She Rides Shotgun

by Jordan Harper

  “Shit,” Jimmy said. “You’re totally fucking worthless. No wonder the CIA gave up on this shit.”

  Park dropped to his back. The earth was so cold under him. He looked up to the shimmying sky. He felt his skin against the air and knew there were no barriers, none at all, between anything. Him and the sky and all of it were just one big ocean.

  Jimmy’s pig-eyed face floated into his sight. He squinted at Park, like Park was out of focus—and maybe he was—and then Jimmy pulled his pistol from its holster and pointed it at Park’s face.

  This was the moment he’d been chasing. The buzz had led him here. It hadn’t been the case or saving the girl that had driven him here. He’d been chasing death his whole life, he saw it so clean and clear, and now it was here and he surrendered to it in the moment.

  Everything calm.

  Okay then. Time to die.

  Then an oh shit look washed over Jimmy’s face like a wave. He put the gun back in its holster.

  “Got to use the peckerwood’s gun,” he said as he walked away. Park tilted his head to watch him walk to his car and pop the trunk.

  Park sat up. Tried to make sense of this moment he wasn’t supposed to have. Looked down on the ground behind him to see if he’d find his body splattered under him. But no, he was still flesh. And he figured if he’d managed to be okay with dying then there wasn’t anything that could stop him anymore.

  He saw the rock next to his hand. Volcanic. Shard-shaped. Sharp.

  He saw how it would fit into Jimmy just so. Like it belonged to him.

  Park got the rock in his hands. He crouched down and moved toward Jimmy. Jimmy turned with a sawed-off in his hands. He looked right over Park’s head as Park moved in.

  Park brought the rock down. It fit into Jimmy’s knee just the way Park knew it would. The fat man went down.

  The desert rippled when Park ran. Like he was a giant and his feet shook the world. He ran into the scrub. Jimmy shouted all sorts of mad shit behind him. Jimmy swore he’d shoot. Jimmy shot. When the pellets whipped past Park he could see the paths they tore through the air. He ran after them. He chased those pellets out into the night.

  42

  NATE

  THE SHACK

  Dust motes swirled in sunset-orange light through the shack’s window as the sun dropped all but out of sight. Nate watched shapes form in floating dust. A bird, a flower, a bear. He tried not to think about what was coming.

  “I know who you are,” Houser said as he tied Nate to a chair. It was hell-hot inside the shack. Houser sweated. Nate didn’t. He figured his body didn’t have any more moisture to give. The dust motes congealed into a solid image. Nick’s face floated behind Houser. He nodded at Nate like I’m here and then the dust motes continued their dance and he disappeared.

  “You’re Nate McClusky,” Houser said. “The scourge of Aryan Steel. Like something out of a country song. That’s how they talk about you. You and your girl both.”

  “Keep her out your mouth.” The ghost of his brother gave him an atta boy.

  “You know as well as me you’re going to die right here,” Houser said. “You know you’re going to die tonight. I won’t do you the disrespect of trying to tell you any different. Only two things you got any chance of changing is just how easy that dying is, and what I do after.”

  “Okay,” Nate said.

  “You believe me.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You’re the one who took down the stash house in Sun Valley. You and your little girl.”

  “So?”

  “So I know what gets sent down there. So I did some back-of-the-envelope figuring on it. The way I see it, a smart man could have cleared six figures off that caper. And it’s not your only job. Someplace out there, you’ve got stashed either a lump of cash or a lump of that powder. Tell me where it is.”

  “We dumped it.”

  “Think I’m dumb?”

  “We dumped the powder. All of it.”

  “You threw away a hundred grand worth of crank?”

  “Didn’t need it.”

  “You understand I’m going to hurt you.”

  He showed him a knife curved like a fishhook. Nate couldn’t answer. He couldn’t trust his voice.

  Goddamn, Nick, I’m so scared.

  Only way out is through, little brother.

  “Maybe you won’t believe me, son, but I don’t want to do this. I don’t like hurting a man. Not like Jimmy does. He comes back here before you talk, you’ll see a man who takes pleasure in his work.”

