“Shut up!”
I jiggled the shift again, slamming my foot on the brake. The deafening sound from the other engine was gone. It was possible he’d already turned around and left. The third time I turned the keys the engine coughed, turned over, coughed again. Then a hum.
“Yes!” I looked over at Penny, triumphant, expecting her to crow. She was popping the lock on her door, pushing it open to the dark.
“Penny!” Something white hot expanded in my chest, filling my throat. I grabbed at her wildly, yanking strands of black hair, wrenching her head back before she pulled away. “Stop!”
I saw it then. The zombie, stopped several yards away. It was hard to tell against the white lights, but I couldn’t make out the shape of a man behind the wheel. I fumbled with my own seat belt and pushed open the door, surprised to be out of the car and flying around the bed of the Ford, head pounding and chest aching, the headlights from both cars casting a sphere of light before we were pushing into dark. I could just make out Penny’s legs up ahead, scissoring against the dark, her hair whipping behind her as she ran. Who knew she could move so fast?
“Penny!”
He came out of nowhere, powerful legs and feet pounding into the dirt, bursting out of the night like a linebacker. I felt the heavy animal crash of muscle and bone before we both slammed into the ground, the air knocked out of my chest. The back of my head hit gravel, once, twice—a blinding white light, the reverberations of impact in my skull and teeth. A heavy hand closed around my neck, tightening. Air. Liquid copper filled my mouth. From somewhere I heard the puppy whimpering again, only to realize it wasn’t the dog at all, but me. I had bitten through the gummy inside of my cheek. The hand around my neck loosened, allowing me to gasp once before tightening again. The man lifted me off the ground by the throat and slammed me back down. The whimpering ceased. I felt my eyes bulge, my vision blurring, wetness spilling down my cheeks. I wanted desperately to cough. I gurgled short, desperate little sounds. Lamb. The thought was bigger than fear, filling up my chest like water. He doesn’t even know where you are. The hand at my neck dropped away. I opened my mouth to scream.
I saw his fist an instant before it exploded into my face.
1
Let me tell you about desert people.
26
I came to under the sandman’s heavy weight crushing my chest. Air. He moved his right hand back around my throat and spider-walked it to my cheek, pressing my face into the gravel. I gave in to a wild urge to laugh, sucking sand into my mouth, the gravel cutting a million tiny lacerations into the side of my face, already a raw wound. A warm breeze licked across my bare stomach. The sandman spread a warm, rough hand across my waist, unbuttoning the waistband of my jeans. I bucked underneath him, sucking in more sand, and managed to twist my face around, the tiny rocks digging into the back of my skull. His face shimmered above me behind a veil of tears. Above his sand-colored head the sky was black as velvet, a spattering of white specks that shimmered into focus and dissolved with each blink. The sandman pushed down my jeans, his hand tangling in my underwear. He pushed two rough fingers inside me, where no man had ever been. My body flushed hot, my face filling with blood. The lower half of my body clenched as if it alone could stop time, freeze it until something more could be done. My ears were muffled, but I heard screams inside my head, my ragged gasp every time his fingers moved. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to direct my will like a knife, sawing myself off at the belly. He removed his hand to fumble at his own clothing, the distinctive metallic jangle of his belt being undone. I was waking up to the sound, struggling underneath his weight with renewed vigor. He was breathing heavily, we both were, just animals scrambling in the dirt. He pulled something out of his pants and held it in his palm as if it were precious: an emerald, a peach. Someone was making sad, squeaking sounds. He leaned over, the tips of his sand-colored hair against my cheek sweet with some lingering smoke, his bare, soft stomach pressing into my own. He lowered his mouth to my neck and slid his rough, wet tongue against my throat. He was going to tell me what special thing he had brought me, all the gifts I would receive, again and again. He guided himself between my thighs and I looked to see a flash of something heavy rushing by his right ear, too fast to comprehend—
THWACK—
The sandman made an umph, lurching heavily atop me. Penny stood above us in the rim of shadow where our headlights met night, heaving a long, weighty object up behind her head. I tried to use my voice but found it misplaced, my mouth soundless. Penny brought it down again—THWACK—landing meatily on his shoulder. His whole body jerked, the mass pressed against my thigh softening, pouring liquid onto me, wetting my jeans.
THWACK—
He howled now, angry. I pushed against his shoulders, his heavy head dipping onto my chest. I struggled to wiggle myself free from underneath, my jeans tangling around my knees. I kicked back against the dirt, leveraging his weight.
THWACK—
Penny raised the tire iron again, thwack, his shoulder, thwack, his hip. He twisted, jerked, popped. A spasm electrified his leg. I kicked again, finally managing to get out from underneath him, trying to yank up the waistband of my pants. There was no feeling in my hands, they blundered uselessly, all ten fingers made of rubber. The man was on all fours now, grabbing for Penny’s ankle. I scrambled across the distance and kicked out, connecting with his side as he reared up under the arc of Penny’s swing, her arms bringing down the iron too fast—a crunch that made me want to hurl. He groaned and fell forward, curling onto his side, his belt still undone, his penis flopping free from the front of his jeans. He made a gesture as if gathering the strength to rise, and Penny pulled the iron back, suddenly so strong, so sure. It connected with his skull with a loud, wet CRACK. He went very still.
I scrambled to my feet, unsteady, and reached for Penny, surprised to find my hands grasping uselessly at air. She was staring at his immobile form, the tire iron hanging by her side. I was afraid to touch her. Penny, always so familiar, seemed altered—but we were both unrecognizable now, we would be unrecognizable forever. A part of me, afraid that if I disturbed her in this fervor, she might spin around and bring the tire iron down on me. I squeezed my hands together, willing them to return. I tried again and managed to brush the wilted appendage against Penny’s bare arm. A heat was coming from her, as if a fire had been lit inside. She transferred the tire iron to her other hand. I tried pulling at her gently, but my hands, my hands. The man moaned in the dirt. I watched Penny watch him with an expression I couldn’t bear, her arm stiffening. I tried to pull her.
“Look at me.”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. Her eyes were black, deep as oil wells. I swallowed. Penny seemed to understand, looking away. I took a step back toward the truck, then another, surprised that my legs still worked. I reversed slow and steady in the relative darkness until I was able to turn around, making for the truck’s feeble headlights. It was exactly where we left it, the engine running, both doors open. My pants were slipping down again. I managed to hook my rubber thumbs in the belt loops and wiggle them up. I walked around to the driver’s side of the truck and climbed in. There was no sense of how much time had passed, how much of it still could, what was real. I glanced down at the milk crate but couldn’t make anything out. I leaned over so far in my seat that my nose nearly touched the puppy’s small, dry snout. He was sitting up, his ears pricked forward, his eyes shining and alert. He no longer made any sound. This dog would never be a good dog in all its life. He already knew too much about people.
When I straightened, I saw Penny walking back toward the truck, the long, heavy object still in her hand. I waited while she climbed in. She laid the tire iron across her knees and I tried not to stare at the glossy slick on one end. She shut the door. The man was still lying on the ground, a dark shape at the edge of the boundary where light melted into dark. A minute passed, maybe an hour. My ears p
opped. Finally Penny picked up my right hand, laying it on the shift. It was as if my own hands had been surgically removed, and these sewn onto my wrists as replacements. I turned them over and found blood drying in their mounts and valleys, blood in the indentations, their braided lines. Had it really only been a few nights ago that Penny and I had sat on her bed among a pile of library books, the windows darkened outside? We lined up beer cans on the nightstand as we emptied them, flipping back and forth in the pages of the books for reference. She ran the tip of a sharpened pencil across the lines of my palm, articulating all we had learned. This is your heart line. This is your fate. My hands were stiff now, but they would obey. I leaned forward to shut my door, reaching for the wheel.
I drove us away from that place, heading back the way we came.
30
I woke up in the dark, gasping for air. You’re home. I had a scream lodged in my throat and forced myself to swallow it. The telephone was ringing down the hall. I kicked free from the sheets; Wolf, snoring like deadweight across my ankles, snuffled in protest. I wanted to reach the phone before Lamb turned on all the lights and stood blinking in his doorway, looking wounded, but by the time I made it out of my room the ringing had stopped. I remained suspended in the hall, uncertain how to proceed. I reached up to feel the side of my face, the swollen cheek, the row of spiky stitches above my engorged eye. Nothing forgiven in sleep.
I felt for the banister in the dark and descended the stairs by feel alone. In the kitchen, the glowing numerals on the oven read half past three. The window above the sink was still black, the mountain an inky mass behind the fence. These were the quiet hours preceding the diner’s morning rush; Penny’s last chance to refill napkin dispensers and salt shakers, to place calls to anyone still awake. I knew it was Penny calling, and I was fairly certain she would try again. I turned on the kitchen light. The world outside the windows disappeared. I opened our freezer and took down the coffee, ladling out spoons of grounds, setting the machine to brew. I rooted around for one of Lamb’s ice packs. I wrapped it in a paper towel and held it gently against my face. When the phone rang again, I snatched it off the cradle on the first ring.
“Penny.” I recognized the bustling diner sounds in the background, the overnight cook yelling an order. So there would be no quiet hour for either one of us. “I tried calling earlier.” I tucked the phone into my shoulder, hesitating. “I wasn’t sure how—”
“Cale?” In the quiet of our kitchen, Jake’s voice boomed over the line. “We need you to cover down here. I’ve been here since midnight and if I don’t get home soon, Ellen’s going to have my ass.”
“What? Where’s Penny?”
“Never showed. Flat tire or something.”
“She doesn’t have a car!”
“Whatever it is, we need you.”
“She actually said that? A flat tire?”
“She didn’t say anything. Didn’t show up and she’s not answering her phone. We’re getting backed up already. Clara can’t make it in until lunch. You’ll be on your own for a few hours.”
I heard a noise behind me in our own kitchen and spun around. Wolf in the doorway, his ears pricked. I hadn’t even heard him coming down the stairs.
“Jake, did you call a few minutes ago? Someone just called and hung up. I thought it was her.”
“Wasn’t me. Take that to table four,” Jake’s voice became muffled, already distracted by someone else. He came back on the line. “I’ve got to go. Hurry, would you?”
He hung up but I waited on the line, as if Jake might pick up again, or Penny, someone who might offer an explanation I could understand. I cleared the line and dialed her number, the rich, sharp smell of fresh coffee suffusing the kitchen. Why hadn’t I bothered to leave her a message earlier, no matter how awkward it felt? I listened to her voicemail and waited for the beep.
“Penny. I’m going to the diner to cover for you. Where are you? Call me there.” I held on to the receiver a moment more, trying to muster some arrangement of words to convey my growing unease. Wolf was still watching from the doorway. Since returning from Carr he had kept me close in his sights, vigilant to my new distress, the odd hours. I hung up the phone, staring back at him. I had learned early the rules of beasts; chief among them, to never look a dog in the eyes. But I did it anyway, searching Wolf’s gaze for any animal wisdom he might be willing to share.
Wolf woofed softly, shook himself, and trotted down the hall to wait by the stairs. I couldn’t tell if he understood or he was merely asking to be escorted back to our comfortable bed, our assured life—his eminent tenure in a formerly happy home.
What I mean to say is, I have tried to find my blame in this many times, and though some days it seems to be everywhere, other days it’s difficult to locate the exact pieces, like a plane breaking apart over the ocean, the wreckage strewn and lost.
28
We stopped at a gas station in Nye, halfway back to Pomoc. A small, shuttered convenience stand with two pumps locked up for the night. I followed Penny to the back of the lot where a broken hook latch offered easy access to a dingy bathroom, the smell of sewage permeating the air. The toilet was leaking, leaving us to move through puddles in our boots. Penny tore off a handful of paper towels from a roll propped against the windowsill and ran them under the cold tap, wiping the soggy mass over flecks of dried blood on her bare arms. I watched our warped reflections in the mirror: one of us a blur of useful color, the other a static pillar, our faces and hands perverted in the tin.
Penny stepped in front of me with another handful of wet paper towels dripping on the floor. Up close, her forehead was damp, her breath irregular. She brought the towels to my face, dabbing my cheek. The water trickled down my neck, ice cold. Her eyes were still a sticky chasm.
“Should we call the cops?” My voice raw.
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t know.” I was surprised some portion of my brain was still sifting details, processing action. How had we gotten here? I rolled my eyes around the bathroom, gathering clues: the harsh light and stained paint, the familiar citrus scent of Penny’s shampoo as she bent her head near mine, absorbed in the practical task of cleaning up blood. The entire right side of my face was throbbing, but Penny still looked beautiful; her exquisite face was unmarred. She bore no physical change from the events of the evening, no by-product of terror beyond the characteristic flush of her cheeks. Yet it was her beauty that had been the catalyst for all disaster. It worked on men like a disease.
“Why did you get out of the truck?”
Penny rubbed harder than necessary at a spot of blood on my arm. “You were right about that woman. She’ll forget our names.” She turned away to run the faucet, bringing a fresh handful of sopping towels to my brow, wincing as she laid it on the wound, working the towel gently against the crusting blood. I hissed, blinking through the pain. Underneath her hands, the right side of my face felt hot and tight. “And the—her son,” Penny continued, “he might not remember us.”
He might not remember anything ever again. He might not live to forget. I could still hear the wet crack of the tire iron connecting with his skull. I had been bounced around, too; my head felt like a broken sugar bowl, all the jumbled pieces tied together in a cloth napkin. But there were things I knew I would never forget—the heavy weight of his bones on top of mine, the contortion of his mouth. His eyes in the trailer the first time I saw them, that deep, piercing blue.
Penny folded a dry towel into a square and held it lightly to my brow, raising my hand to keep it in place. She threw the stained paper towels in the trash, pulled her mass of long hair high up on her head in a series of quick, deft movements. I leaned over the sink, trying to make out the wound in the mirror, but the image was too distorted; it was impossible to tell where my face ended and the damage began. A tepid exploration with my fingers revealed a sore, swollen protrusion. There was no
way Lamb wouldn’t notice.
We left the bathroom. Penny disappeared into the back of the lot by the air pressure machines. When she emerged, she was pulling a long green water hose. I took the tire iron from the front seat and held it out without a word, turning it in the spray. When it was done she aimed the nozzle at the truck, paying special attention to the undercarriage, the tires and bumpers. The iron was heavy in my hand; I imagined running with it as fast as Penny had, lifting it with her precision, bringing it down again and again. Penny was taller than me, stronger maybe, though not by much. At the diner we both carried the same number of plates and lifted heavy boxes of stock, stacked chairs and tables after closing. It was something else powering her through those moments, some incubating fury she had never shown.
Penny finished hosing off the truck and rinsed her shoes. Then she pointed the spray at me. I lifted one foot, then another, my boots soaked through. When Penny was satisfied she dragged the hose away, and I stepped over the rivulets of muddy water streaming from the truck’s tires down the drive. I climbed in the driver’s seat and replaced the tire iron behind the seat. The puppy had curled itself up into a tight ball at the bottom of the carton, his face hidden from view. Even when Penny returned and slammed her door shut, he refused to stir.
I swung the truck back around to the highway. With my eye swollen shut, my vision doubled from one moment to the next, the road shimmering under tenuous moonlight. I switched lanes, Penny checking the shoulder. There was a smear of blood on the steering wheel I hoped Penny wouldn’t notice. But of course we would miss things all over. Penny reached over and laid a finger on my wrist.
“What?”
“You’re shaking,” she said.
I looked down at my hands. It was a small tremor, deepening under our fixed attention. I flexed both hands, tightening my grip on the wheel. Penny seemed to have relaxed a degree, though she kept close attention on the side mirrors, as if the zombie might return at any minute, rushing up behind us to light up the road. The whole way back to the Crossroads I watched the tremor in my hands, waiting for it to still. I didn’t need to check Penny’s to know that they were fine. Penny, who had shed her human skin and become, for an instant, towering and mythic.
A Prayer for Travelers Page 13