by Talis Jones
Wind whips through my hair but I’m too afraid to let go of the reins to tie it back. Pulling hard I convince Horse to turn around and slow. I watch as the man reaches the barn and fires his gun. I don’t even realize that I’m holding my breath until Connors returns fire with an almighty bang from his shotgun. It doesn’t hit the man but it sure blows the edge off the barn door. The man gets off another shot before a giant mass that can only be Connors tackles him to the ground crumpling him with a hard punch to the head. Still I wait with Horse.
Connors leaps onto the stolen horse, tosses something at the man, and rides off after me. The man recovers enough to pick up his gun and start firing like it was the Fourth of July but Connors stays hunched low. I don’t realize just how close I am until a bullet whizzes past my head.
“Go!” Connors shouts at me. “Kick the damn horse and go!”
Adrenaline ignites my body like keys in a car and suddenly I’m taking off so fast I’m not sure Horse is running or flying. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms that Connors is close on my tail and together we flee like we stole something. Which we did.
A few miles out of harms way and we slow to a walk, the two beasts swaying side by side. I admire the new addition to our party, a beautiful painted mare. Big brown eyes, long wavy mane, and a body mostly white but covered in giant brown patches. Laughter bubbles out of me, probably from the heady high of the adrenaline rush, and Connors joins me. Soon we’re both laughing like fools with tears prickling our eyes.
“I can’t believe you stole a horse,” I say when we finally catch our breath.
“I did not steal a horse,” Connors states with false hurt at my accusation. “I left him one of Hans’ gold watches as payment.”
Laughter explodes once again but Connors refuses to join me this time. Cackling like a hyena I watch his mouth work very hard to fight down a smile. When we’ve finally made it a Connors-approved distance from danger we stop and make a simple camp under the moonlight. I stand before my new horse and stroke her beautifully soft nose with my fingertips.
“I’m gonna call her Lady,” I decide.
“I wouldn’t name her,” Connors advises. “It’ll be harder to let go when she dies or gets stolen or left behind.”
Disapproval paints my face and I scrunch up my nose at him. “That is not something one discusses in front of a lady,” I chastise.
“Well don’t expect me to name my horse.”
“He already has a name.”
Connors arches one eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what is it?”
“Horse.”
“Horse?” he asks unimpressed. “Of all the names to bestow upon that mighty creature and you name him Horse?”
“You know, you seem strangely upset for someone who doesn’t care about naming him in the first place,” I accuse.
“I don’t care,” he insists and turns his back to smooth out his bedroll. “I just think you could do better than Horse,” he mutters under his breath.
I smile but bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Rolling out my own bed I curl up happy then remember my to-do list. “Can you teach me how to shoot a gun and stuff?” I ask quietly, watching his sleepy form burrowed under his blanket.
“I told ya I would, didn’t I?” he murmurs back sleepily.
“Just checking,” I say. Silence. “Do we have a lot further to go until we reach Sanctuary?”
“A place without a map, kid,” he mumbles.
“Just wondering,” I sigh.
“Well save your checks and wonders for the morning.” One beat, two beats, and then he’s drifted to sleep.
I lay there, the sudden drain of adrenaline leaving my body heavy and exhausted. My mind churns and churns despite my desperate yearning for sleep. How long until we find Sanctuary? How will we even find it? What if we pass it a hundred times and never spot it? What if we get all the way there and it turns out you have to have some secret code to get in? What if it’s not there anymore? What if it never existed in the first place?
Counteractive at first it’s this endless onslaught of thoughts that works better than counting sheep.
CHAPTER 17
“Welcome to what I reckon might be your first view of the Mississippi River.”
I stand on a derelict boardwalk with my hands on my hips as I take in the view churning before me. Brownish blue water glides south with a quiet rush to mask the power churning beneath its surface. My face lights up in awe even as my shoulders release a small shudder. I can’t swim. Yet there’s a pull I can’t explain drawing me to the depths.
