Into This River I Drown

by T. J. Klune

  I move to the door and open it slowly, poking my head out. No movement. I step out into the rain and am instantly soaked. I move along the outside of the shack until I reach the corner. Taking a deep breath, I turn and press my stomach against the wall and tilt my head around the corner.

  The truck sits at the edge of the road. The headlights are still on. Farther up there’s a dark hole in the side of the hill. The cave entrance. Lights have been strung up on the cave ceiling, leading deeper into the cave, but the entrance is empty. I gingerly put weight on my ankle, testing it out. The pain is there, and it burns, but it’s not overpowering. I move around the corner of the shack, out into the open, and almost trip. There are four white propane tanks, the kind that hook up to barbeque grills, stacked against the wall. One starts to fall into the others, and I reach out and grab the top to keep the tanks from falling. The sound probably won’t carry, but I can’t take the chance. The top tank is heavy. It’s full. I set it back up and look back at the cave entrance. Still empty.

  Now. Do it now.

  Shit.

  Now!

  I take off, running as quickly as I can, sort of hopping to keep as much weight as

  possible off my ankle. Rain slams into my face, the huge drops almost blinding me. The wind is strong. Thunder tears across the sky above. Forty feet. My chest hurts. Thirty feet. Abe and Cal are dead. Twenty feet. Please let the keys still be in the truck. Ten feet. The look on Cal’s face before he fell off the bridge. Five feet. Look away.

  I hit the passenger door almost running full tilt. I frantically scrabble for the door handle. It’s wet and slides from my hand. I pull on it again. And again. The door doesn’t open. It’s locked. Without hesitating, I turn and run round the front of the truck, the headlights flashing in my eyes. I hit the driver’s door and have started to pull on the handle when I hear the rumble of voices through the rain, coming from the cave entrance, which I have a clear view of. I see movement farther back in the cave. I’m almost frozen, until my father whispers move, move, move. I won’t make it up the hill or back to the shack in time. I can’t try and open the door. If it’s locked, I’ll get caught trying to open it. If it’s open, they’ll see the door. The voices get louder. I drop to the ground and roll under the truck.

  My breathing is out of control, to the point of hyperventilating. A large rock digs into my back. The sound of footsteps and voices is deafening. The pulse in my neck feels like it’s throbbing. Even though the rain is cold and the temperature has dropped, I start to sweat again. I stare up at the undercarriage of the truck, smelling metal and oil.

  I can’t make out what they’re saying until they get closer to the truck and onto the metal ramp. Then their words reverberate through the truck.

  “I always knew Griggs was fucking insane,” a deep voice says.

  The other voice is higher pitched. “Yeah, that’s fucking hard-core, man. Even the boss seems a little freaked out.”

  “Ah, screw it,” Low Voice says. “I’d rather a few people be dead than go to jail. I can’t go back there.”

  “I dunno,” High Pitch says, sounding nervous. “What kind of person do you have to be to consider putting a bullet into your own family? He’s just a kid!”

  “She’s already done it once. Don’t let the boss fool you. She’s a cold bitch, trust me.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  There’s a pause. Then, “Come here.” I hear them move above me and down the ramp. I lift my head to see their feet walking around to the passenger side of the truck, near the door. The rear of the truck partially blocks them from being seen from inside the cave. “It was before your time, man,” Low Voice says clearly. “That kid in there? His daddy apparently found out about this whole operation. Didn’t know about the boss, but apparently knew about Griggs and Walken. She overheard him on the phone one day, talking with the FBI.”

  “Oh, shit,” High Pitch breathes. “That guy… that Traynor…?”

  “Man, fuck Traynor,” Low Voice says. “The guy was a psychopath. But yeah. Apparently it was the same FBI guy. The kid called him in this time. His daddy did it before. Traynor wasn’t around then, so she got Griggs to do it.”

  A chill runs down my spine.

  “Do what?”

  “Ran the guy off the road when he was going to meet up with the agent. Griggs ran the guy off the road, and he drowned in the river like a mile from here. Fuckedup thing was that it was her brother-in-law.”

