All the Dead Lie Down

by Mary Willis Walker

  “They will be punished,” says Mother Teresa, “for stopping the miracle.”

  “We can’t let that happen,” Sarah Jane tells her. “We’ve come too far. Listen, Mother T, can you get your hands into that bag behind you and get something for me?”

  “The miracle is ruined. They have stopped the miracle and they will know the wrath of God who gave me the mission to—” Mother Teresa stops talking and they all freeze at the sound of footsteps and male voices talking right outside. Someone new has come.

  “Zippo, my man,” Squint says. “What’s the word? You sure was long enough about it, keeping us waiting here all night with our thumbs up our butts.”

  “Not my fault, Squint. Couldn’t get him to answer his fuckin’ phone till now.”

  “He’s buying, ain’t he?”

  “Yeah. But he can’t come right now. You do her, he says, and he’ll pay. He’ll meet you at the Plasma Center tomorrow where you met him before.”

  “Two grand?”

  “Yup. He said he’ll pay.”

  “Okay, Zippo. You done real good. You go on now and I’ll give you yours tomorrow when I get paid. That’s my man.”

  There is a pause as Zippo leaves. Then Squint says, “We gotta do ’em all, Roylee. Right now.”

  “I’ll do ’em.”

  “Just make sure they don’t get found no time soon. Not that anyone’ll be looking for this bunch.”

  “The dump, over yonder,” Roylee says. “I’ll bury the bitches in garbage.”

  Molly is shivering. Her brain is still thick, but she knows a death sentence when she hears one.

  Suddenly the blanket is jerked aside; Roylee pushes in. “Peew, smells like some pigsty.” He grins at them. “What’ve you been doing in here, you bad gals?”

  “Come on,” Squint calls from outside, his voice tense. “Let’s get this done before someone comes and sees them here.”

  “Okay. Get up!” Roylee says.

  Sarah Jane says, “How can we? You got our feet tied.”

  Roylee pulls a jackknife from his pocket. He opens it and bends down to cut the rag binding Mother Teresa’s ankles. He does it with one upward thrust. She gets up, adopting the bent-over posture the low roof requires.

  Roylee leans down to Molly’s feet and cuts the bonds. Then he taps the gun against her bloody chin. “Get up, you cunt. We’re gonna take a walk.” Molly doesn’t think she has the strength. It would be easier just to stay put and let Roylee shoot her right here. She tries to stand up, but her head whirls and her legs are rubber. She collapses back down.

  “Help her,” Roylee tells Sarah Jane.

  Sarah Jane holds her feet up so he can cut her bonds. He does it with one swipe. Then she offers her bound hands up to him and explains, “So I can help her up.” He hesitates, then takes the knife and slashes through the rag binding Sarah Jane’s hands. “Get her up,” he says, pointing the gun at Molly.

  Sarah Jane Hurley puts an arm around Molly and tries to lift her up. “Come on,” she says, “you gotta help.”

  “I can’t,” Molly says.

  “You can.” She gets a better hold on Molly, under her arms, and, with an amazing burst of energy, hauls her up to her knees. Then, as Molly is struggling to get on her feet, Sarah Jane does something that convinces Molly the woman is crazy: she puts her shoulder against Molly and shoves her down into the corner Mother Teresa has just vacated.

  “She fell,” Sarah Jane says quickly. “Wait. I’ll get her up.” She leans over Molly and reaches her arms all the way around her. She takes a few seconds and then leans in closer so she is nearly lying on top of Molly.

  “I told you to get her up,” Roylee says, “not fuck her.”

  “Okay, okay,” Sarah Jane says. “Take it easy.” She backs away and hoists Molly to her feet as if she is a sack of meal.

  Molly’s head pounds and her legs wobble. But somehow she manages to keep her feet underneath her.

  “That’s right,” coos Sarah Jane.

  Squint holds the blanket aside for them as they stagger outside, first Mother Teresa, then Molly and Sarah Jane, then Roylee with the gun pointed at them.

  Squint comes close and looks them over. “Do it so they don’t never get found,” he says.

  “Don’t worry,” says Roylee. “There’s enough trash down there in that old dump to bury an army in.”

  “Wait!” says Squint, grabbing Molly’s arm. “A watch.”

