“Almost there,” Micah says in my ear.
I nod, and then a weight slams into my back and I go sprawling face-first into the dust. Micah yells and I roll over to tell him I’m fine, just in time to watch a shake jump forward and bury its teeth in my brother’s neck.
I open my mouth to scream and nothing comes out. The shakes are all around me, ahead of me and behind, surging forward. I crawl through them, knocking against feet and limbs, clawing my way toward Micah as the air explodes with distant gunshots and shrieks. My hand finds my brother’s leg and his body is crowded with shakes. My gun goes off, again and again; I can’t feel the trigger but I shoot until I’m out of bullets and the only shake left on Micah is the one at his throat. I drop my gun so I can use both hands to grab the shake’s head away from Micah; he bites the air frantically, neck veins bulging. His hands scrape at my face and chest while I hold him off; he’s so heavy and his breath is like rotting meat and fresh blood. I scream into his face and shove my thumbs into his eyes. The shake howls and throws his head back, blinded and enraged. I grab my blade from my belt and stab him in the chest. His own weight pushes the knife deeper; blood drips down my hand and wrist and I twist the blade until he stops thrashing.
Somewhere close I hear gunshots and Ben yelling and the stamping of boots, but I don’t care about any of that. I roll the shake off me and crawl over to my brother. He’s lying on his back, his chest moving rapidly up and down and one hand clutching his throat. His blood has soaked through his shirt and pooled beneath his head, a shining red halo. Dead shakes surround him, riddled with bullet holes I don’t remember causing.
I crouch by my brother and cover his hand with my own. He’s so pale that his blood looks shockingly red, like it’s glowing. His neck is slippery and warm where I can feel it beneath his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes finding mine.
“You’re gonna be fine.”
“Liar.” Always, always the bone-deep truth.
“Just hold on, Micah.”
“I can’t, Will. I just wanted to say good-bye.” His hand beneath mine goes slack and slips off his neck.
“No,” I tell him firmly. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” I clamp my hand over his wound, feeling hot blood welling up between the rough edges of his torn skin.
“Let go, Will.”
“I can’t.”
“Please. It hurts, and I’m tired.”
“I won’t let you die. This is my—this is because of me.”
“Don’t think like that.” His breathing is slowing down, becoming ragged. I press harder on his neck, but the blood seeps out between my fingers.
“I see Ma.” Micah’s eyes are unfocused, cloudy.
“I saw her, too.”
“Love.” His voice is so soft I can barely hear it.
I press my lips together. He’s waiting for me to say it, waiting to hear it so he can go. Micah’s eyes meet mine.
“Love.” My hand drops.
56.
There’s a high-pitched keening in my ears that goes on and on. I take a sobbing breath and the sound stops and I realize it was me. I reach for Micah’s hand and hold it to my brow, rocking back and forth. If I cry hard enough, if my heart breaks enough, it won’t be true.
“It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.” It’s only in my mind; it has to be. My brother can’t be dead.
“Daisy.”
The name breaks through the haze. Sam must have been yelling for some time, or he wouldn’t dare use that name. I lift my head up and find the others standing watch over me. Ben’s chest is soaked with blood and Curtis is holding his arm awkwardly. Sam’s shirt is torn and tears run down his face, leaving streaks in the dirt. Pa stands away from the others, watching stone-faced and silent.
“Willie,” Sam says thickly, and his face is a mask of anguish. “Are you all right?”
“It’s not real,” I say, in a reasonable tone. I smooth back my brother’s dark hair, tucking it off of his face. Sam glances back at Curtis and Ben. They must have decided he would do the talking.
“Willie.” Sam looks at me with pity and tears in his eyes. “He’s gone.”
“Don’t.” I close my eyes.
“Willie, we can’t stay here.”
“Give her a little longer,” I hear Pa say. “Let her say good-bye.” There’s a rustle, and he kneels down next to me.
“This is your fault,” I say quietly. “If you hadn’t left—this is all your fault.” I say the words to Pa, but I mean them for myself.
