by J. D. Palmer
The anger throbs harder than the hurt. I leave Wing’s side vowing to come back and say goodbye.
I trudge towards the faux cabin, tranquilizer gun in my hand. There are more bodies in the entrance. Richard. Chris. Tommy leans against the side of the building next to the door, eyes red and face white but for the dried streaks of blood.
I look for Beryl. I look for John and Steven. For Don. They aren’t outside.
There is a stillness inside that raises the hairs on my neck. It reeks of gunpowder and spilled alcohol and something foul that I can’t place. What the fuck? Two bodies are slumped on the table with drinks and food in front of them. Bullet casings cover the ground and blood is everywhere.
Theo sits with his back against the wall, eyes closed, hands wrapped around a wound on his side. Dave’s body lies nearby, neck throttled. I take a step and there is the clink of metal casings and Theo’s eyes flutter. I level the gun as he wakes up, eyes slow to focus on me. He doesn’t seem to see the gun in my hands.
“I tried.”
“What did you try?” Right now all I see is Wing’s body. The absence of my friends. Theo had reason to hate us all. Especially me.
“I tried to protect her.” He grimaces and looks down. There is a sticky rip as his hand peels from his side, blood making slow gasps out of a small hole.
“Ah, fuck.”
He breathes heavy breaths, nose flaring as he tries to stifle the pain.
“What happened?”
I don’t think he hears me. His breathing slows and it appears that he passed out. Then his eyes open, wild, as if in those five seconds he had time for a nightmare. Maybe he did.
“Don is… He fucked up. He made demands.” He smiles ruefully. “I didn’t agree.” He focuses on me, earnest all of a sudden. “I don’t want my momma mad. I don’t want her to be disappointed in me. I did… I did what I thought she would want.”
I don’t know what he means. But I can put two and two together. The bodies sprawled around him. His wound. Don’s absence.
“Where did they go?
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Chapter 25
I throw him a stray sweatshirt to put over the wound. Best I can do. I run outside. Scan the horizon. I don’t see anything. Shit. Shit. How do I find them? Think, Harlan, think! Where would they go? Where the fuck would they go?
I close my eyes, hands curling into fists around my hair and pull. I rip at my hair as if I can pull the answer out of the top of my head.
Think.
Okay. Okay. If they left, if they ran, it’s because they lost. Or else they would stay. So that means John and Steven and whoever else are after them. Which they would only do if Don still had Beryl.
So they are on the run. How long ago? How far did they go? Where would they go? Where would I go? I look around. Desert and mountains and nothing and nothing and nothing! Fuck! I don’t know. I would go to the mountains. Who knows what Don would do. Maybe he…
I’m lost. I’m alone. I have nothing. Before the downfall, dammit, there was a sense that nothing would go undocumented. That there were consequences for speeding through an intersection, for stealing a loaf of bread, for attacking someone. And though I know the rules have changed, I still can’t comprehend the idea that someone could inflict harm and just… disappear.
Run away.
I stop pacing and focus on Wing’s body. The wound. The direction his body is pointing. He was running after something. He was chasing Don. I sprint to the body and then past it, following the direction in which he is pointed. Come on. Come on.
There.
Blood. Dark splatters in the sand. So one of them was hurt. Good.
Or it’s John’s. Or Steven’s. Or…
I race along the path, second guessing rocks and colors but following it on a winding path through the golf course and out towards the solar fields.
A gunshot. I sprint towards the sound. I run along the rows of panels, flitting in and out of posts in an effort to catch a glimpse of anyone, anything.
I near the tower that stands at the center. The sun is high and hot and every few steps brings the temperature up dramatically. Sweat streams into my eyes, eyes already blinded by effulgent light that seems to come from everywhere. I stop, panting, and look up at the tower. An obelisk of mirrors that pierces a clear blue sky, puffs of smoke pop around it and stream towards the ground. I think someone is shooting flares. It takes me a minute to realize that it is birds immolated by the searing heat.
