The Seventh Day

by Scott Shepherd

  What followed were weeks of Primo perfecting his Gift to propel the boat while Quattro and the other brothers built twenty-four golden wheels and affixed to them to the hull. Within a couple of months, they ventured out of Newport. They left the Eastern Seaboard for good in a vessel once meant to sail the Seven Seas, and eventually found their way to The Flats, where they lived, plundered, and ruled by fear.

  But that journey had come to an end. Primo thought it only fitting that Quattro literally go down with the ship.

  Night had fallen but the skies were filled with the luminosity from the Aurora Borealis. The colors were brilliant, as if Van Gogh’s palette had been spread across the heavens. Primo had never paid attention to the constellations before The Seventh Day, but that had changed with the swift departure of The Strangers. They had left a permanent rainbow wake in the atmosphere that appeared each night with the rise of the moon and the emergence of stars that Primo had previously ignored.

  The ship floated in the river as the three surviving brothers stood on the bank. Primo held a large plank of wood he had stripped from the deck of the boat, and called out to Secundo and Trey.

  “Get ’em ready.”

  His two brothers waded into the water. Each had long thick ropes strung over their shoulders. They moved to a huge compartment door at the base of the ship. Secundo got a good grip on an edge and ripped the door off the hull.

  The night air was filled with the deafening sounds of snorting animals.

  Four jet-black horses emerged from the ship’s hold.

  “Get a hold of ’em!” commanded Primo.

  Secundo and Trey immediately tossed the ropes over their heaving necks, which prevented the horses from running off, but didn’t calm them.

  They grew more agitated.

  One whinnied—and red hell-fire blasted out from its huge snout.

  Soon, all four were breathing fire, forming a wall of flames that made approaching them a treacherous endeavor.

  Primo carefully brought the wood plank up to their snouts until it caught fire. He walked over to the base of the ship and held the burning plank to the hull, setting the boat ablaze.

  Primo stepped back as the flames began to rise. He began to recite the Twenty-Third Psalm. Secundo and Trey joined in. By the time they were done, the fire had traveled up to the deck.

  “Norman,” whispered Primo. “Quattro. You will not have died in vain. You will be avenged. You have my promise.”

  He turned to his brothers.

  “Our promise,” chimed in Secundo.

  Trey echoed the vow.

  The pirate ship started to blaze and they watched as the fire finally reached the crow’s nest. As it spread up and over Quattro’s wrapped torso, Primo’s gaze never wavered. Secundo and Trey started to turn away but Primo reached over and physically made them continue to watch the funeral pyre.

  “Don’t dishonor your brother. We must stay with him until he is no more.”

  They watched in silence as Quattro’s body was swallowed up by the raging blaze.

  Primo finally spoke, his voice laced with pure hatred and ferocity.

  “In the morning, we head up to The Fields. And finish this.”

  Long after the ship had burned to ashes and Norman was gone, the three brothers remained on the riverbank, their heads hung low and their hearts teeming with vengeance.

  9

  The fish was well received, which pleased Joad, much more for Laura’s sake than his own.

  Fixer showered the girl with compliments. Joad proclaimed her quite the fisherman. Even Sayers said it was the best meal he’d eaten in some time. All this made Laura beam with pride. It was something the other two men could agree on with Joad: they were happy to see a radiant smile on the young girl’s face.

  After dinner, Laura got out the radio parts she’d salvaged from the Mack trucks and fiddled with them. She’d kept pieces of an old ham radio in Macy’s saddlebag and busied herself trying to see if any of the Mack parts slipped into the radio like pieces of an unsolved jigsaw puzzle. Fixer tried to give her a hand. She was glad for the help and even though nothing fit, she watched with fascination as Fixer’s fingers flew amongst the pieces like a pianist navigating a Rachmaninoff concerto.

  Joad put the metal cook plate away and walked past the two of them.

  “It’d be a whole lot easier if you had those cells,” he said to Fixer.

  “Maybe. But nowhere near the fun.”

  Laura gave Joad an eager grin; clearly she felt the same way. He crossed to the edge of a hill, where Sayers sat staring up at the sky. The jewel box-colored heavens were breathtaking. Even though it had been like this for seven years now, it still filled anyone who gazed at it with wonder.

  “It’s that stuff, isn’t it?”

  “What stuff?” Joad asked. Though of course, he knew.

  “What The Strangers spread when they dropped those things on us.”

  “It’s on The Far Side too.”

  “Guess I was a fool to think it was just here.” Sayers shook his head; there was sorrow and bitterness in the motion. “They couldn’t leave anything alone. They had to go and change everything.”

  “I don’t think they gave it any thought.”

  “Well, I liked it the way it was.”

  Sayers refused to look at him; Joad could see the doctor was too wrapped up in self-pity and yearnings for the days gone by.

  “Laura told me about her mother.”

  “Did she tell you we were married less than a year? I felt like we were still on our honeymoon when she. . . .”

  Sayers broke off, groping for the appropriate word. “When she . . . left. Suddenly, I was stuck. Stuck with this little girl I hardly knew.”

  “Most don’t even have that much.”

  “If I disappeared, Laura probably wouldn’t even care.”

  “Guess you didn’t see the look on her face when those men were chasing you.”

  Sayers finally turned around to face Joad. His eyes were practically dead, with years of pain buried inside. “You should have killed all four of ’em.”

  Joad stared off in the distance. Way down below, through miles and miles in the darkness, somewhere in The Flats, he thought he could make out a speck of fire on the water.

  “Probably.”

  He felt like he was suffocating.

  The logical side of his brain told him it was all in his head. But that didn’t help the pounding in his chest. Joad knew the feeling came partly from being crammed into such a small space for a long period of time. But the rest came from what he knew he was there to do.

  Joad tilted the flak helmet up to get his face closer to the scope’s viewfinder. He peered through it and at first could only make out dunes of sand. He flipped on night goggles and clicked a tiny switch. It flicked on the infrared, bringing ice-green illumination to the Middle Eastern desert.

  He started to look away and clear his eyes, but then caught movement through the scope. He tightened the focus field and peered closer. Sure enough, the thermal-seeking trackers on which the government had spent zillions were doing what they were designed for—sensing the most obscure and infinitesimal movement at a distance.

  Joad checked the coordinates on the scope’s readout and shouted them out loud. The engines roared and were followed by a lurch. He felt himself propelled forward by the grinding wheels of the tank.

  Suddenly, thermal images darted all across the scope screen and Joad’s fingers immediately wrapped around the trigger.

  The sand dunes became crystal clear as they moved closer, along with the men who had been trying to hide behind them.

  The second Joad saw one raise an object and point, he fired.

  Pure fervor overtook his face as the tank began to shake with the expulsion of ammo rounds. Joad imagined he could hear screaming Arabs running through the desert as bullets strafed their bodies and forced them to the sand.

  Then Joad realized that was impossible because all that army mone
y had made sure the tank was fortified from any outside sound.

  The screams were his own.

  “Noooooooo!”

  Joad bolted up from the nightmare.

  The fire they had built to cook the fish was dwindling, but there was enough light for Joad to see that while Sayers and Fixer were out cold, Laura was wide awake and staring at him. Concern was spread all over her angelic face.

  “What was that thing you were in?” she whispered.

  Joad was still trying to get his bearings. “What thing?”

  “You were firing a huge gun.”

  “You mean. . .? In the tank?”

  Laura nodded. Suddenly, Joad was completely awake.

  “Was I talking in my sleep?”

  Laura hesitated. The deep breath told Joad she was weighing whether to unburden herself. Given that her only companion was a demon-plagued doctor, he suspected the girl kept a lot to herself. So he was a bit surprised when she decided it was worth the risk.

  “I saw you shooting at people. You were wearing this uniform—you had big strange glasses that lit people up in green. Then, you started screaming.”

  “But . . . I was dreaming that.”

  Again, Laura nodded. Joad stared at her in disbelief.

  “How can you see my dreams?”

  Laura hung her head slightly, clearly embarrassed.

  “I don’t know. I just can.”

  She turned away, like someone who had just been told they were a freak. Joad inched closer to try and reassure her. “You shouldn’t be ashamed, Laura. You’ve been given a Gift.”

  “Feels more like a curse.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  For the first time, she perked up. “You share dreams too?”

  Joad, not wanting to let her down too quickly, slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But I’ve met other Remaining over the years and they have similar Gifts.”

  Laura was still quick to defend herself. Joad could tell she didn’t want him thinking any less of her. “I wasn’t always like this. It didn’t start happening until. . . .”

  “. . . after The Seventh Day?”

  Laura nodded.

  “No,” said Joad. “I imagine it didn’t.”

  Laura glanced up at the night sky. “Did The Strangers do this to me?”

  “I think they must have.”

  She watched a meteor with a Technicolor tail swoop amongst the stars. Joad followed it as well; its trail of indigo blues, emerald greens, and fiery reds provided a glimmer of hope that all wasn’t wrecked in the world.

  “Do you see Doc’s dreams?”

  “Sometimes. But he doesn’t let me in very often.”

  That somehow made sense to Joad. Sayers had plenty he was wrestling with—even if Laura could sense his dreams, Joad thought they might be clouded and muddled for an adolescent girl.

  Laura smiled. “But there is this place he dreams about a lot. It’s magical. There’s this big castle with a moat and twirling windmills. It’s like something out of a storybook.” She scrunched up her face, trying to recall more. “I think we might have been there when I was really little. I just don’t remember.”

  “It sounds beautiful. Do you ever ask him about it?”

  “He doesn’t even know that I can see it.”

  Joad wanted to tell her she should reveal her Gift to Sayers. But he felt it inappropriate—he had only known this girl for a few hours and doling out advice had never been his strong suit. So he backed off.

  “Well, maybe one day.”

  “Maybe,” sighed Laura.

  Joad motioned for her to lower herself back to the ground. “We should try and get some sleep. Long day ahead of us.”

  “Have pleasant dreams.”

  Joad laughed. “I think I’ll have to.”

  She chuckled and quickly settled down. It seemed to Joad that she fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

  But not Joad.

  Whether it was the discomfort he felt that someone could see his innermost thoughts, or his worries about what might lay ahead in the mystical Fields, he couldn’t say.

  He thought it was probably both.

  He didn’t close his eyes until just before the dawn.

  TREY

  Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

  The horseplayer’s lament.

  He “shoulda” bet the four horse, he really liked it, honest to God. He “coulda” bet him with the six horses like he told himself when he read the damned Form but he had to go change his mind. He “woulda” got back two grand on a measly twenty-dollar bet! But no, he had to go and bet the ten horses! All because some idiot assistant trainer on the backstretch told him the thing was a mortal lock—it was going off at 5 to 2, he was getting a great price. Yeah, it went off at 5 to 2 all right. And finished at 2:15, the pig was so damn slow.

  Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

  The mantra still ran through Trey’s head, an hour after the last race. At first he just sat stunned in the grandstand, same place as always, ten rows up by the eighth pole, keeping his distance from the Flower Lady two rows in front of him. She wasn’t no flower, as she looked more like a weed, but the old bag had this piss poor hat with a plastic yellow rose, so everyone got to calling her the Flower Lady. She’d whoop and holler even if she only made a lousy two-dollar bet and it didn’t make him feel better today when she put her crinkled ones on the four and crowed about her forty-six-dollar winner for anyone who would listen.

  Well, Trey certainly didn’t.

  Now, walking down the shedrow long after the track patrons had departed, some counting their winnings but most going home losers only to start anew tomorrow, Trey kept repeating those three words.

  Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

  They described his entire pathetic life.

  Shoulda. He shoulda finished frikkin’ high school and gone to college. There was no guarantee he coulda gotten into a real four-year college, but at least he woulda gone to a junior one. Maybe get some kind of trade school degree. But he was too busy cutting classes junior and senior years to sneak into the track because they wouldn’t let you in by yourself unless you were eighteen. He cashed enough bets to get him hooked, then lost a whole lot more while getting his high school diploma, so moving on was no longer an option. He owed too much dough at seventeen to a bunch of lowlifes and ran collections for a couple of dealers instead. Which sucked. Even school was a better option. But he’d loused that up real good.

  Coulda. He coulda gone and worked for their cousin at the country club. Harold said he’d get him a few loops caddying for some rich folks. Trey gave it one shot when he was sixteen. He worked for some fat piece of crap who must have had everything he ever owned crammed into his golf bag. Trey got a hernia lifting the thing onto his shoulder. He sludged his way around the course for almost five hours and let himself be subjected to a slew of insults by the member, who criticized his every move. When they got to the eleventh green, the bastard gave him a five-dollar tip. Trey crumpled up the bill, threw it in the guy’s face, and told him to lug his own bag next fucking time. Sure, he coulda sucked up to the bastard and his cronies, hoping to make enough connections to carve out a new life—one in which Trey might make something of himself. But he didn’t have the country club makeup or temperament, so coulda fell by the wayside.

  Woulda. He woulda been much richer if he’d used the four horse. Just like he woulda been set for a couple of years if he’d used the seven horse in the sixth race six months ago when it cost him the Pick Six. Or that lousy bad beat three years before when the thirteen got nipped by the five when it came back on right at the finish line. He remembered those tortuous moments, like he did every other catastrophic loss that put him further and further away from the dream of financial independence.

  Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

  At least he knew what they’d inscribe on his gravestone.

  That left Stylish Greeting.

  It became the only option when he didn’t use the four horse.
He was tapped out; he owed too many people. He’d been working on the backstretch, literally shoveling horseshit for a trainer who had a hard time making payroll. When the guy finally forked over the minimum-wage-cash-only-no-taxes-withheld-thank-god-for-small-miracles, Trey would gamble it away by the time they ran the nightcap (like today—he shoulda used the four horse!) still searching for a winner.

  Stylish Greeting was a winner.

  But not the kind you could make money on. He’d won six in a row, the last four of them stakes. He’d gone off at less than even money every time. Sure, he won, but when you didn’t even double your money, it wasn’t worth the investment—especially when you only had ten bucks in your pocket. (Ten bucks on the four horse in the nightcap exacta paid over two K—stop it!)

  Stylish Greeting was never going to be an answer to a gambler’s prayers. But he was definitely an owner’s dream. Worth at least a couple of million; Trey had heard a few people say it could have been as much as five.

  The chances of Trey owning a horse like Stylish Greeting were about as good as him being the first man on the moon. It was an impossibility, and someone else had already done it.

  Walter Shaw. One of the best trainers the game had ever seen. He owned and bred Stylish Greeting and had made a bloody fortune. Now it was time to see if he was willing to share a little of it with Trey.

  Not that Trey was going to be greedy. The horse was worth millions. But he would be happy with a few hundred K. After everything Shaw had won, Trey was pretty sure the trainer was remitting insurance premiums worth that much. He’d just be paying it to Trey instead—okay, some might call it a ransom demand, but he liked to think of it as just another form of insurance. The kind of insurance that makes sure your most valuable asset comes back in one piece.

  When Trey ripped up that ticket on the nightcap, he knew there was no turning back.

  He figured that was why the bad beat in the last race had meant so much. He knew it was his last chance at winning a small fortune before crossing the line. One last hope for salvation, courtesy of a cheap claimer he couldn’t pull the trigger on. As a result, he had nothing left in his pocket and only a desperate man’s plan on his mind.