  He’s going to hurt me, Nick.

  Yes he is.

  “We flushed it.”

  “I’ll believe it when I hear it from your girl’s mouth. Maybe you tell me where she is instead.”

  Nate shook his head like no.

  “All right then. Have it your way.”

  Only way out is through.

  Houser started cutting. What followed made Nate understand how shallow he’d lived his life. It made him see that there was a deep core to him that he’d never reached, not in joy or sorrow, not in love or laughter. He found some final deep protoplasm at the heart of him that could only be reached with a knife.

  He came out the other side of the cutting not sure what was him and what was the night. Sweat and blood slicked him. Houser wiped blood off the blade.

  “Your money or your daughter. You’re going to tell me, hoss.”

  Rope bit into Nate’s wrists when he twisted them.

  “Fuck you,” Nate said. Or was it Nick?

  “This ain’t no song, boy. Tell me what I want to know and I can end this.”

  “Not today, not ever.”

  Stabs like puffs of wind. Drips. Houser breathing faster now. Working hard.

  A slice. Something falling in a flap against his face. Nate reached out for the ghost of his brother in his head. But he was gone now. At the end of it Nate was alone. Nothing at all in the universe but this shack, this knife. The man cutting him.

  Something urgent happened to his head. A great seal broken inside him. And the words wanted to spill out whatever hole had been dug in him. It wasn’t the ghost of his brother or an outlaw code that kept him silent. It was deeper than that. That deep protoplasm knew one more thing than just pain. It knew Polly, and it kept her safe.

  The digging ended. Nate floated. His vision was blurred, flat. New shadows darkened the room.

  “Jimmy,” Houser said into his phone.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “What?” he said.

  “Where?” he said.

  “Goddamn you,” he said.

  “Keep him in the desert,” he said.

  “You stupid son of a bitch,” he said.

  “I’ll find him,” he said.

  Through the fog, Houser’s shape framed itself against bright light. Houser had opened the door. Then he closed it. Houser was gone. The pain stayed.

  43

  POLLY

  THE SHACK

  They drove up the hill in the dark, moonlight showing them the rough outline of the pebble road as it curved up the hill. The shack stood against the sky a dark block. Above it, Venus blinked.

  My home planet.

  He was inside that shack. Polly knew it. She hopped out of the car before Charlotte had rolled to a stop. She clutched the bear against herself as she jumped from the car.

  I’m from Venus.

  “Jesus, Polly—”

  She walked toward the gate. A thick chain snaked through it. She felt like she could snap it in two with Venusian hands.

  She got close. A shadow broke itself from the dark and moved to meet her. She jumped back as the shape hit the fence. It made sounds like broken jagged things. It had yellow teeth and a death stench. The dog got its paws in the chain-link and stood face-to-face with her. It dropped ropes of drool. It had scars across its nose. It had death in its eyes.

  “Oh shit,” Charlotte said behind Polly. Polly ignored her. She’d done her part. It was up
to Polly now.

  I’m from Venus.

  Polly took three deep breaths. She looked past the monster. She saw the rope at the side of the shack. On the third out breath she looked to Charlotte.

  “We’re going to get him,” Polly said.

  “Polly, that dog—”

  “There’s a rope to tie him up,” Polly said. “On the side of the shed, see?”

  Charlotte looked at her like what?

  “I’m going over the fence,” Polly said.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “When the dog’s tied up, you climb in after me,” Polly said.

  “Polly, no—”

  Polly climbed the fence, the bear in her hands. The dog growled, rocks smashing together in his chest. He snapped at her toes as they poked through the chain. He bit down. He tore the rubber toe of her sneaker. She felt hot wet breath through her sock. Saber teeth raked her foot. Red streaks of pain inside her. She yanked. Her foot popped out of her shoe. The dog yanked the shoe through the fence. He death-shook it.

  “Polly, be careful,” Charlotte said. Polly thought maybe it was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard anybody say.

