Blue takes the beer bottle back from Rob, swigs it, then looks askance. “You hear that?” Blue asks.
Rob nods. “Gunshot.”
Tim says, “Too close to be hunters.”
Blue says, “Too many to be hunters.”
A few more shots are fired. They sound like hammers on rooftops. “That,” said Rob, “was a pistol,” he pauses and hears some more shots, “but there’s a shotgun in there somewhere too.”
“What you hunt with both?” asks Tim, who is a hunter but only casually.
Blue shakes his head, “People,” he says.
Scarlett is on top of Teddy again, fucking him again, wriggling in the sex way, but she pauses. “People’re shooting,” she says.
“Who fucking cares?” Teddy says.
Mindy and Tessa’s fear swells again when the shots start. Still coiled in each other’s embrace and hunched in the road, the blue-faced children stumbling absentmindedly by them, they whimper at each other, whisper their confusion: What’s happening? What is it? I don’t want to open my eyes. Who’s shooting? What are they? Are they gone yet? They’re not gone yet? Why’s this happening? When will they leave?
“One of us has to look,” Mindy says.
Tessa says, “Sure as shit ain’t gonna be me.”
The two women have their faces hidden against the other’s shoulder.
“You’re such a pussy,” says Mindy.
“And you?” Tessa asks.
Mindy nods, “I’m a pussy too.”
It’s silent a spell. Then more shots.
“Let’s both look together,” Mindy says.
Tessa nods her head into Mindy’s shoulder. “Okay,” she says.
“On three,” says Mindy.
“On three,” Tessa says.
“One, two, three…”
Old Burt, Manny and Tyler are smiling, walking weirdly through the army of children, kicking them about, firing at random. They are aloof little creatures: Old Burt sets his palm against one’s forehead and the little fella just zombie-walks in place against the force of Old Burt’s stiff arm. Tyler walks up, forces the barrel of his 9mm into the kid’s gooey mouth, pops a round that leaps out the back of the thing’s neck and zips off the concrete and catches a little brown-haired girl in the gut with a thump. The girl keeps moving, and Old Burt takes his hand off the boy’s forehead, and his noggin flops to his shoulder, but on he walks.
“Manny,” says Tessa, when she sees him.
“Hey,” Manny says, “where’d you come from?”
Tessa points to the ground.
“Watch this,” Manny says, and he puts his twelve gauge barrel against a girl’s shoulder, pulls the trigger and then the girl’s arm drops to the ground, followed by a belch of black blood. The girl keeps walking. Manny smiles at Tessa.
Mindy moves her way through the myriad children, makes her way to Old Burt and Tyler, “What is this?” she asks.
Old Burt shoots a few more kids, then flips open the cylinder of his revolver, lets the empty shell casings drop to the ground, begins to reload. “Manny’s got some Mexican word for it,” says Old Burt, “but to me, just seems like target practice.” Burt slaps the cylinder closed, shoots a few more dead kids.
Mindy flinches with each shot, hollers, “Manny?”
“Yup,” Manny says. He is handing his shotgun to Tessa.
“What the hell is this?”
Tessa shoots a boy in the face, screams, “Fun as shit, is what,” then, “Burt, give her your gun.”
Burt shrugs, holds the butt of his .38 at her.
Mindy takes it. Shoots a kid in the throat, which blows open, bits of his larynx drape from the wound drenched in black blood that glistens in the moonlight. “I don’t know,” she says, “feels wrong,” says Mindy as she watches the bleeding boy pass her.
Mindy hands the gun back to Burt. “Where are they going?” Mindy asks. She watches the backs of them, their creepy progression in the shadowy night, the woman in white now nearly out of view.
“Don’t know,” says Tyler. “Should we follow ’em?”
Old Burt says, “Might as well,” then, “almost out of bullets anyhow.”
The shots cease as the five walk along with the meandering children, following the woman in white as she makes her way from Scrape and out toward the bay.
Through slim fields of johnson grass and sand, they move on in the moonlight, quiet except for their walking. Their shadows hover dark beneath them.
