by T. J. Klune
I need to leave, but I have to know.
I make my way up the embankment, coughing at the smoke and smell of burning plastic. I slide in the mud, avoiding a burning piece of wood. I pull myself up until I’m at the top. The shack itself has been leveled completely, bits and pieces strewn out in a twenty-foot radius. A piece of the roof has landed on the hood of the truck, the front tires now completely flat.
Run.
A burnt body lies on the ground in front of me. I can’t tell if it’s High Pitch or Low Voice, but I’m assuming its Low Voice since he was the one who turned on the light. Off to the right, the door to the shack remains somehow intact, and I can see an arm sticking out from under it. I hobble over to the door and lift it. Christie is underneath, and next to her is High Pitch. He groans, but doesn’t open his eyes. Some of his hair has burned off, and his left eyebrow, but his skin doesn’t appear charred, just red, as if he has a really bad sunburn. My aunt looks the same. I watch as her chest rises and falls steadily. She’s alive. I toss the door to the side. I reach down and go through their pockets. There’s no phone on either of them. If Low Voice had one, it’s burned up like he is.
Run. Please. Run.
I tighten my hand around the knife as I turn to Griggs.
Griggs, the man who killed my father, who killed Abe. Who killed Cal. Griggs, who lies fifteen feet away, his jacket slightly smoking but otherwise looking intact. Bullets for the rifle he’s carrying spill out of a pocket where the zipper has broken. I take a step toward him and realize how easy it would be to bury the knife in his throat, to slice his neck from ear to ear until it opens like a bloody red mouth. It would be so very easy to watch his eyes flash open as he gurgles, blood bubbles popping out his lips, painting his face in a spray of crimson mist.
It would be so easy, I think as I find myself standing above him. His skin has pinked slightly, his hat knocked off his head. His hair is plastered wet against his skull. His eyes are closed. There’s a small piece of shrapnel sticking out of his right thigh, blood leaking slowly, soaking his pants. But still he breathes. His life is not threatened by injury. He’s alive. He doesn’t deserve to be. He deserves pain, agonizing pain. He deserves death in all its forms. I can do this. I can avenge the men I love and have lost. I stand above him and raise Estelle’s gift high above my head, ready to bring it down on him again and again and again. Once he is gone, this nightmare will be over and I just need to do it. Do it!
As I raise the knife as high as I can, I hesitate.
You are not the judge, my father whispers.
You are not the jury, Abe murmurs.
You are not the executioner, Cal says, and it’s so loud he could be standing right
next to me. A tear slides down my cheek. You are the protector. You are a guardian. It’s time to go home, Benji. It’s time to—
A hand reaches out and seizes my leg.
I look down. Griggs is awake and snarling up at me. I try to step back, but he has
a vise grip on my ankle. “I’ll kill you,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
Run!
I jerk my leg away, using my good leg to kick him upside the head. He howls as he rolls away from me… directly toward the hunting rifle he used to kill Cal. He lands on top of it, and I’m already taking off toward the forest. I can still hear him screaming as I jump down the embankment, rolling as I land to avoid putting all the weight on my ankle.
I’m sorry, Abe, I think as I reach him and run right past. I’m so sorry.
There’s a loud crack behind me that can’t be anything but gunfire, and a tree branch above me explodes. I hear Griggs scream after me. I glance over my shoulder.
Sheriff George Griggs tears after me, the rifle in his hands.
mile marker seventy-seven
The rain continues to fall as Griggs chases me through the darkening woods.
Branches slap against me, and I raise my arms to protect my face. Thin cuts form when the wood slaps against my skin. The blood from my damaged wrist has soaked through the strip of shirt I used to tie it off. My ankle and foot are going numb. But still I run.
I know where I’m heading. I run toward the place where much of my life ended, and much of it began again. I run there only because I don’t know where else to run. My mind is like a static screen, snowy white and almost incapable of broadcasting. I’m not following logical thought. I’m following my heart, and it’s leading me to the river.