“I’m sorry,” Pa says.
“Too late,” I whisper. “It’s all too late.”
Pa reaches out to me, but I flinch away.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap at him.
His hand falls back slowly and comes to rest on Micah’s rifle, half hidden in the dirt where he dropped it. I stiffen, staring at his hand.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be,” I say, unsurprised and numb. Pa looks down, refusing to meet my eyes.
“You gonna shoot me, Pa? Leave us both here to rot?”
Pa swallows. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“It should’ve been you,” I say bitterly. “It should’ve been you, not Micah.”
“You won’t get no argument from me,” he says.
Pa’s hand circles the rifle and he draws it to him. From above us I hear the unmistakable clink of guns being raised as Ben and Curtis level their weapons at Pa. I look at my father and I feel nothing; there’s no love there, but no hate, either, just an empty sort of pity. He looks back at me with the dull eyes of a man who gave up on himself a long time ago, and I think I understand.
“No, you’re not gonna shoot. You just want us to kill you. Is that it?” I ask him.
“Better to die here than hang in Glory,” Pa says. “Let me go out with some dignity. Let me die by my son.”
“Willie?” Curtis asks tentatively. I glance up, see them standing there, guns cocked and waiting for direction. Micah’s hand is heavy in mine, made heavier by guilt.
“He ain’t worth your bullets.”
There’s no point to killing Pa. His life is its own punishment.
“Just go,” I tell him. “Take the gun and go. I’m done with you. Go drink yourself into the ground or die in the desert, I don’t care.”
Micah’s dead. I’m dying. There’s no one left to protect. The twins are young; they’ll forget us, move on. None of it matters anymore, there’s no point now. It’s over.
I look at Pa, look straight into eyes that are just like mine. “Don’t ever come back to Glory, not ever. Just disappear like you always do. Go and stay gone. Don’t use your name, don’t even think it. Harrison Wilcox is dead, you hear me? You’re dead. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
I bend over my brother, clutching his hand to my cheek, feeling the warmth leaving his body. I don’t look up, don’t watch my father walk away from me for the last time.
“Willie,” Curtis says when the soft footsteps have faded away. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “We have to go. More will come.”
I slowly let Micah’s hand fall away, tucking it gently against his side. Sam helps me to my feet and I lean heavily on him and see for the first time the carnage spread out around us. There are bodies everywhere, strewn across the red dirt like some beast’s innards. My knife is still sticking out of the chest of the one I killed; I pull it out and it’s slippery in my hand. This can’t be all the shakes left in Silver; Curtis is right, there are more out there and the smell of blood will have them running.
“I can’t leave him like this,” I say.
“Will—”
“I can’t leave his body here for the shakes. They’ll turn it inside out, Sam, I won’t let that happen to my brother.”
“We don’t have time to bury him,” Curtis says gently.
“Burn him,” Ben says. I look up, but he won’t meet my eyes. “It’s all we can do.”
Sam looks gutted, but I’m beyond that now. I’m beyond sick and heartbroken and I’m beyond help.
“Do it,” I say.
The only thing I take is the damn pocket watch that doesn’t even run. Micah’s sleeve catches fire easily, like it was waiting all along for the flame. His clothes burn quickly, his shirt threadbare and thin from how often I’ve washed it. He doesn’t look peaceful; people always say that about the dead. Micah doesn’t look peaceful, he doesn’t look like he’s sleeping, he looks empty and pale and strange. He looks lonely. He looks dead.
It’s hard to stay standing, even with Sam’s help, but I do it for Micah. I watch long enough to make sure he’ll be safe from the shakes. Sam and Curtis stand on either side of me and Ben is close at my back, three attentive guards to watch over me. It’s kind, their concern, but unnecessary; nothing can hurt me anymore. The feeling I had, the badness, it’s over and done. All I feel now is hollow.
My face is tight with dried tears, but I don’t remember when I stopped crying. I turn away from Micah’s body, the smell making me choke back bile.