  She swung one leg over the top of the fence. The dog was done killing her shoe and stood below her. Ropes of wetness slopped down his face, staining his chest. He snapped at her. His face was full of scars. His eyes were full of death. She had time to feel bad for the dog. She wondered who’d hurt him so bad to make him this way. She wondered who had turned him into a monster.

  She held the bear in her hands. He looked up at her face. He put his paws together and bowed to her like a warrior. She bowed back best she could.

  “I love you,” she told him.

  Polly tossed the bear into the yard, just over the dog’s head. The dog went for it. The dog latched onto the bear. It did the neck-snap shake. It pinned the bear against the ground and ripped. Stuffing flew.

  I’m from Venus.

  Polly jumped off the top of the fence. She hit the dirt hard. She bounced off the ground. She jumped on the dog’s back before it could turn to face her. It bucked underneath her, fur-covered muscle so much stronger than her own. She lost her grip. The dog spun to face her. Polly scrambled fast. She hopped back to the dog’s back. She wrapped her legs around its seething stomach and locked them together to hold herself there.

  She pushed her left arm under the dog’s neck. The dog scrambled underneath her. She knew if she let go she would fall, and she knew that if she fell she’d never get back up. She shifted her weight to stay behind it. The dog snapped the air inches from her face. Teeth crunched together, promised to tear her skin. The smell of rot filled her nose. She got her arm all the way under the neck, just the way her dad had taught her. Her hand found her other bicep. She locked in the choke.

  She squeezed.

  The dog growled, deep throat sounds that vibrated her choking arm. The dog’s claws scraped dirt. The back claws tore into her legs. Bright pain flashes made Polly’s eyes tear up. The dog tried to twist under her. If it could turn to face her it would have her throat in its jaws. They would shred her easy as they shredded the air. She pressed her body down, her forearm up. She hugged the throat with her whole body, the way her dad had taught her.

  She squeezed.

  The dog’s neck was so thick. She pressed with everything she had. The dog’s legs buckled. The growls turned to wheezes. Her arm muscles burned. Threatened to rebel. She knew she didn’t have much left.

  She squeezed.

  The dog went out all at once. It went limp, dropping them both into the gravel. Polly let loose. She knew the second she let go blood would rush to the dog’s brain. She stood. The world did a quick pirouette. She got steady. She got out the rope from the side of the shed, looped it through the collar, tied it to the fence. The dog snorted. She didn’t have long. She tied the rope to the fence. She didn’t rush it. She did it right.

  When she was done tying up the dog, she picked up the bear from off the ground. He was split open along the stomach. Blue-and-white stuffing leaked out of the hole. She fell butt-first on the ground and hugged the bear, rocking him, rocking herself.

  “So brave,” she told the bear. “You were so brave.”

  44

  CHARLOTTE

  THE SHACK

  Charlotte hopped the fence while Polly rocked herself on the ground out of the dog’s reach. The dog shook its head, clearing cobwebs. Polly looked up at her. The thing behind the girl’s eyes made Charlotte gasp out loud.

  The reality of what she’d just seen, what the girl had done, came to her in one rush. It was the craziest thing Charlotte had ever seen in her goddamn life. She laughed like glass shattering. Polly looked up at her like Charlotte was the crazy one. Maybe she was.

  “Is he okay?” Polly asked. “Somebody hurt him to make him that way. It’s not his fault.”

  Polly handed the remains of the bear to Charlotte. Charlotte realized she could feel her tongue drying in the night air. Her mouth had been hanging open ever since Polly jumped into the yard. Polly picked a rock up off the ground. She raised it over her head to smash the doorknob.

  “Polly,” Charlotte said. Polly stopped with the rock over her head.

  “Maybe try it first,” Charlotte said.

  Polly turned the doorknob. The door swung open. Polly tossed the rock, headed inside.

  A sour-sweet smell hung in the air, a smell Charlotte knew from her uncle’s shack in deer season. It was the smell of blood both new and old. Polly pushed ahead. She stood in the doorway.

  “Nick?” It was Nate’s voice. It was the voice of an old man. “Nick, I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t.”

  Polly ran to him. Charlotte followed.

