Devils Unto Dust

by Emma Berquist

  “Longest two miles I ever walked,” Ben says. “I’m baked.”

  We drag ourselves to the hotbox, dead on our feet. It looks small in the night, a dark shape in a sea of dark shapes.

  Curtis reaches the box first and hauls himself up the ridged side. The rest of us watch; I sway slightly trying to stand in place, and Micah drapes an elbow over my shoulder to prop himself up. Curtis pulls at a latch and swings open the hatch at the top, ducking his head down to check inside.

  “All clear,” he says, sighing. “It’s gonna be a tight fit. Good thing none of you like to eat. Find some kindling and we’ll get a fire going.”

  The ground cover is sparse, but I pull up some tanglehead grass and Micah and Sam collect whatever brush they can find that will burn. Curtis and Ben find a spot to dig a bowl into the dirt.

  “Is it safe to build a fire?” I ask, throwing my heap of grass into the pit. “Won’t the shakes see it?”

  “That’s the point,” Ben answers. “They don’t like fire, mostly stay away from it. Some animal thing, I reckon.”

  “I reckon,” I say, soot from the last fire still on my skin.

  “Besides,” Ben adds, “even if they see it, least this way we can see them, too.”

  It doesn’t take long for the brush to catch, and soon the air fills with the crack and spit of burning branches. It’s so dry that the fire hardly smokes. It casts a small glow, enough I reckon to see the shakes just before they kill us. I should be scared, out here at night, but I’m so tired. I used up all my fear today; I don’t have any left.

  “You look beat,” Micah says to me.

  “So do you.” Streaks of dirt and sweat run down Micah’s face, and Sam’s hair is thick with dust. Ben has it worse; his beard is two shades lighter and dripping sweat that’s soaking into his shirt collar. I can’t see my own face but I can picture the dark circles under my eyes and my lips are so cracked and dry that they sting when I lick them.

  “I reckon we’ve all seen better days,” Sam says, wiping his face with a dirty sleeve.

  “I bet that Hide Town feller don’t seem so bad right about now,” I tell Ben.

  He runs a hand through his beard, shedding dust. “The fix is worse, but the company’s better. Least y’all can shoot worth a damn.”

  Somewhere along the way, Ben dropped the gravelly voice, too tired or too scared to keep up the act. More and more he’s looking to Curtis to take the lead, just like the rest of us. I feel a pang of guilt; Curtis is trying so hard to keep us safe, and I’ve already brought danger among us. I look over at him; he’s standing alone and apart from the rest of us, the price of being a leader. I swear the wrinkles on his forehead are deeper than they were a day ago.

  “That should last awhile,” Curtis says, poking at the fire. “Let’s get some rest.”

  Sam and Micah climb up first and I wait for them to drop into the box before I head up. I dig my fingers into the grooves, the wood still warm from the day. I reach the top and take a moment to look out across a desert made murky and remote by the starlight. It’s dark inside the box but I can make out the top of Sam’s sandy head, and I try not to land on him when I drop down.

  “Ow,” Micah hisses at me when I knock him with my elbow.

  “Oh, hush,” I say. “I barely touched you.”

  The air inside is warm and close, and I can hear Micah and Sam breathing like they’re inside my head. The box clearly wasn’t meant to hold many people; I have to stoop a bit or my head bangs against the tin roof.

  “I’m coming down,” Ben says from above us, and I press myself against a wall but still get a boot in my face.

  Ben lands with a grunt and suddenly we’re face-to-face and standing very close to one another. I’m all too aware of the dirt on my cheeks and I sincerely hope the sour smell in here isn’t just me. Of all the things for me to worry about, it’s stupid to care what Ben thinks of me; it shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t bother me, but it does.

  “Room for one more?” Curtis asks from above.

  “Not really,” Ben answers.

  “Too bad,” Curtis says, and lowers himself down. There’s not much room to maneuver, but he manages to squeeze himself in.