“We have to go now, Will,” Sam says gently.
“I know,” I say, and pat his shoulder. “Be safe.”
He looks at me, confused, and I almost smile; he thinks I’m going with them. It’s too late for that. Micah’s gone, Pa’s gone, it’s all too late. I let go of Sam and reel back, my body folding in on itself. Ben catches me by the arms and slowly lowers me until I’m sitting on the ground.
“Willie, are you all right?” Sam kneels in front of me. “What is it?”
My brother is dead and it’s my fault. I’m turning into what killed him. I don’t know how to answer, so instead I blink at him.
“Give this to the twins.” I hold out the pocket watch and the few paltry dollars from Pa. “Tell them that I love them and take them to Elsie. She’ll know what to do.”
“I don’t understand—”
“You should go now,” I say slowly, my tongue thick.
“Will, can you hear me?”
“What’s wrong with her?” Ben sounds concerned, and it’s sweet of him to care. I don’t deserve that.
“I lied,” I tell Sam. My voice sounds very loud in my ears. “I don’t have any money.” I lift my head up to find Curtis. “I can’t pay you.”
“That—that don’t matter now,” Curtis says.
“You were right about me,” I say to Ben. “You were right from the get-go.” He frowns at me, his mouth tight.
I wish they would just go. I don’t want to get up. I can’t walk anymore. I don’t want anxious faces looking over with their pitying eyes and their worried voices. I want to be alone with my grief and my guilt.
“Will, come on now, it’s time to get up.” Sam pats me on the shoulder twice, but I brush him off.
“No,” I say, the word coming out slurred. No to getting up. No to pressing on. No to everything. This is my line in the sand; this where I stop fighting. My vision is starting to go gray and dim, like all the color is being washed from the world.
“I think she’s in shock,” Sam says, glancing back.
“That ain’t it,” Ben says, suddenly wary. He kneels down and pushes Sam out of the way. “Look at me,” he says, grasping my chin in his hand. “Were you bitten?”
I try to focus on his face, but it’s difficult. My eyes are blurring in and out, the world narrowing to two small pinpoints.
“Were you bitten?”
I find this outrageously funny, and I can’t help but laugh. They don’t get the joke; I peel back my sleeve and shove my hand out so they can see what’s so funny.
Sam hisses in his breath. “You said it was healing.”
“I told you I’m a liar.” The Garretts back up, looking at me in horror, and that only makes me laugh the harder.
“Let me see it,” Sam says, but Curtis grabs him by the shoulders.
“Don’t,” he says roughly. “Don’t touch her.”
The laughter dies in my throat.
“How long?” Ben asks, stone-faced.
“Long enough,” I say.
“You should have told us,” Curtis says.
“Would you have kept going if I did?” He doesn’t speak, and that’s answer enough. “Don’t matter now, anyhows,” I say quietly, watching the flames lick at my brother’s body. “It were all for nothing.”
“Willie—” Sam starts.
“There’s nothing can be done, Sam. There’s nothing left to say.”
“Do you . . .” Ben clears his throat. “Do you want us to help you along?”
I meet his gaze, and his face looks pained. It’s a kind thing to ask, a kind thing to offer, this small mercy. But I don’t want that from Ben, I don’t want his last memory of me to be bloody.
“Thank you,” I say, “but I can take care of it well enough on my lonesome.”
The three of them stare at me and the weight of their combined gaze presses me deeper into the sand.
“You should go,” I say, swaying. “It ain’t safe.”
“No,” Sam says. “Willie, we can’t leave you—”
“Curtis, please,” I say, closing my eyes.
“Come on,” Curtis says, pulling Sam away. “There’s nothing we can do.”
I keep my eyes shut so I don’t have to see Sam struggle against Curtis. When I open them, only Ben is there.
“Go,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Me too.”
“I wish . . . I wish it weren’t ending this way. But I’m glad to know you.”
“Good-bye, Ben.”
“Good-bye, Willie.”