  The red sheen falls over my eyes. I can’t stop it. I curl my hands into fists at my side.

  “Jesus Christ,” High Pitch says. “This is some fucked-up shit, man. Why’re we doing this again?”

  “Money,” Low Voice says. “It’s all about the fucking money. But I’m not touching that kid, man. I’m telling you. I don’t even want to be here when it happens. The little shit can die, I just don’t want to see it.”

  “What if she tells us we have to go in there when we’re done loading up?”

  “We go. We close our eyes. But I’m not pulling the trigger. I can’t do shit like that. But better him than us. Who the fuck is gonna miss him?”

  “But… won’t that make us, like, accomplices? Or whatever?”

  “I dunno, man. I didn’t go to law school. What the fuck you think I look like?”

  “Fuck you. It’s not like….” High Pitch trails off.

  “What?” Low Voice asks.

  “What’s that on the door handle?”

  The pair of feet nearest me turns to face the truck. “What the hell? It looks like blood. Are you bleeding or something?”

  “I think I’d know if I was bleeding.”

  I close my eyes, feeling the tacky blood on my hands. I hadn’t even thought of it. The rain hasn’t washed it completely away. I wait for High Pitch and Low Voice to drop to their knees to look under the truck. They are quiet as if contemplating what they are looking at, and I slowly pull the small knife from my pocket. If they find me, I’ll take someone’s eye with me, that’s for damn sure.

  And just when I think I can’t take it anymore, there’s another voice.

  “What are you two doing?” Griggs snarls from the mouth of the cave. “Get the fuck back to work!”

  They hurry off back toward Griggs, and I lift my head, watching their feet. All three pairs turn back into the cave, Griggs snapping at both of them, though I can’t hear what they’re saying. I have to stop myself from getting up right now and running after Griggs, burying the knife in his neck over and over again until all of his blood is on the cave floor and I know he’s dead. He killed my father on Christie’s orders. I will see them both dead by my hands.

  Wake up, my father says. Wake up.

  I almost don’t want to. I want to stay in this black-and-red haze and follow them into the cave and kill them before they kill me. I want to cause as much damage as possible before someone pulls a gun and shoots me through the head. They must suffer for what they’ve done.

  It’s a test, Cal whispers, that familiar rumble causing my heart to ache. It’s a test, Benji. You must not fall into the black. You can’t go there.

  “Cal,” I moan, closing my eyes. My hands start to shake. “Please, Cal. Come back. Don’t be gone. Please come back.”

  I don’t hear anything other than the rain.

  Without thinking, I roll out from underneath the truck and stand. I pull on the handle, and the door opens. The inside of the cab is warm. The keys aren’t in the ignition, nor on the seat. I flip down the sun visor. Nothing. They keys aren’t here. Low Voice or High Pitch has them. This was a mistake. I can’t use the truck. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here. Now. Now.

  I close the door behind me as quietly as possible. I use my sleeve to wipe away the blood and grime my fingers left on the handle. I move around to the front of the truck, gripping the pocketknife in my hand. I’m about to cross back to the shack when I pause. If I’m going to make it, I can’t use this old road. It’ll be too easy for them to fin
d me. The distance back to town is too great, the bridge too far away. I’ll have to go through the woods to where Cal fell from the sky. Where my father died.

  They can still beat me around in the truck, I think. I won’t be fast enough.

  I grip the knife in my hand and go back to the driver’s side. The knife is sharp, well cared for. Abe said he could never let the blade become dull because it’d feel like he’d sullied his wife’s memory. “Always keep it sharp,” he’d told me quietly. “It helps me remember.”

  “Thank you, old man,” I whisper out loud. I tighten my grip around the handle and stab the tire repeatedly. It takes a moment; the tire is thick. But eventually, after hitting the same place repeatedly, the knife goes through the rubber. I do the same thing in three other places, the air hissing steadily.

  Low Voice and High Pitch return, carrying crates covered in blankets. I crouch down at the front of the truck and wait until they go back into the cave. Once they’re out of sight, I do the same to the left tire. They won’t go completely flat, not for some time, but it’ll slow them down when they attempt to drive the truck. It has to be enough. For now.