Dammit. It is hot down here. So hot. The solar panels throb with heat, power emanating off of them. The old scar on my neck pulses with the heat, seeming to remember and embrace the fever from long ago. Gunshots and yelling ahead.
I run.
At the tower I see Alderman and Don and Beryl and blood coats them all. Beryl’s forehead is bleeding and she is crouched on the ground. Don has a gun pressed to the back of her head. Alderman holds a pistol aimed at John. John has his hands up and is approaching the men. Steven and a couple men I don’t know stand in a half circle. Only Steven has a gun, the rest carry knives and hammers and one carries a bloody crowbar.
John is confident, hands raised up before him and a sad smile on his face. Like Don he knows the power of words. Perhaps he relies on them too much. I am on Don’s left. The men are focused on each other. I hope and pray they don’t see me as I circle around to flank them.
Don is scolding the men in front of him as if they are wayward children. He talks over John, his voice a little louder, a littler sharper, and a whole lot more passionate. He believes in what he says. In what he does. And I see the allure. I believe in fewer things today than I did before.
Don raises a hand and points at the men around him. “You are living so small. You are living SO SMALL!” He makes eye contact with the group. No one moves. “We have a chance to do something great and you spit in God’s eye. You get it, right? We take you in, give you a chance to do something great, to go down in HISTORY as the men who gave humankind a second chance. And you fucking do this.”
He shakes his head. I stop moving, waiting for him to begin speaking again to disguise my footsteps. John takes another step forward. “Don. Please. We still have the capability to do what you speak of. But we have to do it in the right way. We can’t do it like this.”
Don spits. “There is no other way. This is a sacrifice we are all making!”
I don’t understand what he means and apparently no one else does, either. Silence. Alderman is fidgeting, his shirt soaked through with sweat.
Don coats his voice with disgust. “So how long do you want to stand here in this inferno pointing guns at each other?”
“Just let Beryl go. Let her go and you can walk away.” John speaks the words but I plan on making him a liar. I’m behind Don’s left side now, about twenty feet away. I can’t take a chance on stepping out and having John or the others give me away. As soon as I see a chance to take Don down I will have to sprint.
“I ain’t letting her go. And if you try to take her, or me, I’ll kill her first. How does that sound?”
John changes tactics. “Where will you go?”
Don shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”
The men lapse into another silence. They know that there will be no walking away from here, neither side willing to walk away from Beryl. I wonder how many bullets each has left. I wonder if Steven is willing to kill. I know John won’t.
I see it a split second before Alderman. A tiger hugs the wall as it comes around the corner with a mouthful of feathers. It stops and appraises the group, a silent spectator waiting for bloodshed.
“The fuck is that?” Alderman swings his gun to point at the tiger, hysteria in his voice. Everyone looks. I take the opportunity. I fly across the sand, hands open, eyes watching the trigger finger of Don’s hand. I hit him hard, crashing into him in a dive, outstretched hands pushing at his arm as we go down. The gun goes off and there is the shattering of gla
ss. The trough above us disintegrates and for a second our little battlefield is filled with shards of light, sunlight bouncing and shimmering and dancing like a trillion jagged fireflies.
I grapple with Don, one arm pinning the gun to the ground, the other punching at his face. He rolls and does his best to deflect my blows, his face bloody. I swing wildly, my fist bouncing off the top of his head. I’m screaming. Don rolls and I try to push him down, my shoulder spiking in agony as it is twisted. I crumple on top of Don, using my body weight to keep the gun pinned to the ground. I sneak a look at Alderman. He is staring at me in horror, gun still pointed at the tiger, unsure of how to act. He starts to turn to me and another gunshot rings out. Alderman’s shoulder blossoms red and he lets out a tiny gasp. Another shot from Steven goes wide. Alderman starts pulling the trigger, not aiming at anything, just mindlessly shooting as he panics. Steven shoots again and Alderman’s head snaps backwards, blood and sweat spraying into the sky as he topples over.
