He lands in a clearing, draws the 9mm and blasts two rounds, runs toward his house.
The hands give chase, begin to circle him in the road. He fires two more rounds, then throws the unloaded 9, draws his .38.
He jumps over a progression of hands, shoots once and a hand explodes, its fingers toss in several directions. He kicks a few away from him, runs on, fires another shot.
There is a stalled F-150, and Old Burt jumps on the hood of it, climbs to the cabin roof, surveys the hands surrounding him.
He reaches his free hand in his pocket, pulls out a Miller. He cracks it open, begins chugging away.
Several of the hands have reached his legs. He kicks again, fires again. The beer is empty. He flings the empty can down at the hands. He places the mouth of his .38 to the side of his head. He waves goodbye toward the tree house. Old Burt cocks back the hammer. Old Burt squeezes the trigger.
His brains are forced out his skull in a gush, and the hands climb upon him, begin to scrape him apart.
“Know why he drank Coke so much?” asks Tyler.
Everyone in the tree house is silent.
“He said it was the most racist drink he knew. He said that used to, years and years ago, it was made from wine and cocaine and sold as a sex drink, and that lots of people in Europe loved it. He told me the Pope drank the stuff, and gave the inventor a medal for it. He said that, when Coke finally got to the states, that they had to take the wine out because of some temperance movement, but that, for a long time, they’d left the cocaine in. He said that at first, they only sold the stuff in drug stores that black folks couldn’t go to on account of Jim Crowe laws, but, when they figured out how to bottle it, that black folks could drink it, and white folks had this idea that blacks were drinking the stuff and running around raping white women, so they decided to take the cocaine out to stop all the raping.”
It is quiet again.
Then Tessa asks, “Tell me again why the hell you hung out with him?”
Tyler doesn’t answer her.
“What now?” says Mindy when the black hands head back toward the tree house.
“I’ve got three shells,” says Tyler. “Anyone want me to shoot ’em?” They look at him nervously. “In the head,” Tyler clarifies. “You won’t feel anything.” Tyler looks out the window. “It’s either that or them,” he says. “I’ll probably do myself, once they get closer.”
Rob says, “Yeah, do me.” He steps forward, and Tyler puts the barrel of the 12 gauge against it.
“You sure?” Tyler asks.
And then they hear the bell ringing.
We hear four low drones, and the hands seem called to attention, seem beckoned elsewhere, and they go.
Reluctantly, it seems, based on the speed of their movements, they drag along on the tips of their fingers toward the ringing, away from Scrape.
“What is it?” asks Blue.
“Couldn’t tell you,” says Manny.
Silence for a moment, but then the bell chimes again.
A pleasant sound.
Sort of peaceful.
“Is it all over?” asks Mindy, and then we hear the whip.
Out the window of the tree house, we see, walking toward us, a bull whip in his hand, horns on his head, his face masked by a flour tortilla, dressed in black, some wicked, aged creature who calls out, “Have these children been good?”
Tyler looks at Manny, “What is it?” he asks.
“El Abuelo,” Manny answers, “The Grandfather.”
“What does he do?” says Blue.
“Asks us questions,” Manny answers.
Tyler motions with the shotgun, “Well,” he says, “let’s go answer him.”
Tyler, Manny, Mindy, Rob, Blue, Tessa and Tim climb down from the tree house, stand shoulder to shoulder, three on each side of Tyler who aims the gun at El Abuelo.
“Well?” El Abuelo says, “have these children been good?” His voice is old and gravelly.
Tyler says, “What the fuck you talking about?” and El Abuelo’s tortilla face shows anger.
“Curses?” he asks, and he cracks his whip and Tyler’s cheek splits open, bloody, and Tyler fires two shells at El Abuelo, but the birdshot only sinks into his black-leather shirt, does not faze him. El Abuelo cracks his whip again, and it wraps around the barrel of the shotgun, and he pulls back, and the gun flies to rest at El Abuelo’s feet.
The seven are terrified.
“You,” says El Abuelo, pointing at Blue, “Recite the catechism.”
“What?” says Blue, and El Abuelo cracks his whip again at Blue, and Blue’s body bursts into a puff of smoke that floats away on the breeze.
“You?” El Abuelo says, pointing to Tessa who only hides her face with her hand, and she is also whipped into smoke. Tim, the same. Rob, the same. Tyler says, “Fuck you.” Mindy says, “I’ll suck your dick.” And they are all smoke. All but Manny. “You, my child?” El Abuelo says, “Recite.”
Manny says, “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend thee, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life.”
El Abuelo puts his whip away. He takes Manny by the hand. The two leave Scrape forever.
A white owl circles above Scrape.
It is the only living thing in sight.
It turns left endlessly, gliding a certain course above the damage below.
Scattered glass and lumps of deadness.
Cracked cement and busted cars.
Below, Teddy’s blood glistens on his skeleton.
The owl’s path aims for that spot, landing on Teddy’s busted open chest, where it begins to pick at the meat the hands left behind.
The door to Teddy and Scarlett’s garage apartment opens.
The white owl takes notice.
The door to Teddy and Scarlett’s garage apartment closes.
The white owl dips its beak back at Teddy’s carnage again, raises its face, bloodstained.
The white owl chews.
The white owl swallows.
“Who do you think I am?” he asks her.
“I don’t know,” she says.
“That’s a pity,” he says. “I know you. I’ve watched you many times, Scarlett. With him,” he points toward the door, “with others, alone.”
Scarlett shakes her head, frowns at him.
“C’mon,” he says. “Take a guess.”
She stares at his suit, shiny red, his blue eyes and pale hair. “I’d say,” she says, “you’re no good,” she tells him.
He smiles. “You couldn’t be more correct.” He nods at her. “Take off your clothes.”
She doesn’t know why, but she does. She unbuttons her blouse, unhooks her bra. She is terrified but she is wet, anticipating. She brings a breast to her face, licks the nipple, suckles.
He smiles.
She unbuttons her jeans, plunges her hand into her crotch, her wetness.
He moves toward her, and she pulls her underwear down. He puts his hand on her face. “You have no idea,” he tells her. “You have no idea.”
Broken glass.
Spilled blood.
Scrape, Texas.
TOM WILLIAMS
Tom Williams is the author of one novel, Don’t Start Me Talkin, and The Mimic’s Own Voice, a novella. He chairs the English Department at Morehead State University.
BRIAN ALLEN CARR
Brian Allen Carr lives in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas. His short fiction has appeared in Ninth Letter, Boulevard, McSweeney’s Small Chair, Hobart and other publications. His books include Motherfucking Sharks (Lazy Fascist Press), Short Bus (Texas Review Press), Edie and the Low-Hung Hands (Small Doggies Press), and Vampire Conditions (Holler Presents).
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