I can hear Griggs crashing through the underbrush behind me, booming steps punctuated by shouts and screams. He’s going to kill me, he bellows. He’s going to kill me like he did my father. He’s going to hold me underwater until I stop kicking and my skin turns blue. He’s going to cut off my head and mail it to my mother and he’s going to laugh, he roars after me. He’s going to watch the look on her face and he’s going to just laugh.
I zigzag around a tree just as he fires the rifle again. The bullet smashes into another tree just ahead, bark flying in the air, pitch leaking like black oil. Like the tree is bleeding after getting shot. He swears behind me and starts to move again.
There are times when I’m so far ahead of him I can barely hear him behind me. These are the times I think about taking cover, trying to find someplace to hide, but something tells me to keep going, that I need to get to the river, that everything will be okay as long as I can reach the river.
Other times it seems he’s so close I can hear him wheezing as he runs. It’s only the terror of knowing he could reach out and grab me that allows me to put on an extra burst of speed, putting more distance between us. If he catches me, I know, I will die in the middle of the woods, and no one will find me again.
I think of many things in the fifteen minutes it takes me to reach the river. I am hyperaware of everything around me, yes, but it’s like I’ve detached from myself, floating high above my own body, tethered to myself only by a thread of brilliant blue.
I remember a time my father broke his leg, when I was eight. He was laid up in the house for six weeks. “Gonna need you to be my right-hand man, Benji,” he told me seriously. “Gonna have to be the man of the house for a bit. You okay with that?”
I feel the pocketknife in my hand. It feels like it’s heating from within. I wonder at the depth of the love between Abe and Estelle, only now accepting with a rip through my chest that Abe is truly gone. They’re together now, I tell myself. Please just let them be together now.
As another bullet flies over my head, I remember the first time my mother smiled after Big Eddie died. We were working outside, raking up the leaves in front of Big House, putting them into a big pile near the old oak tree. We hadn’t spoken for hours when suddenly she stopped and turned her face toward the sky. She dropped the rake and ran and jumped into the leaf pile. She was laughing when she came up, and the smile on her face was one of such heartbreaking beauty I felt annihilated.
I trip and almost fall when I think of Nina.
After I woke up on that third day following my father’s death, she was the next person I saw after Abe. She came into the room and sat in the chair next to me, reaching out to grip my hand. I turned my head on the pillow to look at her. With tears in her eyes, she said, “I know your heart hurts, because mine does. But you have to know you’ll see him again. One day, you’ll see him again.”
I hear Griggs roar in anger behind me as I remember a time about a year after my father died. Abe came into the shop under the pretense of having his car checked out, looking uncharacteristically nervous. When I finally asked if he was okay, he told me gruffly that he was just fine, and didn’t I know there may be gold in those hills? Estelle always had wanted to go look for herself and see. I nodded, following the routine as always. Finally, as he was about to leave, he turned to me, pointed his eyes toward the floor, and said, “You know you’re just about the best friend I’ve got, right? I know I’m just this crazy old guy, but you’re my best friend. Okay?” I nodded, speechless. He left,
and we never spoke about it again.
I remember Mary and Christie telling me they were going to move into Big House, for as long as we needed them there. “You two will never be alone,” Christie had said. “The Trio will never let you down.” I had bunched my fists at my sides, trying to maintain my composure, trying to be the man of the house. Christie had come to me, wrapping her arms around me, holding me as I broke and cried into her neck, saying only, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
I remember the people of Roseland gathering for Big Eddie’s funeral. The church was full, with people spilling out onto the streets. Speakers had been set up so the pastor’s voice could reach everyone. Most people kept their heads bowed the entire time. Many had tears on their faces. We stood next to each other, my mother and I, after the service and before the cemetery. It seemed like every single Roselandian waited in line just for the opportunity to touch one of us in some way, either a handshake or a hug. A hand on my shoulder. A kiss on my cheek. “He was a great man,” they all said. “He was a wonderful man.” Even Sheriff Griggs had shown, wearing a tie. He was one of the last, and even though I wanted to ask him about the status of his investigation, I couldn’t find the words. He shook my hand gently and said, “I grew up with your daddy. He’s always been a part of my life. I’ll never understand why these things have to happen to good people.” I nodded and looked away.
But even through all these thoughts, even through every flash of my life before my eyes, as the pieces are coming together to make the whole of who I am, I think of him. Falling from the sky. Saying my name for the first time. The look on his face when he ate green clover marshmallows. The way his eyes lit up at the sunrise. The way he made a home for himself inside Little House. The way he held me. “I’m a guardian,” he told me. “I’m guarding.”
The sound of the river invades my thoughts. I’m close.
I throw a glance over my shoulder. The forest is dense, but I see a flash of clothing through the trees. Griggs is still behind me, twenty, maybe thirty yards. The rifle is still in his hands. I don’t know how many times he’s fired at me, or how many bullets he has left. It only needs to be one for everything to end. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him bury me in the river and get away with all he’s done. Everyone needs to know, and I need to be the one to tell them.
I no longer feel my ankle. I no longer feel the cuts and bruises. No burning in my chest, no lumps in my throat. I have remembered enough. I have been hurt enough.
Or so I think.
The ground beneath me suddenly gives way, and I think sinkhole before I start somersaulting down a hill instead. My shoulder smashes into the ground repeatedly, and I cry out, stars dancing across the black behind my eyes. I keep my eyes closed as I tumble, wondering just how long I’ll fall. Can’t break my leg or it’s all over, I think as my shoulder hits the ground again. Can’t break or I’ll die. Water splashes up all around me. I squeeze the closed pocketknife tightly, not wanting to let it go.
Nothing breaks, at least as far as I can tell. I reach the bottom of the hill and snap open my eyes, staring, dazed, at the stormy sky. Trees sway around the edges of my vision. Rain continues to fall, the wind gusting over my skin. I push myself up, staring back up the hill I’ve fallen down. I still hear Griggs crashing through the underbrush. Maybe he’ll fall too. Maybe he’ll fall and break his goddamn neck and this whole thing can be over. I turn my head, my brain screaming at me to get up, to get the fuck up. I’m in a clearing.
The clearing where Cal fell.
The clearing is flooded slightly, and for a moment I think it’s because the river has risen so high it has overtaken the hill in front of me and is pouring down to fill the clearing, making a lake. It’s just the ground, though. The ground is so saturated the water can no longer soak into the soil. It’s too much for the ground to handle. It’s—
Gunfire. I hear the whine of a bullet more than I feel it. The ground two feet from my left hand erupts with a spray of water. I turn my head. Griggs stands at the top of the hill behind me, cocking the rifle. He aims for me again, and I still haven’t risen. This is it. This is the moment I die. I’ve almost made it to the river. I don’t know what I would have done had I gotten there, but I wasn’t fast enough. I’ve failed. I’ve failed my test, whatever it was supposed to be.
Through the rain and up the hill, I see Griggs smile, squinting down the sight of the rifle. I spread my arms wide, water dripping from my fingertips. “Come on, then!” I scream up at him. “Come on, you fucking bastard! Do it! What the fuck are you waiting for? Do it!”
He pulls the trigger.
Nothing happens.
Again. Nothing.
He’s empty. He pulls the rifle back with a snarl of anger and starts digging through his pocket to reload.
I run.
The small crater where Cal landed is completely filled with water. I look down as I pass it. Clearly visible through the water are the blue flowers that stretch out into the shapes of wings. They flash an even more brilliant Prussian blue, lighting up the water until I’m sure it will blind me, the outline of wings almost more than I can take. It’s just a trick of my exhausted mind, I know, but for a moment I think the wings will rise from the water and Cal will be there, taking my hand in his and making this whole day disappear like it never happened. I’ll be swallowed by the blue light and I’ll never be scared or sad again.
But, of course, that does not happen.
I reach the opposite side of the clearing as Griggs starts to slide down the hill. He’s reloaded the rifle and attempts to aim it at me as I scramble up the wet grass, but he slips and lands on his back, sliding down the rest of the way.
I dig in my feet, kicking the ground with each step I take, trying to create divots so I don’t slip and fall back into the clearing. I’m halfway up the hill when the rifle fires again and the bullet hits the ground below my feet. I glance over my shoulder. Griggs is slowly walking across the clearing, taking aim again. I’ve gritted my teeth against the inevitable shot in the back when the crater again flashes blue. Griggs stutters in his steps, looking down toward the crater. There’s another pulse, so dazzling I have to close my eyes against it.
Move!
I start climbing again, ignoring the flashes of bright light behind me, not focusing on the fact that the flowers are glowing in a crater where an angel fell. I dig my hands into the soil above me and pull myself higher up the steep hill. My legs burn as I push. My arms hurt as I pull. Griggs howls behind me as the blue lights begin to fade. I’m almost at the top. I crouch, pressing my stomach against the ground. I push as hard as I can and launch myself up and reach the crest of the hill, clutching the trunk of a tree.
The lights behind me fade out completely.
Griggs is staring dumbfounded at the crater below, rubbing his eyes. Another crack of thunder rolls overhead, and he snaps his head up toward me. Rage roils over his face again, and he raises the rifle more quickly than I think possible. He gets one shot off, and I duck against the tree, the bullet striking the trunk where my head had been just a second before.
He starts after me again.
I dash down the other side of the hill, through the trees. Ahead, the noise of the river is getting louder, until it’s an almost unbearable roar. But I don’t turn back. I can’t. There is no plan beyond reaching the river where Big Eddie died. It’ll be enough. It has to be.
As I clear the tree line, I skitter to a stop.
Mile marker seventy-seven lies before me, and the area has changed.
The river is fury incarnate, swollen and snapping, moving swiftly as it tears its way through the valley. It has crested its banks, waves splashing up and over the ground that surrounds the river. Debris floats by: shrubs, branches, a young maple tree, ripped from its roots. The boulder my father’s truck struck is partially underwater on the opposite shore, split in two from the night Cal fell. I’ve never seen the river fill so quickly. Maybe the dam upstream has broken.
> A shout from behind me.
I take a step toward the river and then hesitate. There’s no way I can make it across. The river’s moving too fast, the current is too strong, the water too deep. I can’t run along the edges of the river because it has already risen. The only way out is back the way I came, but Griggs is thundering through the woods behind me.
I take another step toward the river and then another. And another. Water begins to rush around my ankles, and I feel the pull of it. I take another step, and the water is so cold my injured ankle goes almost completely numb, blanketing the pain that had started to come back. I stare down at the brown water, unable to see my reflection. The water is up to my calves when I reach the edge of the bank. Another step and the water will be up to my chest and I’ll be swept away. Maybe it’s better that way, I think. Maybe it’s better to float in the river than die at the hands of my father’s killer.
This feels like the dream, though I don’t think it is. My father’s truck is not in the river. There’s no shadowy figure standing on the roadway above, though now I know who it was. There are no feathers. There are no crosses. There is only the sky above, the rain falling down. The river rushing in front of me, hell rushing toward my back.
I turn and face what’s coming.
Once, when I was six, my father made me angry. I don’t remember what I’d
done, or what he’d said in response, but I made the decision to run away from home. I waited until the house was quiet that night. I loaded up my backpack with a pair of jeans. Three pairs of socks. Underwear. Two shirts, and a sweatshirt. I also packed a copy of The Boxcar Children, sure I could find an abandoned train car to live in and that the book would show me how. I went quietly down the stairs, jumping over the second-to-last one because it always squeaked.
I went to the kitchen and made three cheese and mustard sandwiches. I put them in a paper lunch sack, along with barbeque-flavored Bugles and strawberry Fig Newtons, each in their own baggies. I grabbed two Capri Suns out of the fridge and put them in my bag. I figured this bounty would last me at least three or four weeks, until I could figure out how to hunt for food. I contemplated taking a rifle, but they were locked up in the gun case in the garage, and I didn’t know where the keys were, so I packed my sling shot instead. And then, after further consideration, I also grabbed my boomerang that I hadn’t quite figured out how to make return just yet. I’d have time to learn.