  I hobble back toward the shack, moving as fast as I can. I move past the propane tanks and press my back against the wall near the door, out of sight from the truck and the cave. Down the hill behind the shack, the woodland stretches out, intimidating, like the biggest forest I’ve ever seen. The river is about a mile away, maybe less. I don’t know how much time I’ll have before they come back to the shed to find me gone. If I’m not on the road, they’ll know I’m in the woods. With my ankle slowing me down, it might be easier for them to catch up with me. I’m fucked either way. I should hole up somewhere nearby and wait for them to leave, but I don’t know if there’s anyone in the cave with them who I haven’t seen yet. I don’t know how many people are in on this. For all I know, Walken is already on his way up.

  Distraction. I need a distraction.

  What I need is for them to die.

  The wind blows and metal rattles against metal. The propane tanks, stacked against the shack. Completely full. I don’t have matches. I don’t have a lighter. I don’t have a gun to shoot them, though that might only happen in movies.

  Something creaks inside the shack.

  Abe is awake, I think, even though I know he’s dead.

  I open the door to the shack. Abe still lies on the floor, unmoving. The two old light bulbs overhead swing on their wires. Rain pounds the roof. There’s no—

  The light bulbs.

  No fucking way could this work. It’s nuts. I’ll get myself killed. They’ll never fall for it. I’ll get caught before it could ever work.

  But that doesn’t stop me. I turn back and peer around the corner. No one is at the truck. I move back into the shack, flicking the light switch off. The bulbs hiss quietly as they darken, the only light left from the lantern. I take the pocketknife out of my pocket and use the handle to break the glass of the light bulb. The glass is hot. The filament is exposed. I crack it with the tip of the knife. I do the same to the other bulb.

  Abe says nothing about my insanity.

  I move back to the door and out into the rain. Movement around the truck. High Pitch. Low Voice. They head back into the caves.

  I reach around the corner and grab a propane tank and haul it over to me. I push through the door into the shack and set the tank down in one corner, near the garbage bags. I do my best to ignore the words in bright red that says “Flammable” on one of the discarded bottles. My hands shake as I turn the propane canister so the nozzle faces into the stuffy room.

  Not much time.

  It takes me two minutes to bring in the three remaining tanks and put them each into a corner of the room, facing toward the center of the shack. Without a second thought, I twist the nozzle. Gas starts to hiss out quietly. I move to each canister, twisting each nozzle. They’re all hissing by the time I’m finished. I’m dizzy, the room filling quickly with gas. I’ve kept the door shut as much as possible so the gas is trapped in the room.

  “I’m not going to leave you in here,” I tell Abe, trying to breathe shallowly. “I can’t take you all the way with me. Not now. But I won’t leave you in here.”

  He doesn’t answer, but that’s okay.

  A single spark to light up the world, I think. Flick the light switch. Electricity will try and connect through the filament. It’ll spark. It’ll spark, and all will burn. The gas is getting to my head.

  I switch off the remaining light, the lantern. The shack goes almost completely

  dark. I bend down near the floor and look through the crack toward the cave entrance and the truck. Griggs walks down the metal ramp, back into the cave. They haven’t noticed the propane tanks are gone. I wait another moment, breathing in the fresh air, clearing my head. There’s no one else in the truck.

  “Time to go, Abe,” I tell my old friend as I stand. I use the knife and cut his bonds. For a moment, his hands don’t move, as if he’s frozen with his arms strapped behind him. Then they fall slowly until they are resting at his sides, the fingers still pointed up toward the ceiling. I swallow past the lump in my throat because he isn’t—

  he is he is he is oh please he is

  —sleeping. He’s—

  no no no no

  —gone. He’s gone, and I can’t just leave him here. I can’t leave him to burn with

  the rest of them. I can’t let that happen to him. He promised me one day a long time ago, when I was lost in the dark, that he’d take care of me. Every day he’s kept that promise. The least I can do is keep my promise to him.

