by Daniel Kraus
“We’re just talking, Mom.”
Peg’s hands felt nothing like how Ry remembered Esther’s hands, though they displayed similar confidence. With a thumb she pulled up his eyelids one at a time, then used her fingertips to probe his neck. Sliding her hands beneath the blanket, she pressed gingerly at his ribs and shoulders and wrists. Peg Crowley was a nurse, a fact he remembered out of nowhere, and he happily gave himself over to her satisfied nods and disapproving tsks.
Additional shadows fell over them.
“He all there?” Kevin asked. His eyes bugged at Ry’s bloody visage.
“He’s got a broken rib or two, maybe a fractured collarbone. His wrist here is swollen and so are both ankles. And he’s cut up.… ” Peg twisted around and squinted up at the other adults. “Jo, he’s sliced to pieces. This cut in his forehead is serious. What happened here, honey?”
Jo Beth shook her head vaguely.
“It was a bad night,” she said.
Peg stared at her. After a moment, she nodded. Her eyes held tears.
“I understand,” Peg said. “We had a bad night too.”
Ry swept his gaze across the congregated Crowleys: Esther, her dirty-faced sisters, the lone six-year-old brother with what looked like a smear of dried blood matting his arm hair. Ry was not positive, but he recalled there being eight Crowleys. He counted, got mixed up, counted again, but kept coming up with seven. But he could not trust his math, especially in this condition. It had never been his best subject.
Peg stood and wiped her hands on her dirty slacks.
“I did turn on the television, Jo, after you called. And they did eventually break the news about the prison and the …” She waved a hand at the clouds. “The things from the sky. I tried to call. I did. It didn’t go through.”
“One of those rocks hit the bridge,” Kevin said. “On Route Nine. Emergency vehicles haven’t been able to get through. We couldn’t get through either; we were as good as trapped over there. We had to go halfway to Bloughton and swing around the reservoir to get here. Otherwise we would’ve come earlier. It’s just, we …”
“I know,” Jo Beth said softly.
She reached out and took Kevin’s shoulder, which trembled.
Peg took Jo Beth’s other arm, put a palm to her filthy cheek.
“Oh, honey,” Peg said.
The Crowley boy made an impatient cheep. Everyone was brought forth from their trances of apology and forgiveness. Arms dropped, understanding nods were exchanged, and together, as equals, they scanned the farm, looking for anything of value that needed to be brought along.
“Our car is dead,” Jo Beth apologized.
“Figured as much,” Kevin said. “Not sure how we’re going to cram everyone in, but I suppose we’ll manage.”
“We Crowleys are used to close quarters,” Peg added. “We pack like sardines.”
On cue, the Crowley kids began drifting back toward the sedan. It was time to go. Ry put both palms to the ground and began to push himself upward.
“Oh, no,” Jo Beth said. “Ry—”
“I can do it,” Ry said.
“Let me—”
“Mom.” He raised his eyebrows at her.
Her mouth closed. She nodded.
With Jo Beth and Esther hovering close, Ry gritted his teeth and went over the muscle groups he’d need to pull this off. He felt nothing but confidence. Standing up, moving on his own, returning to life, all of it was going to take three things he was newly rich in: hope, judgment, and courage. These qualities paid immediate dividends. His thighs performed their duties and his abdomen muscles held steady. The blanket slipped from his shoulders and he heard Esther gasp at the blood crusted to his clothes.
“It’s …,” he started. “I …”
“Idiot,” Esther said. “Let me help you.”
She held out an arm. Ry sent up a prayer and let her wrap that arm around his shoulders. There was nothing else to do but take hold of her waist. Their first step proved that Peg had been right—there was something wrong with his ankles. But it was not an entirely unpleasant thing, taking his time arm in arm with Esther Crowley. There were worse fates everywhere, he thought. Just look around.
Everyone was piling into the car through multiple doors. As they waited, Jo Beth joined Esther to hold up Ry and he sensed excitement in her touch. He did not blame her. At long last they were leaving. It was not exactly as planned; she wore no smart ensemble and her cargo did not include the dress of her dreams. But a clean slate, thought Ry, was worth something too. Off to their right, the For Sale sign swung in the breeze, smoking.
With one foot already in the backseat, Sarah gave her brother a long look.
“You look like a terror man,” she said.
Ry creased his forehead. The hole did not hurt much anymore.
“A what?”
“A terror man.” Now she looked uncertain about her terminology.
“A terror man?”
“You know.” Sarah made an impatient gesture. “A horror man.”