I pry the gun away from Don and stand up. The world vibrates around me and I can’t seem to hear anything. All I see is Don. All I feel is the gun in my hand. I point it at his head as he sits up. He looks up and into my eyes as I pull the trigger.
It clicks.
One shot. That’s all he had, one last bit of insurance to take Beryl down with him. I strike him across the face with the gun.
“Harlan. Don’t.”
I turn. John is sitting on the ground, his face white. Blood coats his white button-up and spreads across his chest. Steven is ripping off part of his shirt to staunch the wound. The man is shot and still he only has eyes for the scene in front of him.
“John…” I stare at the wound. Not him, too. I swivel back to Don.
“Harlan. Don’t kill him.”
“Are you kidding me?” I can’t help it, I have to say it. Beryl stalks past me and goes to Alderman’s body. She takes his gun and steps towards Don.
“Beryl. Harlan. Please. Just wait. Please.”
He pleads with us, passionately and with conviction, bringing Beryl to a halt. I look at Don. The man is watching us, eyes darting to and fro as he waits to see which executioner steps forward.
“Please wait.”
John’s words fade into mumbles as he loses consciousness. I think of the man in the field who murdered the man he held responsible for the death of his family. How John thought we should have saved him. God, the man thinks all life is precious. That everything is redeemable. I’m not willing to pay the price to give them the chance.
I hold out my hand and slowly take the gun from Beryl. She puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye before giving a nod. We will carry this burden together. Don sees this and starts to scoot backwards.
“No, no! Don’t!”
I raise the gun.
“You’ll lose him if you do this.” I turn to look at Steven, still crouched over John’s body.
“It needs to be done.”
He nods. “I know. But not now. Not here. Trust in John.”
He looks me in the eyes and holds my gaze, a silent plea on behalf of his wounded brother. I am angry. And the longer I wait the less this is killing and the more it is murder. Is there a difference?
In the end I place my need for friends over my bloodlust. For now. I walk Don back towards Camelot with a gun to his head and hope that he tries to run. Steven and the other man carry John between them, Beryl putting pressure on his wound.
Behind us Caesar approaches Alderman’s body.
John lives. The bullet went in beneath his clavicle and out his back. His shoulder blade is broken and Doctor Wong worries that there might be bullet fragments left behind. He loses a lot of blood but we take turns donating. Helps that we all have the same type.
Theo is in worse shape. I help Doctor Wong dig out the bullet in his side. Wong stitches him up and administers medicine and tells me how to bandage the wound, when to give painkillers and when to give antibiotics. Then five horrible days and nights in which we wait to see if he will live.
He does.
Most of the men had left when the violence broke out between Theo and Don, choosing to run rather than pick sides between death or more death. And in the morning the doctor is gone. He fulfilled his Hippocratic oath and then chose to find a life separate from ours. I understand, I guess. We took hope away from him.
After five more days Theo is lucid enough to witness a small trial. We sit in a circle, a chained Don present as well, and discuss his actions. Theo shares the story of the clubhouse. How he and Alderman and Dave were given guns and told to be ready to shoot those who stood against him. How John tried to start a discussion. How Dave pulled a gun first. How Theo turned on his former friends. How Wing showed up and drove the men away. How Don killed him.
Don is allowed to say his piece. He defends his actions under the “greater good” pretense but his magic is gone. He is broken, beaten, his arguments lacking vigor. Now he stutters and makes no eye contact.
We discuss punishment. For the second time in Camelot we discuss an execution. All of Don’t arguments for why I should have been killed are applicable to him. The irony is not lost.
“I believe he must die. I don’t think he will change and I believe if left alive he will seek us out to do harm. I believe that his actions merit this punishment.”
We vote and even John raises his hand to make it unanimous. I think he knows that I would kill Don regardless.