When they reach the bay, the woman in white leads the children into the water.
The water is up to her knees. The water is up to her waist. The water is up to her neck. The water is over her head.
It doesn’t take as long for the children to disappear.
“Look at this fucking mess,” Blue says. He reaches down into the pile of bottles and lifts out a green one. “I ain’t never had one of these,” he says. He tries to twist the top off, but it won’t turn. It hurts his hand. He drops it. “Some other time,” he says, and he reaches for a can of Miller Lite, cracks it open, and suds foam from the mouth of it. He blows the froth to the floor, slurps his beer.
Tim is behind the counter finding cigarettes. Rob is eating chips he pilfered from a rack.
“Where’s Tessa, you think?” Blue asks.
They go into the back, but it’s vacant.
They return to the front of the store, eat, drink look at nudie mags, smoke, linger.
Teddy and Scarlett both cum again.
“Sh,” says Scarlett. “The shots have stopped.”
Teddy starts snoring.
Scarlett drops off in the music of it.
It takes half an hour for all the children to follow the woman in white out into the water. The moon shines lively on the bay, the tossing water chirping fits of light off its many crests and ebbs.
The air is salty, fresh, alive. Mindy has her shoes off, is burying her feet in the sand. Tessa is ankle-deep in the water, petting the heads of the dead children who pass her. Burt, Tyler and Manny are waiting until they can only see the backs of the children’s heads to fire.
Manny keeps missing.
“That’s why y’all lost the Alamo,” says Old Burt.
“We didn’t lose the Alamo,” says Manny.
“Then why you speaking English?” asks Old Burt.
Tyler stands up. “I’m hungry,” he says.
“Me too,” says Mindy.
Tessa looks up. “Let’s go back to the store,” she says.
“Well, God damn,” Tessa says when she sees Blue Parson slunk down in a pile of empty cans, dozing.
The noise wakes Blue, he shakes his head, blinks his eyes. “Hey, hey,” he says, lifts the can of High Gravity in his hand to his lips, sips at it.
“You drunk?” Tessa asks.
“Not all the way,” says Blue. “But more than I ain’t I guess.”
Old Burt looks for a Mexican coke that’s not cracked against the tiles.
Tyler has a Boone’s Farm.
Manny drinks Tecate.
Mindy has a Miller.
Tim has half V8 half Budweiser.
Tessa has a Boone’s Farm.
Rob Cooder eats a powdered donut. “What do you think caused it?” Rob asks, chewing as he talks, white sugar on his lips.
“Shit,” says Old Burt, “you didn’t see?”
“See what?” asks Blue.
“The woman,” says Tessa, “the kids.”
“What woman?” asks Tim, “what kids?”
“These hicks is oblivious,” says Mindy, “Couldn’t find their cocks unless they caught crabs and had to scratch.”
“Says you?” asks Blue, and the room goes awkward, because everyone knows.
Then Manny, “La Llorona.”
“La what?” asks Rob.
“The woman,” says Burt, and he eyes an undamaged Coke, plucks it from the ground and pries the top off with his lighter. The bottle bleeds suds, but he sucks them from the mouth of it, then says, �
��dressed in white,” he takes another sip, “the thing that was screaming,” he nods, “an unnatural noise.”
“Yeah,” says Blue, “we heard it.”
“So loud, stole my ears,” says Tim.
“That was it,” says Tyler.
“And that wasn’t all,” says Old Burt, “she had all these zombie kids with her?”
“Brain eaters?” asks Blue.
“Nah,” says Burt, “that was the odd thing,” he laughs, “well the odd thing besides all of it,” he sips his Coke again, “they didn’t eat brains or nothing. Just walked out into the bay.” Burt motions with his Coke bottle toward the water.
Rob Cooder finishes his donut and takes a flask from his pocket. He screws the flip lid on it, sucks a sip, offers the thing toward Burt, “Wanna spike?” he asks.