  They’d tied him to a chair with rough twine. Purple wet furrows in his wrists where he’d fought against the rope, rubbed his skin away. Pinkflesh dots all over Charlotte knew to be cigarette burns. Blood on his chest, a bib of it from his mouth, from his face. Stab wounds in his chest weeping something darker than blood.

  Polly held him fierce.

  “It’s not Uncle Nick,” Polly said. “It’s me. I found you and you can’t leave ever again. You can’t.”

  “We’ve got to untie him,” Charlotte said.

  He heard Charlotte, lifted his head slow up at her. Her brain needed a second to identify the wrongness, the one blue gunfighter eye staring at her, the dark red pit staring at her.

  Oh god they took his eye.

  45

  PARK

  THE HIGH DESERT

  The desert seems silent until you are being hunted. The night seems dark until you want not to be seen. Park hunched to the earth, zigzagged through the scrub. The night had brought a million million stars stretched out overhead to the edges of everything. Below, rock and cactus stretched out to the same forever.

  Staring up at the ululating sky, Park tripped over a rock. He went facedown. He slid down a hill. A cactus broke his fall. Pain pricks from spines all over. Holes in his skin, air on his inner flesh.

  He didn’t know why he was being hunted. Why the deputy had fed him the mushrooms. It didn’t matter why. Only that it was happening. He understood that he was nothing but vibrations like the scientists said. He managed to wrest himself away from those thoughts, to focus on where he was.

  He’d hurt the fat deputy’s leg. He doubted the man could follow him into the desert. That meant Park was safe for the moment. He needed to get his bearings, look for the glitter of Hangtree. He climbed a ridge. He reached the top of a rock. He reached up for the moon but he couldn’t quite touch it. He turned in a slow circle until he found the lights of the town.

  A bullet snapped past his ear. It left a bright red line in the night.

  He left his body long enough to see himself at the top of the ridge, painted against the sky. He’d made himself a target. And they’d found him.

  Gunshot.

  A little star was born and died in a valley below him. The gunman moved from the shadows, surefoo
ted through the scrub. It wasn’t the fat deputy hunting him now. Park guessed it was Houser. The man moved toward him, fearless, knowing Park wasn’t armed.

  Park moved down the other side of the hill. Something slashed at his leg, yanked him down to the desert floor. He reached down, felt cold metal. Barbed wire strands from a long-dead fence. He yanked at it to clear it from his leg. The strand ran about a yard long.

  Rocks hissed on the slope above him.

  It was Houser moving. Park moved too. He’d passed through something now. Now he felt no buzz, no thing at all. He wasn’t even sure he was a thing. All the walls between him and the world were just ideas, and he was just an idea, and when he died the idea was the only thing that would cease and every volt of energy and every molecule of him would stay, so who could say that death was a thing?

  Yet he planned to not die.

  Park felt the cold of the desert leach into him. He drank up the desert cold. Cold all the way through. A lizard walked across his foot. Like a message from the world telling him it was true. Park was a lizard, cold all the way to the blood, just exactly as cold as the world around him. We’re all lizards that way, he thought.

  He was a part of the desert now. Houser moved down the hill. He moved sure-footed but uncertain. He stumbled, a stranger in his own desert. Park moved behind him, moving so slow, so silent. Houser’s animal instincts must have kicked up, something from the base of the brain honed by millions of years of eluding the wolves, that told him to spin, to raise his gun. Park’s hand came up, knocked the pistol off course. The gunshot as Houser pulled the trigger flashed and boomed and wiped away the world for both of them.

  They fought then on the desert floor, both blind and deaf. They stumbled and fell on each other. Park felt Houser’s hands on his skull. His head slammed into the dirt. Flashes of color burst through the blindness. He felt a pool of nothingness open up around him. He bucked with all his strength, felt Houser lose his balance on top of him. Park wormed his way backward. Sharp pain snagged in his back. The barbed wire. He reached behind him and yanked the strand out from under him. It tore furrows in him but he got it free, just as sight and sound started to return around the edges of existence, just as Houser scrambled onto him once again.