Ry shook his head and discovered with some surprise that he was laughing.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m a horror man.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously—she knew she was being made fun of. But then she brushed her blond hair away from her face with two fingers to show that she was grown-up enough to let it go. Looking pleased with herself, she took one last look up at the sky and clambered over at least three bodies until she was just a face among other faces, no longer the youngest or most special. The other kids’ elbowing caused her to cry out and elbow back.
“This is bullshit,” she muttered.
“Sarah,” Jo Beth warned.
Sarah lowered her voice. “This is dogshit,” she clarified.
One of the Crowley girls guffawed. There was a pause as dangerous as a dare and then Sarah giggled, carefree and clarion. Ry’s heart soared—it was like the birds returning all at once in a flock of astronomical size, the insects pouring back home with the sound of one hundred resplendent choirs. He thought he might wilt with the majesty of it all, but Esther and Jo Beth were there at both sides to keep him propped, while Kevin stood by the driver’s side door, overseeing the stacking of bodies.
“All right,” Kevin said. “All set back there?”
Jo Beth began to work with Esther to lower Ry into the passenger seat, but Ry dug his stiff ankles into the grass. Their progress was halted; all three faces still outside of the car asked for explanation. Ry swallowed and tried to think of the right words. The last time they had tried to leave this farm they had almost forgotten the same thing.
“Sniggety,” Ry said.
Jo Beth’s face softened. Her lips pressed together.
“Sniggety’s … tired,” she said. “Let him sleep.”
The lie was all over her voice. Too tired to stop herself in time, she glanced at the doghouse. Ry wrenched his neck to get a better look. A mist of smoke forced him to squint, but yes, there was the old mutt lying on his side next to the scanty wooden box that had sheltered him for nearly two decades. Ry leaned forward, tried to see if the animal’s ribs were moving. He could not tell.
He pulled away from the women’s grip.
“Ry,” Esther said.
“Son,” Kevin said.
Ry reached into Jo Beth’s arms and wrapped his fingers around the shotgun barrel. Her eyes widened and she pulled back. There was no forgetting the postures Ry had struck near the end, the threat that had blazed from his eyes and the nightmare noises that had gurgled from his throat. She stared at him a good long while, transferring her trust slowly before letting up on her grip.
He checked the safety, arranged the stock so that it was planted firmly into the grass, and just like that the proper operation of crutches came rushing back from where he’d stored it along with sundry other fifth-grade memories. The Winchester was more the proportions of a cane, but the idea was the same, and once he was balanced on his swollen ankles, he struck forth. Stab, swing. Stab, swin
g.
Everyone was watching his every move, but he did not care. In fact, he welcomed it. From their shell-shocked silence he could tell that these people would forever divide time into before the rocks fell and after the rocks fell. But under no circumstances would he allow the events of the past two days to define him; he’d spent nine years defined by a single event and had learned that it was a terrible way to live a life. With each stabbing, swinging step, he visualized himself: five years postimpact, ten years, twenty.
It took him not much longer to reach the doghouse than it would someone of perfect physical health. Sniggety remained on his side in the dirt. His paws were not twitching. His lashes and whiskers did not flutter from the usual canine fantasies. Ry grimaced and took a knee. The pain became sharper, just a bit. He let his heart rate settle, placed a hand atop the dog’s ribs, and concentrated.
He felt it: Breath.
But it was weak. Ry gently pulled the skin back from one of Sniggety’s eyes, just as Peg Crowley had done to him minutes ago. The cornea was milky and unresponsive. He let the lid slide shut and then carefully lifted the freckled edge of the animal’s lip. The dull pink tongue pressed heavily against a row of grimy teeth.
A burden lowered itself upon Ry’s shoulders. It might have been smoke inhalation that had done this to the dog. It might have been two days of being rattled by the unfamiliar emotions of elation and panic. Or it might have been nothing more than the years sneaking up on him on a glorious morning complete with perfect round clouds and blowing grass and green leaves waving from the highest branches. Sniggety would not wake again; these final long hours would be dementia followed by death, and there might very well be confusion and pain.
Ry checked the shotgun. It was heavy with bullets.
The others could wait. No one would bury this dog but him.
He stroked Old Snig’s neck, put his lips to the soft ear, and whispered.
“Good boy.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Richard Abate, Joshua Ferris, Alison Heryer, Beverly Horowitz, Amanda Kraus, Dale Kraus, Craig Ouellette, Grant Rosenberg, and Katie Ryan.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Daniel Kraus is the author of Rotters and The Monster Variations. A writer, an editor, and a filmmaker, he lives with his wife in Chicago. Visit him at danielkraus.com.