“Shit,” says Burt, “I’ve had all the spikes I’ll ever need.” He pulls a chain on his neck and a medallion draws up from behind his shirt, and he lets it dangle for Cooder to see. It’s a circle with a triangle in the middle.
“What’s that?” asks Rob.
“AA,” says Mindy. “Burt don’t drink.”
“Nothing harder than cola,” Old Burt agrees. “Not for a dozen years.”
“Shit,” says Blue, “what’s the point of that,” and he chugs at his HG.
Old Burt nods at Blue, “I used the think the same,” he says.
Then Tyler says, “Hey. Y’all seen anybody else?”
Every eye in the room looks at him.
“Huh?” asks Tessa.
“Well,” says Tyler. “There’s us, right, but the whole time we were shooting, didn’t no one else come out their house. Seems odd.”
“Shooting,” says Blue, “at what?”
“The kids,” says Manny.
“Why?” asks Blue, “I thought they weren’t doing nothing.”
Old Burt looks at Manny, and Manny looks at Tyler, and the three look at each other.
“It was complicated,” says Old Burt.
“Yeah,” says Manny.
“You had to be there,” adds Tyler.
“We should go looking,” says Mindy, then the room looks at Mindy. Mindy shakes her head, “For others, you dumb shits,” and then everyone nods.
“I’m down,” says Blue, “but we should take a cooler.”
“Why?” asks Tessa.
“Don’t know what else is out there,” Blue says, “and if I gotta die, I’m dying drunk.”
Most others agree with him. Only Old Burt shakes his head disapprovingly, “Rock bottom waits for all drinkers,” he says.
“Don’t be such a fucking buzz kill,” says Mindy.
Then Tyler says, “And a hypocrite,” says Tyler.
“Hypocrite?” says Old Burt. “I ain’t drank in twelve years.”
“No,” says Tyler, “but you got blunted earlier.”
Old Burt laughs. “Smoking ain’t drinking,” he says, “marijuana maintenance, we call it. Not everyone in the program’s down, but, it’s like the coins say, ‘to thine own self be true.’”
“Exactly,” says Blue as he puts beer in a Styrofoam cooler.
We take the streets meekly.
We knock on doors that go unanswered.
Through trash swept yards, we tarry.
We seven drunkards and Old Burt shaking his head at us as we sip ourselves sillier.
Jokes are told.
Blue Parson:
A man, a woman, and a turtle go into a bar. Bartender says, “What can I get you?” Man says, a less ugly baby.
Tyler:
A fag goes to see a doctor because his dick’s turned purple. Doctor says, “I’ve seen this condition, but not in a blue moon.” The fag contemplates this, says, “Well, Doc, I guess you’re cute enough. Get me some paint and bend over.”
Tim:
Mom walks in on her son who’s jerking off to a picture of Dick Cheney. Naturally she’s disgusted. “Boy, you need help,” she says. The boy looks at the picture; he looks back at his mom. “I appreciate the offer,” he says, “but you’re not really my type.”
Mindy:
What do you call a lesbian with no tongue and no fingers?
A waste of fucking time.
Tessa:
A man’s on trial for rape. He tells the judge he’s guilty but that the judge should be lenient on account of how small the rapist’s dick is.
“The size of your dick doesn’t matter,” the judge says, and the rapist says, “Sorry.”
“Why?” asks the judge.
“Because,” the rapist says, “you’d only say that if you had a small dick too.”
Old Burt:
What do you call a black guy who’s never met his father?
A black guy.
Rob:
What do you call a Mexican who can run fast and jump high?
Manny:
Let me guess: a wet back?
Rob:
I didn’t say that Spic could swim.
In and out of cars and trucks we climb, looking for keys, but every time we find a keyed ignition, we can’t get the engine to turn.
In empty homes, we lift phones from their housings, place our ears to receivers, but hear nothing emitted. No dial tones, no static.
Back in the streets, we call out names of friends and relatives:
Terry, Sally, Cindy, Tex, Guillermo, Tio, Chuy, Sebastian, Mikey, Maisy, Georgia, Molly, Andy, Sandy, Richard, Bob, Melissa, Lilly, Becky, Bailey, Victor, Jimmy, Hunter, Tom.