“Do we have to cross it?” I ask a bit nervously.
“Yep.” Connors scans the horizon, one hand shading his eyes from the sleepy rising sun. “Should be a bridge not too far…question is will it be closer to head north or south?”
We stand there thinking and yet not thinking at all but simply drinking in the blissful sight glad to be seeing something other than dust and brokenness. “Do you have a coin I could borrow?”
Connors purses his lips, eyes full of wariness. “This is a river, not a wishing well.”
Rolling my eyes I sigh, “I know that. Flipping a coin is an ancient tried and true way of making a choice.”
“Don’t be smart, kid.”
“You think I’m smart?” I grin feigning flattery.
A stunted snort-laugh escapes his mouth before he can shut it down. Pulling a silver coin about the size of my thumb from his pocket he hands it over. “Heads we go north. Tails we go south.”
I nod. Balancing the coin on the back of my right thumb I flick it into the air, catch it, and slap it down on the back of my left hand. “Tails.”
“South we go then.”
I pause to drink in another glance of the river, set aflame by the early sun’s molten rays. Lady nudges my head impatiently so I hop up onto her back and we follow Connors and Horse. It’s a surprisingly short distance until we find a crossable bridge, just out of sight from where we were.
A great cement goliath stretches out from side to side of the calmly raging Mississippi River. Enormous triangles of steel cables rise up above it, for support or design I wouldn’t know. Dirt darkens the bridge. Cracks cover the structure like cobwebs, broken cables leave gaps like missing teeth, and patches of the road have sloughed off entirely leaving spine-shivering glimpses to the water below.
Connors deems it sturdy enough and I'm in no position to argue otherwise. Horse and Lady weave their way cautiously across the bridge, their hooves making an eerie clack clomp, clack clomp with every step. Wind whips my hair and I reach up to secure it with the black hair tie waiting on my wrist. Despite the excellent unhindered view of the river and the jagged horizon, I keep my eyes locked firmly on the path before me just in case Lady doesn’t notice a hole or a loose chunk of road, or anything else that might lead to my demise.
My lungs loosen with relief the moment Lady steps off the bridge onto a land-based street. “I learned that I don’t like bridges,” I grumble.
“Welcome to Missouri,” Connors grins, flinging his arms wide as if to embrace the land before us.
“Thank you mister tour guide, now might you inform me on a bit more of the town’s rich illustrious history?” I jibe.
“Water makes you snippy,” he complains. I ignore him because I can’t deny the truth of it. “Didn’t you ever swim in a pond or a pool as a kid?”
“My Momma signed me up for lessons at the YMCA but time ran out and the world went up in flames.”
“They still had those up north?” he asks surprised.
I’ve got no answer so I shrug.
“So ya can’t swim huh?” Connors says this more to himself, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, eyes scanning the vicinity. “D’you feel ready to train?” he asks me suddenly.
“I’ve been ready for a long time, Connors,” I tell him, seriousness dipping my pitch.
Clapping his hands he decides, “Right then let’s say we find some shelter and rest here for a bit. I can t
each ya how to swim, shoot, light a fire, and generally how to pull your own weight.”
“What about Sanctuary?” I ask. He never says it outright but I can sense how restless he is as if the search is the only thing keeping him sane and any detour might jinx the spell.
“Plenty of time for that. It’s not goin’ any place,” he assures me. “It’s more important to teach ya a few skills so if anything happens to me you can keep goin’ in my place, yeah?”
We walk our horses along the edge of the river until he finds a spot we can get to. Slipping down the slick remnants of grass we make our way to the shore, Connors kicking off his boots and shrugging off his clothes.
“Is learning to swim that important though?” I wonder nervously. “I mean seeing as most of the water sources have dried up and such.”
Down to his undershorts he stands, feet in the cool water, eyeing me sternly. “Listen to me, kid. Learn any skill you can. Gather them all and keep ‘em close because ya never know when ya might need something. Now strip down and get your butt over here. The feeling of wet jeans was designed by the devil.”