  I roll him over, slide my hands under his arms, and start to drag him toward the door. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, tears streaming down my face. “I know you don’t like to get dirty, but I can’t carry you. I hurt my ankle and I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”

  He doesn’t say a word.

  We reach the door and I set him down carefully, trying to ignore the way his head lolls to the side. The room is stifling now, the hissing sounding like a den of snakes. Water drips from the ceiling onto my sweat-slicked face. I open the door quickly and step through, then close it behind me. I look around the corner again. No one is there.

  I turn back and open the door, moving as fast as I can. I grab Abe under his arms and pull as hard as I can. I drag him completely outside and then reach in to shut the shack door behind us. I take Abe’s arms in my hands again and pull him away from the shack, away from the truck and cave. Away from his killer. Away from my Cal’s killer. Away from the man who murdered my father. I pull with all my might, my ankle shrieking at me, the burning almost unbearable. I slide down the small embankment behind the shack and turn to pull Abe after me. He feels so much heavier now. Either that or I’m just tired. So tired.

  I only get fifteen feet into the forest before I have to stop and rest. I lean up against a large tree trunk, trying to catch my breath. The walls I have built around my mind since I saw that first bullet strike Cal in the chest are starting to crumble. My hands are shaking. My mind is racing and I can’t focus on a single thing. I just want to lie down and sleep, float away in the dark.

  But even before I can hear my father, before Abe speaks in my head, before the sweet rumble of Cal’s voice breaks me apart, I stand on my own, pushing myself away from the tree. I can do this. I can do this. I’ll leave Abe here and hoof it back to town. I’ll find someone—anyone—and they’ll take over and I’ll never have to worry about it again. Someone else can worry about the problems of the world. I have to find Cal. I have friends to bury.

  I’ve turned to grab Abe to pull him a little further into the trees when I see four people approaching the shack. High Pitch and Low Voice are in the front, glancing nervously at each other, their shoulders brushing together as their lips move, as if they are whispering to each other. My Aunt Christie follows behind them, a determined look on her face. Griggs follows behind her a few feet, the hunting rifle slung over
his shoulder, my Colt in his hands. He cocks the Colt back and snaps a bullet into the chamber.

  Boom, I think. Boom. Boom.

  High Pitch and Low Voice reach the shack first and wait anxiously at the door. Christie says something to them, and they shake their heads. She scowls and turns back to the sheriff. She says something to him, but he doesn’t answer. He’s looking down at the ground and frowning. Christie speaks again, and he holds up his hand, silencing her. I don’t know what he’s looking at. I can’t see from where I stand. He bends over and I can only see the top of his head. I look up the embankment and my heart starts to thud.

  Drag marks, down the embankment. Through the mud. He’s seen the marks left by Abe’s feet.

  Christie opens the shack door. She grimaces as she takes a step back.

  High Pitch and Low Voice peer over her shoulder.

  She says something to Low Voice. He looks tense but steps around her and into the shack.

  Griggs stands, looking down the embankment. He sees me. His eyes widen.

  I smile up at him.

  He jerks his head toward the shack. “Don’t!” he roars as he spins.

  Christie turns to him, startled.

  The shack explodes in a burst of fire much larger than I expected. There’s a bright flash, and then a concussive blast hits me like a heated wave. I’m knocked off my feet and onto my back. Rain falls on my face. I open my eyes and see the trees dancing in the sky above me, branches waving in the wind. An arc of lightning. A ripple of thunder, though it might be an echo of the blast, rolling down into the valley. Black smoke starts to smudge against the dark-gray clouds. Leaves and grass press against my back. It’s all wet. Everything—

  i have is blue

  —is wet, and I need to get up. I need to get off my back and up. I have to run. I have to run.

  I sit up. My ears are ringing. My eyes are focused, unfocused. Focused, unfocused. I shake my head and push myself to my knees. Up the embankment, fire rages, hissing in the rain as if angry. It sparks in reds and oranges, but also blues and greens. I wonder how hard I hit my head until I remember the chemicals that were in the garbage bags.