Nothing.
No one answers.
No one comes.
“This is creepy,” says Tessa.
Above, the sky’s black fades to gray, the light of coming morning, muting out the certainty of night, whispering on the paleness of day.
“I’m tired,” says Blue.
“Me too,” says Mindy.
“Let’s go to the tree house,” says Rob.
“Might be the safest place,” says Old Burt, “good vantage point, I suppose. In case anything else is coming.”
We all agree, and stumble to Blue’s. Climb up the ladder. Pick corners to flop in. Distribute blankets we’ve pilfered, pillows and bedrolls.
In the dark.
In the quiet.
Our minds wander.
MINDY
In the brightening light of Blue Parson’s tree house, Mindy thinks of the semester she spent at UT Austin, living in the fourth floor of Dobie, a dorm named after a Texas legend, a man who wandered the state culling folk tales and low myths, bitter and happy stories, both, that evidenced the state’s turbulent history of a place that’s been fought over. She’d only read one of the things he’d written. A queer, tall tale about a man who’d used walnut husks as body armor—or so she remembered it. She’d read the thing in a library on campus, which one she couldn’t remember. There were several, and they all had different names. These names were lost to her, with the exception of one—PCL. She couldn’t remember the true meaning of the acronym, but, as she recalled, it was the library that housed the majority of the texts relevant to those pursuing degrees in engineering. Many of those engineering students were from Asia, so the students jokingly called it “Predominantly Chinese Library.”
Mindy was at UT hoping to study nursing, but on the first floor of her dormitory was a theatre—Dobie Theatre—an independent house that showed art films, documentaries, foreign features that garnered awards, and Mindy felt called to it, spending all her money and free time there, watching stories that seemed so distant to her life’s history—a bungled existence in the depressing town of Scrape, Texas.
Beyond the movies was the boy. Alexei. His neat shaved head, his precision features.
“You come here all the time,” he told her.
“I like movies,” she said.
“Who doesn’t?” he asked.
And Mindy just shrugged.
Alexei.
Their hands touched once when he was taking her ticket.
The next time he saw her
he asked, “Do you like to take walks?”
After her movie, they walked out of the theatre onto Guadalupe, the bright light of day, nearly blinding their eyes, and they held hands going south.
When they got to Cesar Chavez he led her east to Congress and south again to the bridge over Town Lake.
“You got anywhere you’re supposed to be?” he asked.
“No,” she told him.
Alexei looked at his watch. “In about half an hour, you’re gonna see magic.”
They waited. The sky grayed to dusk. Others gathered around them. Alexei said, “Don’t listen to anyone,” and Mindy looked at him, “to these people,” he told her, “to their talking,” he said, “plug your ears with your fingers. I don’t want them ruining your surprise.”
The sun sank behind them, orange light and murky sky.
Alexei pointed. He pulled Mindy’s hands from her ears, held them, “Look, look, look, look,” he said. And, to Mindy, it seemed like a cloud of smoke was wafting from the bridge beneath them, but then she realized it was something flying.
“Are they bugs?” she asked.
“Bats,” he said.
Alexei.
He could make bats magic, could make bats a surprise.
Later, he bought her ice cream. Later, they were back in her dorm room.
For weeks, they wandered with each other. To the capital building made of pink granite. To the Central Market on Lamar Boulevard where Mindy stood mesmerized, staring at produce and fish. “I’ve never seen this kind of food,” she confessed to him.
But some people’s hearts need constant change to feel happy.
“You’re doing what?” she asked him.
“A study,” he told her.
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s like a three week thing,” he said, “I go in, take some pharmaceuticals. They monitor me. Make sure the drugs are working.”
“Isn’t that like, dangerous?” Mindy asked.
“Could be,” he said, “but it pays good.”
Alexei.
“I’ll miss you,” Mindy told him, the last day they saw each other.
The Last Horror Novel in the History of the World Page 3