  Roylee looks down at Molly’s wrist and smiles. “Gold, looks like. Shame to waste it on the dump.” He reaches out and tries to pull it off, but he can’t figure out how the catch works. Molly fumbles with it and finally manages to get it off. She hands it to Roylee meekly and feels a wave of self-disgust wash over her. She is a chicken plucking herself for the slaughter, offering up her neck to the knife. She has always thought of herself as a fighter, a self-sufficient survivor, who would never go down without putting up a hell of a struggle, but she hadn’t understood that by the time they get you to the slaughterhouse you’re so beaten and exhausted by the trip, you don’t have the strength to resist.

  She glances up at the dirty gray overcast sky. It is so humid and her skin is so wet and she’s shivering so hard, she can’t tell if it is raining or not. All she knows is that she has wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time and is about to be shot dead and buried in a trash heap for her foolishness.

  Or maybe this is her just deserts. She’s made bad karma for herself, violent karma. When she used force against Olin Crocker, she broke all her rules of moral behavior and now she’s paying for it. Violence begets violence.

  SHE HEAVED A SIGH AND WIPED HER EYE

  AND OVER THE HILLOCKS SHE RACED;

  AND TRIED WHAT SHE COULD, AS A SHEPHERDESS SHOULD,

  THAT EACH TAIL SHOULD BE PROPERLY PLACED.

  —“LITTLE BOPEEP,”LASTVERSE, MOTHER GOOSE

  If she could just clear her head and think straight, she might come up with some plan, some resistance. But her hands are tied behind her and her legs are so weak and her head is splitting. Without Sarah Jane Hurley holding her up she wouldn’t even be able to walk.

  Roylee points the way, jabbing the gun in the air. “That way,” he says, indicating the far side of the small clearing. Molly is so disoriented she doesn’t know if it is the way they arrived yesterday or not. She looks around, trying to get her bearings.

  Squint is standing next to the hut with his hands on his hips, his slitlike eyes glinting in their direction.

  “Move!” Roylee barks at the three women.

  Mother Teresa starts walking. She makes a low moaning in her throat, a noise that reflects perfectly the despair and fear Molly feels. Sarah Jane keeps a good hold on Molly, her arm wrapped around Molly’s back and under her arms. Together they move haltingly in the direction Roylee has pointed.

  Molly’s mind churns. There are only two of these weasels—Squint and Roylee, and Squint can barely see. She and Sarah Jane and Mother Teresa are three, but a pathetic three. She is not sure that Mother Teresa knows what’s going on and she, Molly, can barely walk and her hands are tied. Sarah Jane Hurley seems alert, but she might well be crazy. Together they don’t add up to even one normal person.

  “Come on, cunts, move it,” Roylee says.

  Hot panic washes over her.

  She doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to die like this. She doesn’t want to die so much that she would do anything to avoid it—beg, kill, debase herself—anything to buy some time.

  With each step, it grows—her desire not to die. It is inflaming her, squeezing her guts. She slows her feet. When they get to that dump, it is the end. Delaying it is the only thing. She drags down on Sarah Jane’s arm, to slow her. Sarah Jane is puffing, staggering to support Molly, who is trying to drag her to a halt.

  Why should they cooperate? He’ll just kill them anyway. Why should they walk there? Why should they do what he says?

  Now her blood is boiling, her body taken over by fear.
<
br />   Why shouldn’t they just go wild?

  They are almost to the tree line where the clearing ends. Too fast. This is going too fast.

  It is intolerable.

  Ahead of them, through the trees, Molly can see what appears to be a drop-off. The dump. No. She stops moving her legs. She will not do it. Not another step. She pulls back on Sarah Jane, drags her to a halt.

  “Move,” Roylee says. He raises a foot and kicks Sarah Jane in the back. “Get.”

  Sarah Jane tries to haul Molly forward. But Molly goes limp. She refuses to budge.

  Sarah Jane grunts with the effort of trying to hold her up.

  Molly turns her head and whispers in Sarah Jane’s ear, “Let me go.”

  Sarah Jane turns and looks down into Molly’s eyes. She holds the gaze for a few long seconds, then, slowly, she lets her sink down.