I lie back in the sand as he walks away, turning my face against the sun. The ground is hot beneath me and smoke drifts into my nostrils as I curl up on my side and wait for my brother to turn into ash.
57.
I’m cold when I start to move again. Nothing is left of Micah but charred bones and bits of buckle. I look at the mess of darkened sand and ashes, but it doesn’t sicken me; that is not my brother. Not anymore.
I don’t know where I’m going, only that I don’t want to be in this spot anymore, where Micah stopped being Micah, where his blood is still soaking into the sand. It hurts my joints to walk, it hurts my chest to breath, but I drag myself forward, one foot in front of another. My skin is on fire and when I try to drink something my stomach rebels and I keel over, retching into the sand. My vision is dark and narrow, and I can’t tell which direction I’m headed or if I’m still on the road until my feet bump up against something hard. I look up and my eyes piece together wood and tin into the shape of a hotbox. It’s a little large for a coffin, but I reckon it’s as good a final resting place as any.
My hands run over the rough wood until I find the notches and begin to haul myself up. I’m trembling when I get to the top, sweat beading along my arms and neck. I pull open the latch and try to lower myself in slowly, but my strength gives out and I land hard on the floor.
I lie where I fell, my breath coming in short, rattling bursts that only leave me more desperate for air. I never thought I’d die like this, alone in a box in the sun. I held Ma’s hand at the end, waited until the last bit of warmth left her fingers. No one will hold my hand, no one will weep over my body. Maybe we get the deaths we deserve.
It’s dim in here, and cool, and I wipe my damp face and prop myself up against a wall. The ache that’s been building in my head starts to streak down my neck to dance along my spine, but the pain is nothing compared to the tear in my heart.
I slide my pack off my shoulder and pull my gun from my hip. I hope the Garretts and Sam are far enough away that they don’t hear the shot. They must be almost to the station by now. I wish I could’ve have gone with them; I wish I could have held on just a little longer. Maybe if I’d told them earlier, maybe if I’d told Sam—but it’s no use going down that road. I knew the odds, knew them the second I stepped outside Glory, and I risked it anyway. I’m as bad a gambler as
Pa.
I check to make sure my gun is fully loaded, with no empty chambers. Mouth, I wonder, or temple? I shot Ma through the head, so maybe it’s right that I end the same way. Temple will be cleaner, and I don’t want to leave blood splattered on these walls. I wonder who will find me in here, and when; a hunter, most likely, but it could be days or months before the box is needed. I should have done this outside, I realize, but I don’t have the strength to climb out now. And I don’t like the idea of leaving my body unprotected, of pieces of me ending up in some shake’s stomach. A hunter will know not to touch my blood, at least, to avoid the hole in my head when they move me. But my hand—they won’t know not to touch my hand.
I glance down at the wicked slice across my palm. Such a little line with such a long reach. The cut has split open and blood weeps from one corner. This last small thing I can do, and I send a silent apology to the poor soul who finds me. I pull my matches out of my pack, tossing the rest aside. I won’t need anything from it anymore. I take my knife from my belt and strike a match with unsteady hands, holding the blade over the flame. When the match goes out, I light another, and another, until the steel singes the tip of my finger when I test it.
I take a tight, raw breath, and I press the hot knife against my hand. My palm erupts in fire, and I scream, loud and long, out here where no one can hear me. It hurts, and I’m glad it hurts, because I’ve earned this pain. The blade sticks to my skin, like it’s melting into me, and when I tear it away the ground drops out beneath me. A black wave rolls over me and I understand too late that I made a mistake; unconsciousness flutters and I fight it, fight with all I have left, because if it takes me, I won’t wake up again. Not as myself. I need to end it, I have to end it—I reach feebly for my gun and my fingers brush the metal before my eyes roll back in my head. Forgive me, I beg, and I don’t know who I’m asking. The last thing I see is a patch of sun through the hatch, and the searing, endless white of the desert sky. It’s not so bad, I reckon, as last views go, and then the wave crashes and drags me under.
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