I see why he begged to do it this way. It’s civilized. It’s less animalistic. More time to examine the situation from all angles and to understand the ramifications. He is trying to hold on to the civilized part of ourselves. Death would be a bad habit to get into.
I get it.
But we won’t always have time, or the luxury for this. Next time I won’t go through a trial. I hope there isn’t a next time.
I set up a noose on a tree near where Don shot Jimmy. Bullets are precious. Stuart’s voice whispers in my ear. Damn him.
And damn this. All this effort to have a trial and be civilized and it will still end the same way. Death begets death begets death. Is this humane?
Steven helps me bring him out. Beryl stands nearby. I don’t know if she wishes to see him die or if it is to support me. Don struggles and shouts and makes a mess of things. This is awkward. He is bound but he still kicks and thrashes and contorts his body. Steven and I look at each other. What do we do? Beat him into submission before killing him? Implore him to face his death with dignity?
I should have put a bullet in his head.
I poke him with a tranquilizer dart and he goes unconscious. Steven and I stand over his prone body. It’s weird, almost more cruel than anything else. I’d want to be awake if I was going to die. To be able to soak in the last seconds of life, to see the sun or the sky or a bird or a blade of grass. To kill someone when they sleep seems somehow sinister.
Should I let him wake up? Should I give him another day?
Fuck that. This is why I should have killed him before. Time has clouded our minds and I feel more a murderer now than out on the sand.
I fit the noose around his neck and hoist his body up. I tie the rope and stick around long enough to watch his face turn purple, long enough to see his body stop twitching.
Long enough.
Chapter 26
I dig Wing’s grave by myself. I talk to him as I work, telling him of how the others are doing and how surprised I was by Theo. I tell him about Montana and Jessica and my child. I tell him thank you.
Then I go and get drunk.
Beryl seeks me out. She isn’t talking much, can’t tell if she has regressed with the recent trauma or if she is just a quiet person. Either way I appreciate both her presence and her silence. I know that anyone else, especially someone like John, would feel the need to analyze and diagnose the shit that has happened. To talk about how killing feels or should feel or to make sure I understand the justice of it all.
I don’t care about it.
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I don’t fucking care. I don’t think about Don and his death at my, or our, hands. Maybe that’s something I should find disturbing. In movies you saw people dealing with the trauma of death, war movies in which they had a breakdown or suffered from an emotional backlash.
I’m mainly homesick.
I want to leave right now. It’s late summer and already showing the signs of fall. And goddammit I’m so sick of the desert. I’m sick of the heat, the sand, and the miles and miles of simple houses and fences and nothing but brown. I miss water, and green, and trees, and skies that change every five minutes. I miss feeling safe.
But I can’t leave these guys, not with their injuries. I couldn’t do that to Wing’s memory. And they are my friends. Mostly. Theo is still an enigma. I wonder if he remembers telling me he didn’t want to disappoint his mother.
The days fall into a routine. I try to stay as busy as I can. I work in the greenhouses. Or I forage for canned food and water. Or I round up guns and ammunition and try to find gas cans. The others see me packing and stockpiling boxes by the cars outside and it makes them nervous. They think I might be gone one morning and it gives me a little spot of joy on my dark heart that I am needed.
I tell them about the cats. Had they not seen the tiger I know they wouldn’t believe me. Shit, I wouldn’t. But now we go everywhere in pairs. Guns and tranquilizers and padded clothing. I don’t think we will see Caesar anymore.
I hope.
Beryl and I work together. John and Theo stay behind and mend. Steven tends to stick with his brother, but occasionally he’ll come along with us. Or he goes with Josey.
Josey is interesting. Short and thin and hairy. He is from Vegas but walks and talks like a cowboy. When we got home after the fight and the surgeries were done and I was finally able to collapse into a chair, he sought me out. He walked up and stuck a hand out and introduced himself. I had met him before but there was more intention in this moment.