Anxiety buzzes through me as I take off all my clothes except my undergarments and shuffle towards Connors on quaking knees. Nudging one foot into the water I nearly yelp at the cold. I turn to protest when a large hand and gravity conspire to knock me whole-bodied into the frigid river.
I thrash around wildly sputtering water from my mouth and nose until I finally flail my way towards an outstretched arm and cling to it with all the strength in my body.
“What the hell was that?” I gasp angrily.
“Well you were about to complain on how cold it is in here and waste more time so I just sped things up. Not only are you all wet but you managed to try your hand at swimming for the first time.” Connors stands there like a tower, grinning at me completely unaware of how angry I am, or perhaps he knows and wants to ignore the rants of a drowned cat.
“I—I—” but my thoughts struggle to untangle themselves. “Fine,” I spit at last. “Teach me. But no more dunking!”
Connors pries my hands off his arm and I feel a twinge of guilt when I see the deep crescent marks left in his skin from my fingernails. To his credit the rest of the lesson goes with much more patience and grace. Whether guided by his arm as I float on my back and kick my legs or trying to coordinate my arms, legs, and head for the breaststroke, Connors is always within reach in case I suddenly panic or begin to sink. Oddly enough this is the first time I really picture him as being a father, even if that life was long ago.
Soaked and utterly drained I drag myself out of the river and scoop up my clothes but Connors stops me before I can slip on my jeans.
“Did you not hear me, child? I said the feeling of wet jeans was designed by the devil.”
I stare at him waiting for a laugh but his face is so hilariously serious that I drop the pants and hold up my hands in surrender. We sit side by side on the bank of the river, silence only broken by our tired breaths and the call of birds passing overhead. I watch them fly in that mind-boggling perfect formation and decide to imagine them as a family flying south for a vacation to Disney World.
A frown tugs my lips. Part of me wants to ask Connors about his family but I’m afraid it’ll upset him. Or worse, that it’ll lead him to ask about mine. We know enough to be allies and that’s enough for now. Besides, I doubt either of us are who we once were so why dig up ghosts when we’ve got plenty of monsters left to face.
“Can I put my pants back on now?” I ask, a hint of jest in my request.
“Should be safe,” he allowed.
Smiling I scramble onto my feet and pile on clothes. After the dip in the Mississippi the fabric clings in a tight warm embrace. I savor it.
“You think dry clothes feel nice,” he calls, “but to make up for the wet jeans and damp socks God gave us fresh toasty dry underpants. You can’t put those on after a long day in the snow or rain and not believe in Heaven.”
“How about food?” I call back. “Where does that fall on the spectrum between Heaven and Hell?”
“Depends,” he answers. “If we had molten chocolate cake then things would be looking up compared to a bucket of slurpy oysters.” He shudders at the thought. “All we got though is some bread and spaghetti-Os so I’d say we’re firmly earth-bound with that.”
This makes me laugh and I go to Horse and fetch exactly that. When I return, food in hand, Connors is on his feet and dressed. I toss him a can and a spoon before plopping down on a large jagged chunk of cement sticking up out of the dirt. Popping open the cans we scrape out each noodle and chunk of cold sauce before splitting the crackly bread to mop up our meal like a lovely yeasty sponge.
Afternoon has long seized the day by the time Connors finds someplace he deems safe for target practice. Sound carries over water and just because the world feels empty doesn’t mean it is.
The metal weapon hangs heavy in my hands as I eye the targets lined up before me. It’s a rudimentary set-up, just our two soup cans sitting atop someone’s abandoned wooden fence. I’m not expecting to hit anything yet anyway.
“I’m gonna start you with this particular shotgun because it’s small and the weight will soak up the recoil better than a handgun. Ideally I’d give you some ear protection but we don’t have any and in the real world no one’s gonna stop to let you gear up before shootin’ you dead.”
I nod but keep dropping the gun to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Just aim and pull the trigger right?”