  “Well,” he says, pulling the hatch shut and fastening the latch, “I’ll take first watch. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Ben snorts and Sam gives a tired laugh. We have to sleep sitting up, but we’re tired enough I doubt anyone will care. I lost my blanket and my ripped-up shirt, but I still have my coat; I pull it off and scrunch it on the ground and crawl on top. Micah sits next to me, his head tilted back against the wall. From Sam’s deep breathing, he must already be asleep. I rest my head on Micah’s shoulder, my knees pulled up to my chest.

  “You think we’ll find Pa in Best?” Micah asks me, his voice close to my ear.

  “I hope so.”

  He pulls something out of his pocket, and I squint in the dark to see it. His pocket watch, the broken one that he’s kept all these years. It spins lazily, and I can’t see them, but Pa’s initials are engraved on the back: JHW.

  “You know, this is the only thing he ever gave me,” Micah says. “And he only let me keep it ’cause it’s broke and he couldn’t sell it.”

  “You still carry it, though.”

  “Yeah. Don’t know why. What are you gonna say to him?”

  “I don’t know. I ain’t got that far yet,” I admit.

  Micah puts the watch back in his pocket and sighs. “You might want to think on it.”

  “You always were the smart one.”

  “True enough. ’Night, Will.”

  “’Night.”

  I stare up at the tin roof and even though it’s there to keep us safe, I wish I could see the sky. It’s a strange thing to miss, because it’s not really gone. I listen to Micah breathing and shift my head so his boney shoulder stops poking into my cheek. He needs to eat more, if only for my own comfort.

  I want to stay awake; I need these moments, I want to have every thought I can possibly have before my mind burns up and spoils. It’s useless, though, to fight against sleep, and my eyes shut against my will.

  41.

  In my dream, everything is on fire. I would move, but my feet are glued in place, and all I can do is watch as the flames start to lick at my ankles. The heat races up my legs, burning away my clothes and then starting in on my skin. I scream as my flesh starts to bubble and turn black, and then the fire is at my throat and pouring into my open mouth.

  A gunshot wakes me and my eyes fly open; I cough and fight to catch my breath, still feeling the flames on my tongue. The warm stale air confuses me until another shot rings out and I remember where I am.

  It’s still full dark in the box; I must’ve only slept a few hours. I blink, and see a pair of eyes shining back at me.

  “It’s Ben,” Micah whispers, his voice tired but scared. “Think he needs help?”

  A breeze brushes across my cheeks and I look up to see stars; the hatch is open. I glance at the others and find Curtis and Sam still asleep. I reckon Curtis is used to sleeping through gunshots, and Sam is too exhausted to care.

  “I’ll go,” I tell Micah quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

  He nods and gives my arm a brief squeeze. I reach for my gun and wrap my coat around my shoulders. My lips are dry but my eyes feel hot, and I shiver despite the temperature. The fever is starting to set in. I guess I was expecting it, but the reality is somehow crueler.

  I carefully poke my head through the opening, my breath catching in my throat. Across the box Ben is sitting on the edge of the roof, his rifle across his lap and his face softly illuminated. With a grunt I haul myself up, my feet dangling and trying to catch on something that’s not there.

  “Did I wake you?” Ben asks quietly, his teeth flashing in the dark.

  I make a noise that could be taken as a yes and sit down next to him but not too near. The fire has burned low, but the embers give off some heat and light.

&n
bsp; “How many were there?”

  “Just one. Been a slow night so far.”

  “How long have you been up?”

  “Not long. I let Curtis take a breather.”

  “Isn’t this dangerous? Being out like this?”

  He nods toward the open hatch. “Time enough to get in if trouble comes calling. And I ain’t so good with small spaces.”

  “I think for this one you’d be forgiven,” I say. “I felt like a chicken in a coop.”

  I stretch out my arms and legs, enjoying the space.

  “Is Curtis gonna be all right?” I ask. “He seemed awful upset about Nana.”

  “Yeah, well. Curtis gets attached too easy.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Ben shrugs, picking at a nail. It irks me, that I can’t get a read on him.

  “It didn’t bother you,” I ask, “setting that house on fire? Leaving all those people to die?”

