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
Pest just nods at me and then looks back at the knots.
When Norman is untied, I walk back to Eric. I pull him away from the tree.
“Unh,” he says.
“You’re okay,” I tell him. I reach into his shirt and pull out the rag I use to wipe his mouth. I clean him up a little, and I’m glad to see the quantity of black bile has gone down a lot since he coughed up that worm ball. I’m so glad that he’s still here, with me, that I don’t mind his smell that much. I want to hug him, but I’m afraid that he might snap his jaw and bite me accidentally. I settle for rubbing his shoulder. “You’re okay,” I tell him again. Then I tie the rope around him again.
When I turn back, Pest has Norman sitting up against a tree. I’m glad to see him unbound, but it makes me a little nervous too. Pest walks over to me and sighs.
“He’s going to wake up soon,” he says.
“He’s determined to kill Eric,” I say. “What’re we going to do?”
Pest looks at Eric and then at me. I watch as the dawn of a plan lights his face. “You’re going to run,” he says.
65
There are three horses at the Homestead: Bandit, Jezebel, and Flint. We use them all for work, so they don’t get ridden too much. Like I noticed before, the one that Norman and Pest rode on is Bandit. He was never my favorite. He was always lazy and obstinate and never wanted to do what he was told. The only person who could ever ride him well was Norman, and that was mainly out of fear. Norman has no patience with horses. If they don’t do what they are told, they know
about it, quick. It’s my bad luck that when they went out in search of me, Norman took Bandit, just because he was the only one who could ride him well. As we try to get Eric up on Bandit, I wish we had Jezebel. She’s a sweet old thing.
Bandit, however, hates the smell of Eric. We planned on just tying him down to the saddle like a corpse, but Bandit won’t even let us do that. I can’t say that I blame the poor horse much. Eric’s smell is so bad, both Pest and I have to walk away and gag a couple of times during the whole process. We try and try, but Bandit will not let us load him with Eric. He neighs, his eyes roll, he tosses his head, and then prances away nervously. Once we almost had it, but then Bandit bucked just a little, and before we knew it, all three of us were on the ground. Pest and I scrambled to get out from under Eric. Then we stood back, defeated.
Now we’re sitting down by the fire, exhausted and confused about what to do. There’s no way to get Eric on Bandit. We don’t have much time. Norman could wake up at any moment. Eric is standing next to the fire, leaning forward and to the right awkwardly. We had to take off the backpack and without it, he looks even weirder than normal. However Eric stands, it just looks wrong. No human would ever stand like that. He’s like a handful of broken twigs.
I’m sitting, looking into the fire and eating dried meat when I remember one of the books that Eric made me read for history. Eric used to divide up the days among subjects when I was younger. One day would be math and another day would be science and another day would be history. I think Eric liked history most. He’d get excited talking about events from hundreds of years ago. It was hard for me to be too excited about it after a hard day in the fields, or on a cold winter day when we had to huddle near the fire to keep from shivering. But Eric always liked talking about history and reading about it and encouraging me to read about it. What I remember suddenly is that Native Americans didn’t have the wheel, so they didn’t have carts or wheelbarrows or anything like that. When they moved camp, they used a different method.
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