“For now,” he agrees. “I’m not really sure how to prepare you for the noise or the kick but just try aiming and breathe between pulling the trigger. Today’s just to get you used to the feel of firing a gun, okay?”
I nod again, lifting one finger to push my glasses back up my nose. I raise the heavy machinery and aim the barrel at my soup can locking my arms tight.
“Don’t lock your arms like that. Keep ‘em steady and ready, but keep a little give,” he instructs me and I make the adjustments. “And keep your feet spread with your weight centered. Don't slouch back like you're afraid of it.”
Squinting slightly to correct what these borrowed glasses can’t I zero in my focus onto the target.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe— BANG. I nearly jump out of my shoes from surprise but my embarrassment quickly turns to victory when I see that I shot my can nearly dead center. Throwing my arms up in victory I let out a loud celebratory Whoop!
Connors claps his hands proudly but wastes no time raining on my parade. “Beginner’s luck, kid. Color me impressed but don’t expect to keep up a streak just yet.”
Schooling my features I adjust my stance, raise the shotgun, aim, and as I breathe out I pull the trigger and do a little jig as I hit Connors’ can, knocking it right off the fence to lay next to its brother. Confidence swells in my heart as I prop the cans back up and ready for another round.
“Damn it!” I curse as my shot sails right past the cans and it didn’t just miss, it missed by a lot.
Beginner’s luck all dried up I spend nearly an hour alternating between the shotgun and a handgun hitting almost nothing. Arms aching and not wanting to waste all of his ammo I switch to gun mechanics. Connors takes my shotgun apart and shows me how to clean it as I memorize how all the pieces fit together.
Warmth and warning rumble through his voice like gravel. “A gun gives you power over others, but conviction gives you power over yourself.” He puts down the cloth in his hand and leans forwards. “So you find that thing that keeps you glued together and don’t let anybody take it from you, not even yourself.”
My head bobs in understanding but my lips purse in thought as I lean back to contemplate his words. I wasn’t sure what I believed in but his words made sense. With nothing to hold onto I was just adrift, easy to sway. Memories of music and stained glass trickle back into my mind.
“Do you believe in God?” I ask suddenly.
“Sure do,” he answers without
a flicker of doubt.
“Do you think God loves everyone? Or like,” I scrunch my eyebrows trying to find my words, “do you have to earn His love or something?”
“God loves everyone.”
“Mhm okay, but what if you’re not so great?” Memories of wrongs spiral through me with a tendril of worry.
Handing me the gun to finish cleaning he folds his hands on his lap. “Well, we all have regrets and mistakes under our belts, up our sleeves, and in our closets. I think what He cares about most is the heart of the person. And even those who can’t seem to do anything but wrong are loved by Him, just maybe a more sad love, ya know?”
“Do you love everybody?” I wonder curiously. Even the idea seems impossible.
Connors barks out a guilty laugh. “Golly no. Well, I don’t hate anybody, and I do try to love everybody. But damn if that isn’t the hardest thing of all. To throw away that hate and not let them suck you down and drown you in it. It can be addicting, and once you’ve acquired a taste the only thing sweeter is revenge. But ya know what they say about revenge, don’t ya?”
I shake my head.
“They say you gotta dig two graves. One for your enemy and one for yourself.”
I think on all this for a moment, my hands moving in that mind-drifting rhythm. “I don’t know if I believe in God, Connors,” I admit.
“That’s alright. Start small and work your way there,” he shrugs kindly, although a bit of sadness tinges his eyes. “No rush, unless you believe in Hell in which case don’t die anytime soon, ya hear?” he jokes.
“Oh I believe in Hell,” I tell him. “I’m just not convinced that we’re not already there.”
For whatever reason this makes him laugh so I smile back. My fingers brush along a small insignia at the base of the barrel. “Did Katya make this one?”
“Yep,” he confirms casually. “She’s quite the craftsman. Had her make you this shotgun and a pistol.”
At this I look up sharply. “How could you know about Maurene and…everything?”