  “They ain’t people,” he says, still cleaning under his nails. “Not anymore, not really. They don’t even know the difference, if they’re alive or dead.”

  I shake my head; he heard those screams same as I did. “I guess it’s easier, to think of them that way. To do what you do.”

  “Go ahead and judge me, Willie,” he says, and I don’t like the stress he puts on my name. “You know the sickness will kill them sooner or later. Drifting around the desert, eating scraps or each other—that ain’t no kind of life. I won’t weep for ’em.”

  “No,” I say softly. “I don’t expect you would.”

  Chills go along my arms and I tug my coat tighter. I don’t want Ben’s tears, but I do want to be remembered. I want to be remembered as me, as Willie, not as a shake, not as something disposable that’s better off dead. So I guess it’s my responsibility to remember those shakes in Silver as something more—as people, real people, with desires and regrets. People with names and shoes, sorrows and babies and hats; solid things that existed, proof their lives were real and familiar. I’ll keep their memory if someone will only do the same for me.

  Ben moves suddenly, lifting his rifle to his shoulder. He aims across the desert, at a dark and lonely shape.

  The shot makes me flinch as the darkness swallows up the figure.

  “They scream,” I say softly, and he turns to look at me, his face shadowed. “So they must feel pain. There must be something still in there.”

  Ben gives me a strange look.

  “I reckon,” he says. We stare at each other for a long, tense moment, and then he lets out a breath and lowers his gun slowly.

  “You should go back to sleep,” he says, his voice flat.

  “I’ve slept enough,” I tell him. “I want to watch the sunrise.”

  “There’s plenty of those to see,” he says.

  “Ain’t you heard? It’s never the same twice.” I tuck my knees up and hug them close. “I don’t want to miss this one.”

  He blinks at me and finally shifts his gaze away and it feels like I’ve lost something. “Whatever you say.”

  I’d like to think that I confuse him as much as he confuses me. I can never tell what he’s thinking, or where I stand with him. We sit in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. I rest my chin on my knees and look up. Yesterday the night felt rich and soft, but that was a world ago. I find no joy in the darkness, only the cold certainty that the stars do not shine for those of us watching.

  42.

  The sky starts to lighten to pale blue streaked with gold, and the sun glints into view from behind a low mesa. I squint my eyes nearly shut and watch it rise beneath the shadows of my lashes. It’s strange, but I feel calm right now, even with the sickness raging inside me. I know too well what’s coming; at the end, Ma was mad with the fever, fighting ghosts only she could see. The room stank of dirty hair and her hand was just bone wrapped in gray gauze. This is only the calm before the storm, but I’ll take whatever small bit of peace is offered.

  The others start to stir, their breathing going from even sighs to short gasps as they wake up. Micah pops up from inside and blinks blearily, looking so much like a prairie dog that I smile. Ben gives up his watchful position and starts to walk a bit, getting his legs moving. The fire’s gone cold, leaving nothing but a few blackened, cracked branches.

  My stomach feels hollow, like it’s been scooped out. I’ve been spoiled these last days; I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to be hungry. The pangs are familiar, an old enemy come calling. I reckon I should be used to it by now, but it doesn’t really work that way.

  I stand up and stretch my arms out, ignoring the throb of my hand. Being hungry makes me focused, makes me sharp. Dawn’s a good time for rattlers, they’ll still be sleepy from the cooler night. I scan the ground until I see a larger rock that looks promising.

  “Micah,” I call, and he yawns at me, still sleepy. “Rifle.”

  “What for?”

  I jerk my head at the rocks. “Breakfast.”

  He nods and pulls his rifle from his back. With a grunt he tosses the gun at me and I catch it and swing it around to grip the barrel, ignoring the pinch of my cut. I free my knife and hand it to Micah and we approach the rock quietly, our movements familiar. Unless I miss my guess, there’ll be something underneath.

  “What are you two doing?” Curtis asks.

  “We need food, right? Ready?” I ask my brother, and he nods. “Go.”