  The ground is soft from all the rain, and cool. Molly doesn’t know she is going to throw a fit until the first scream forms in her throat. She lies on her back, her arms still tied behind her, and opens her mouth. It comes out a wail. She does it again, louder—a real scream. She kicks her legs. Her heels drum on the ground, then she starts to jerk her body. She screams and kicks and jerks, picturing the fat girl in elementary school who used to have epileptic seizures in the cafeteria. Molly wants to foam at the mouth and have her eyes roll back in her head the way that girl used to do.

  Once she gets going, she gathers momentum. It is the most natural thing in the world—to kick and scream. A reasonable response. She shouts louder, kicks harder. She bucks and shrieks. The fit takes on its own life. She couldn’t stop if she wanted to.

  Roylee is standing over her with the gun, furious. He kicks at her, but she is jerking around so much he can’t land a good one. “Get up, you bitch!” he yells, but Molly keeps on screaming, drowning him out.

  “She’s having a fit,” Sarah Jane says. “You gotta wait till it’s over.”

  Mother Teresa kneels on the ground. “I am the one who has been called to take care of the sick and dying,” she says, unwrapping her turban. “We will put something in her mouth so she does not bite her tongue.”

  “Jesus Fucking Christ!” Roylee shouts. “Get up!” He kicks Mother Teresa so hard he sends her sprawling.

  Sarah Jane leans down to Molly and says into her face, “Keep going.”

  “Squint!” Roylee wails. “Come here.”

  “Get this done, Roylee, you fuck-up,” Squint calls back. “Just shoot them. We’ll drag them to the dump.”

  Molly screams louder. Her throat burns. Her jaw and head pulse with pain. Her arms and legs are getting scraped from all the thrashing, but she keeps on going. The pain just eggs her on. She embraces it. It feels so good to be doing something.

  Then suddenly she hears a new voice. She lifts her head to see what is happening.

  Across the clearing is an apparition—a tall, skinny man with long beard, black with streaks of gray. A biblical prophet, Father Time, the Grim Reaper, Molly is not sure. He is limping toward them, calling something, but it is hard to make out what with all the noise Molly is making. She stops screaming to hear.

  “What’s going on?” he calls out. “Fair lady, I—”

  “Lufkin!” Sarah Jane shouts. “Stop! He’s got a gun.”

  “Hey,” he says, stopping in his tracks, catching sight of Roylee holding the gun. “What the—?”

  Roylee is moving his gun frantically from one to the other, first pointing it at Molly, then at Sarah Jane, then at the bearded man at the other side of the clearing, then back at Molly.

  The bearded man is holding his hands up. “Hey, wait a minute there, Roylee. It’s just me—Lufkin. Let’s talk about this, man,” he says.

  Molly resumes her screaming, her throat raw now. She wants to divert attention from Lufkin. Maybe he can help them; God knows, they need help.

  Squint, still standing next to the hut, calls out to the bearded man. “Lufkin, that you? Hold on a minute, man.” He walks toward him with his head raised as if he is sniffing the air. “I can explain this.”

  “No,” Sarah Jane yells. “Run!”

  But Squint is only a foot away from Lufkin now. From his pocket he pulls the gun he took from Molly. Lufkin just gapes in surprise. Then he opens his mouth to speak, but Squint sticks the gun right in Lufkin’s stomach and fires. It happens that fast.

  “No!” Sarah Jane shrieks.

  Molly lets out a real scream.

  Lufkin staggers and falls.

  Squint kneels down, puts the gun to the fallen man’s head and fires again.

  “No!” Sarah Jane screams. “Oh, God, no!”

  “We’re going,” Roylee says. He lands a kick on Molly’s ribs. “You! Get the fuck up!”

  Mother Teresa has gotten to her knees. She is crawling back toward the hut, moaning, her unwrapped turban trailing behind her like a banner. “I must return to the place of the miracle.”

  “You! Stop!” Roylee calls out to her.

  Mother Teresa keeps on crawling.

  Roylee points the gun at her back and fires. Mother Teresa makes a little cry and crumples to the ground. Then he turns the gun on Molly. She gasps and stops her thrashing. She is next.

  Sarah Jane whirls around, tears running down her face. She slams both her arms up into Roylee’s raised arm. The impact sends the gun flying. Then she bends down and grabs Molly by the collar. “Come on!” She jerks her up.

  Molly is on her feet.

  “Run!” Sarah Jane screams, letting go of Molly’s collar.

  Molly is shaky, but she is up and moving on her own, first stumbling, then walking, then she is running. Sarah Jane leads the way. She is surprisingly fast.

  Molly expects at each second to feel a bullet in her back. She is tensed for it, ready. As they hit the tree line, she glances back. Roylee is scrambling in the weeds for the gun. Squint, still on the far side of the clearing, is running toward them, gun in hand.

  She turns to look at what lies in front of them.

  A weedy bank descends to a flat dirt ditch, a bulldozed gouge in the earth the size of a large swimming pool with a steeper bank on the far side. Inside the ditch are several huge piles of trash—the dump. There are no trees or bushes, no cover, but it is the only place to go.

  They can’t go back—Roylee and Squint are there. But Molly is terrified at the idea of getting trapped in the ditch and being unable to get up the far bank.

  “Come on.” Sarah Jane starts down the bank into the ditch.

  Molly hesitates on the edge.

  Sarah Jane looks back at her. “We’ll hide! Come on.”

  Molly looks back and she can see through the trees Roylee running toward them. He’s found the gun.

  Molly turns and starts down the bank, picking up speed as she goes. With her arms tied behind her back, she pitches forward, barely able to keep her balance.

  At the bottom rises a trash heap taller than Molly, made of rotted plywood and rusted plumbing fixtures, chicken wire, mattresses, paint cans, grass cuttings, cans, bottles, and plastic garbage bags. Beyond that are three more heaps of similar trash.

  Sarah Jane heads toward the second pile, half of which is composed of huge plastic bags with grass cuttings bursting out of them. She circles the pile and says, “Here.”

  Molly looks up at the bank. Roylee hasn’t got there yet. If they hide quick he might not see where they’ve gone.

  To Molly’s amazement, Sarah Jane pulls a knife from her pocket and uses it to cut the rag binding Molly’s wrists. Then she points to a narrow space between two bulging green garbage bags near the bottom of the heap. “Get in there,” she commands. “As far as you can. I’ll be behind you.”

  Panting, Molly falls to her knees. She crawls into the dark hole, squeezing herself inside, underneath the huge soft bags. It is dark and smells of mown grass and rotted lettuce. Something sharp snags her sleeve, but she keeps pushing herself farther in. Terror propels her on. As she worms a few more inches, and
then a few more, she feels Sarah Jane burrowing in right behind her.

  Her knee lands on something sharp and jagged. She feels the skin break. It hurts fiercely, but she keeps moving.

  Finally she comes up against a solid barrier that won’t give way. She stops. Behind her, Sarah Jane bumps against her feet. In the semidarkness Molly tries to feel what’s blocking the way. It’s a piece of wood furniture, she thinks—a dresser maybe. But they should be close to the center of the heap now anyway. She pulls her legs in and curls up small to make room for Sarah Jane.

  It is silent, the world muffled, and for just a moment, here in the middle of this dark heap, with the weight of the trash bags on top of her and the decaying vegetable smells in her nose, with Sarah Jane curled next to her like a twin fetus, Molly feels safe. She closes her eyes and hears her breath echoing deep inside her body, slowing down, quieting. This is what it must feel like for hunted animals that go to earth after being chased, this moment of feeling safe inside a burrow.

  It doesn’t last long. The thud of running feet breaks the silence. She can imagine Roylee’s short, thick thighs pounding down the bank. Her body clenches up. He is heading right this way. He’s seen them crawling in here. Or he’s seen the pile moving as they burrowed in. He’s on his way to get them. They’ve made it easy for him; they’ve already buried themselves. All he’ll have to do is shoot them. And she will just lie here, curled up, and let it happen. It’s over now.

  “Okay, you cunts.” His voice is so close she nearly gasps. “You are dead meat.” There is a crash of glass smashing and the thud of something heavy being slung to the ground. He is starting to dig in the trash.

  “Roylee!” a distant voice calls. “You got ’em?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Shit, Roylee. I told you to shoot ’em. Damn you.”

  “I’ll get ’em. They’re here, got to be.”

  “You finish ’em off. I’m gonna drag these two up here down there before someone comes along and sees them. It’s Grand Central—fucking-station up here. Goddamn that Lufkin sticking his nose in. I didn’t wanna do that, but he was just begging for it.”