  Micah kicks over the rock with his boot, and the rattlesnake hisses at me, surprised and angry. I keep just out of its reach, and when it lunges at me I pin it behind the head with the butt of the rifle. Its tail thrashes around, the rattle a constant low buzz. Micah crouches down and with one swift slash he slices off the head. I let up with the rifle and we wait for the body to stop twitching, just like we have a hundred times before.

  “Feels like home,” I say to Micah, who pokes at the snake’s head with his foot. I trade him the rifle for the knife and pick up the body to examine it; it’s not the longest snake, but it’s thick.

  “What do you think?” I ask, holding up the snake for the others to see. “It’s not Elsie’s bread, but if you get the fire going again I’ll do my best.”

  “Works for me,” Curtis says.

  I make a small cut down the neck and get a good grip, then yank the skin off in one long strip, like pulling off a sock. I cut it off at the tail, just before the rattle, which I break off and toss to Sam. I usually let the twins have the rattles, and they see which one can annoy me the most with the noise. Sam catches the tail and gives it a shake, setting it buzzing.

  I focus on cutting up the snake, happy to have a task; I let my mind empty of everything but the simple act of pulling out the entrails. The morning sun beats down on the back of my neck, and my skin prickles with the heat. With my hands covered in snake guts and my stomach empty, I feel more like myself than I have since I left home.

  We each get a chunk of snake meat on a stick or a knife tip to roast over the fire. I prefer snake when it’s fried, but we’re hardly in a position to be picky. Without any seasoning the meat is gamey but mild enough, and soon we’re all scraping the last scraps off the ribs. It feels wrong to toss the skin away; I resist the urge to clean it and hang it to dry.

  When we finish eating, Curtis quickly covers the remains of the fire with dirt, then passes around a canteen of water.

  “Just one drink each,” he tells us. “We gotta make it last.”

  I pick up a scoop of sandy dirt and scrub the blood and guts from my hands. Making sure no one is watching, I untie my filthy bandage. It sticks to my palm and I wince as I peel it off. The skin around my cut is swollen hard and weeping pus. I rewrap my hand with the same dirty cloth; it’s not as if it can cause more damage. I tie the bandage tightly, and the pressure sends a tremor up my arm. I pull my sleeve down as far as it will go, but with shakes roaming around, no one is looking at my hands anyway.

  When the water comes my way I reach for it with my good hand and take a long swig. It’s
warm and stale but I have to fight to keep from drinking more. The water sticks in my throat and I struggle to swallow. I finally get it down when my left arm spasms, then goes completely numb.

  I freeze and school my features into a blank mask. I try to move my fingers, but my hand stays alarmingly still. I take a deep breath, and another, attempting to calm myself while my heart races. This is all in my head, it is not happening, I tell myself, while my arm dangles uselessly, heavy and immobile. And suddenly I know that this is not my arm, but a dead snake hanging from my shoulder. I don’t know how it got there, but it is punishment, I think, for all the rattlers I’ve killed.

  “Will,” Micah says, nudging me. Why isn’t he screaming?

  “Give it here,” he says, and I blink and everything falls back into place. I hand the water to my brother, trembling. I flex my bad hand and stare at my curled fingers. I don’t know if what I see is real anymore, but these are the only eyes I have.

  “Micah,” I say, my lips stumbling over the familiar name.

  “What?”

  “I—” I have to tell him. I have to, because if I can’t trust myself, he’s the only one left.

  “Let’s go,” Curtis calls, and the words die on my tongue.

  “Will?” Micah asks, frowning, but I shake my head.

  “Nothing,” I say, turning away. “Just a headache.”

  We have nothing to pack, so we simply stand up and begin to walk, all of us determined. Soon. I’ll tell Micah soon.

  “Not far now. It’s uphill from here,” Curtis says. “We should be able to see the wall from the top.”

  I focus on his words. Somewhere up this road is Best, and Pa, and the end of this journey. If I can just keep it together a little longer, this trip won’t be for nothing. I need to get my head straight; there is still work to do, and I need to do it. I can’t go all to pieces, not yet. Not yet, I repeat to myself. Not yet.

  PART FOUR:

  THE

  DARK

  The good die first,

  And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust