One of Us

by Craig DiLouie

  “It’s just how he is. He cares about other people.”

  “Yeah, he’s nice.”

  “Speaking of the sheriff, I am sorry he got so rough on you boys that night. It weren’t right.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Dog wanted to say he was used to it, but he wasn’t. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. One hand feeding you, the other always getting set to slap. Brain asking him, See what they do?

  Dog knew what they did. They’d been doing it to him his whole life.

  “Maybe we can all meet up again,” she said. “Be real careful about it, though.”

  “I’d like that a whole lot. It was real nice.”

  “We’re friends now, ain’t we? Anybody tries to hurt you, I’ll do what I can. I came out to the Home on Sunday to check on you. Mr. Gaines made me leave.”

  “You shouldn’t come to the Home,” Dog said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It ain’t a nice place.”

  “I know it,” she said. “I had no idea. I’m sorry you have to live like that.”

  “I don’t know nothing else.”

  “I came out there because that’s what friends do. They protect each other.”

  “I’ll protect you, Miss Sally.”

  “You don’t scare me. I feel safe with you. If somebody tried to hurt me, you’d do whatever it took to keep me safe, wouldn’t you?”

  “I sure would. And not just because Pa said so.”

  “What if it were somebody you knew? Somebody like, say, Mr. Gaines. Like you said, he can be mean. Say he was grabbing me or hitting me.”

  “I’d make him stop. Pa told me to protect you, and I will.”

  Dog ground his fangs together, feeling powerful the way he did when the Bureau man flinched. If anybody touched her, he would do whatever it took.

  His hands and feet hummed with pleasure doing what they were meant to do. He felt them dig into the dirt. He held up one of his hands and inspected it.

  Claws. He had claws. Long, black, curved claws extended from his fingers.

  He willed them back in his skin, and they disappeared. Then they sprang out again sharp as knives. Lord, just look at them. What a wonderful gift from God.

  Special, he thought.

  Any boy ever touches Miss Sally, Dog will tear out his guts.

  Sixteen

  Jake glared out the window on the way home, still defiant but at this point unwilling to direct it anywhere inside the car.

  The world outside, so big. Inside the car, too small.

  Pa sat ramrod straight behind the wheel, still gripping one of Jake’s flyers balled in his fist. “I forbid you to mess with them monster kids any more. And I never again want to hear about you stirring up folks.”

  The reverend still held an accent from his native Tennessee, his speech roughed by subtle grunts that made him sound gruff.

  Jake crossed his arms and said nothing.

  “God made them separate for a reason,” Pa went on. “He marked them as sure as He marked Cain. They might not even have souls.”

  “They’re as human as I am,” Jake said.

  “You and your talk. I am fed up straight to here with your rebelling.”

  Jake watched the mailboxes zoom by. They hung suspended in air, full of potential energy before whipping past.

  “Well, boy? You got anything else to say?”

  His pa expected an apology.

  “You ain’t being fair,” he complained.

  “Fair’s got nothing to do with it,” Pa said. “This is about what’s right.”

  Jake turned and regarded the man who’d raised him. “You’re asking me to choose between you and God. And that ain’t fair.”

  Ma had died of cancer when he was seven, right after the last Christmas he believed in Santa Claus. He gave up on believing in God while he was at it. Ever since he was a toddler, his folks had bred the power of prayer into him. He prayed as hard and often as he could for Ma’s recovery, but God didn’t deliver. God allowed her to die for no reason other than one of her genes randomly mutated.

  His child’s mind concluded God wasn’t all powerful, didn’t care enough to stop bad things from happening to good people, or wasn’t there at all.

  Regardless of which was true, Jake stopped trusting in God the day she died. His pa whupped him good for that, but Jake could be stubborn. Pa could whup him all he wanted but that didn’t make God real. If you had to whup a kid to make him believe in something, that something wasn’t worth a lick of belief.

  Then something amazing happened that made him a Christian.

  The day of the funeral, the whole congregation filled up the house. All week, people trickled in with casseroles. The week after that, more dropped in to help out with chores, share a meal, just say hello. Years later, they were still coming.

  While Jake missed his ma something terrible, he’d come to rely on these visits. The church became like family. For him, faith stopped being about praying to a silent, remote God and more about being part of a community that tried to live according to what Jesus taught. Help each other. Comfort the afflicted.

  He grew up volunteering his time with church charities and hearing grown-ups talk about the plague kids like they were the Devil. Behave yourselves, or the creepers will come and get you. Then he grew old enough to learn the plague kids were just like his ma, afflicted by a genetic dice roll.

  Luke 9:46–48. After Christ’s disciples argued about which of them was the greatest, he showed them a child and told them: Whoever receives this little child in my name receives me. Whoever receives me receives him who sent me. For whoever is least among you all, this one will be great.

  Pa turned red behind the wheel. “I ain’t asking you to choose between me and God. You profane God by using Him to rebel against me.”

  “It ain’t about me and you,” Jake said. “I wish I could make you see that.”

  “You think you’re doing right, but you ain’t old enough to know what’s right. You’re still a boy. When you grow up, you’ll understand.”

  Jake looked out the window again. He’d rather fight the whole world than his pa. But if he didn’t think the way he did about the plague kids, he’d end up questioning everything. His family, his town, his religion, his faith. If people believed they’d go to Hell if they didn’t follow Jesus, only to heap abuse after abuse on the least among them, what did that say about their belief?

  God wasn’t there to satisfy one’s prejudices. He wasn’t Santa Claus, created solely to give you what you wanted. God demanded service and obedience.

  “You hear me, boy?” Pa said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You ain’t ready to know God’s will.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right then. It’s settled.”

  Maybe his pa was right. Handing out the flyers had made people angry. Even though Amy had warned him what might happen, it stunned him how upset they were. He had no regrets about it but couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done more harm than good with his preaching.

  He was right to do it. He knew it. He might still be a boy in Pa’s eyes, but that only proved what he believed was so simple, a boy could understand it. Something was wrong with this town, and they’d all have him believe he was the one needing to change. You bucked the system, they called you crazy for it.

  The last mailbox appeared next to the familiar row of crepe myrtle from which Pa’s green thumb had coaxed a third bloom. The station wagon pulled into the driveway of their white clapboard house. A riot of colors welcomed Jake home. Islands of roses, chrysanthemums, and late-summer annuals on the green lawn. Succulents growing in boxes on the porch. All summer long, he fell asleep each night smelling their perfume through his window.

  Pa turned off the engine and pocketed his keys. “I know you mean well.”

  “I want to do what you taught me.”

  “Then maybe you should,” said the reverend. “Stop talking and start doing
.”

  “Sir?”

  “Show people how to love instead of telling them how to do it. You want to help the monster kids, help them. Start a food drive. Collect clothes and such.”

  “You mean that, Pa?”

  “Just promise me you’ll stay away from politics. And especially them kids.”

  Jake smiled. It wasn’t even close to what he wanted, but it was a start. “Can I do this through the church?’

  “We can try it. Let things settle down first. Maybe around Christmas.”

  “Thank you, Pa. That works for me.”

  “You’ll be the one working,” Pa said. “A lot of time and hard work. Doing and preaching ain’t the same. Now we’ll get to see what you’re made of.”

  Jake would be happy to show him. Luke 9:46–48 had given him his calling. Pa had given him a mission.

  Seventeen

  Amy walked home in the cool late afternoon. The air smelled like freshly picked crops. Insect song filled the humid air. The empty road stretched in front of her. She spied a redbone hound running past a rotting old cotton house in a distant field.

  Sometimes, it felt like she was living in the ruins of another age.

  She slowed as the throaty metallic roar of an engine grew in volume. A sleek yellow car appeared. It sped down the road and passed the junction where she and Jake had kissed in the jasmine. A sports car, what the boys called a muscle car.

  Amy wished she could rewind and go back to that delicious kissing afternoon, before Jake got obsessed with monsters and righting wrongs. He’d handed out his flyers, and nobody wanted them. The reverend showing up to cuff his ears had brought an ignoble end to the whole business. At least she hoped that was the end of it. She loved his passion but didn’t want to see it undo him.

  Or maybe that was his plan, to undo himself. Brain had said the only way to fight alongside the monsters was to become one. Jake wasn’t about to disfigure himself, not in any real way, but he could make himself an outcast just the same.

  Amy hoped it wouldn’t all lead to him having to choose between her and the plague kids. Just like she hoped she wouldn’t have to choose between him and what she wanted. She liked him a lot, maybe she even really did love him, but she wasn’t about to become an outcast. She already felt that way, knowing what she was. She’d worked too hard to blend in and have a chance at living a normal life.

  The car slowed to a crawl and made a U-turn in the road, engine spitting. Amy thought he’d run himself into the ditch, but he pulled it off. Then he came back and turned onto her road. Dust clouds swirled behind him like a chasing sandstorm.

  Oh, brother. You pet some dogs, they always try to follow you home.

  The muscle car pulled alongside her, engine snorting. It had been a blinding yellow at one time but age and dust had faded the paint to a dull shade of urine. Bug guts dotted the windshield. Red flames licked across the hood, framed by a pair of black wings, the usual white trash automobile art.

  No, not wings. They were a pair of hands, cupping the fire like it was a gift.

  Ray Bowie hung his arm out the window and regarded her. Some happy music played on the car speakers. His gray eyes spoke his interest, though she wasn’t listening. She started walking again, heading home. He followed along at the same pace. The engine purred and radiated heat.

  “You lost or something?” she said.

  He laughed. “I’m right where I need to be. I was just driving around working my way through this here six-pack when I saw you. You want one?”

  “No, thank you. I like your car.”

  “It’s a 1978 Pontiac Firebird,” he said. “It’s got a V8 engine.”

  “Well, it’s real nice.”

  “You want to take a ride with me, darlin’?”

  Fat chance, she thought. He wasn’t just driving around out here, he’d been looking. She pointed to the black scrawl on his arm. “What’s all that supposed to be?”

  “It’s Latin. Aut inveniam viam aut faciam.”

  “And what’s that mean, exactly?”

  “I shall either find a way or make one. Hannibal of Carthage said that once.”

  “I don’t know who that is, but he’s got you to a T.”

  “When I want something, I ask for it,” he said.

  “You got the same hands and ball of fire on your arm you got painted on your hood. What’s the deal with that?”

  “That’s Prometheus. He gave all humankind the gift of fire.”

  “I would have expected something less original from you, like a big ol’ rebel flag. Thought that was more your speed.”

  “You think I have an act. My act is I don’t have an act. I just do what I want.”

  “Is that what landed you in jail?” she said without breaking stride.

  “How’d you know about that? Were you asking around about me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I did two years in Eastham, that’s a fact.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do a damn thing. I’m an innocent man.”

  “No, really.”

  “I went in some man’s house and stole his TV,” Bowie said. “Problem was the man was home and he was an off-duty cop. I never said I was smart.”

  “Looks like just doing what you want don’t work out so good for you.”

  “Anything else you want to know?”

  “Who’s that playing on your radio?”

  “That’s a mix tape I made. This song is ‘Shake It Up’ by The Cars.”

  “I like it,” Amy said. “It’s fun.”

  She found most popular music of the plague era prudish and spiritual. Music that helped you keep control instead of lose it, even when it was supposed to be uplifting. Jake’s monsta rock came close to breaking through, but it was too angry for her. It was rare to hear a song that really made you want to dance.

  “They just released a new album,” Bowie told her. “I ain’t picked it up yet. There’s lots of good things out there if you know to look for them.”

  “Well, Mr. Bowie, it’s been a pleasure, but I got to mosey on home.”

  “Ain’t that what you’re doing? I see you walking.”

  “I mean without an escort,” she said.

  “We should spend some time together, maybe this weekend. We’ll hand out flyers at the A & P.”

  “My, Sally was right about you. Don’t you have something better to do than try to pick up fourteen-year-old girls?”

  “Shit,” he drawled. “Look at you. I thought you was seventeen at the youngest.”

  “Even then, you’re too old.”

  “How old you think I am? I’m twenty-one.”

  “Thought you was older than that.”

  “I get that a lot, darlin’. Must be all the hard living I do. Or maybe it’s on account of my innate maturity.”

  Amy snorted. “Yeah, that’s it. You hit the nail right on the head. You know, that boy handing out those flyers is my boyfriend.”

  “Well, don’t that figure. I never did have no luck with women.”

  “I wonder how that could be.”

  “After I got out of jail, I drifted east. Been lots of places but none too long. Times are hard. Not much work these days, even less for an ex-con. That’s how I ended up at the Home. The girls don’t exactly throw themselves at you when you’re a drifter without no job. Even fewer when you got a job at a Home.”

  “You’ll find a girl who will love you for who you are. You ain’t so bad once you quit the act of having no act.”

  “Your friend’s got me all wrong. I ain’t a bad guy at all.”

  “Maybe don’t try so hard, cowboy,” she said. “I may be young, but I ain’t dumb. I heard it all before.”

  “I think you’re prettier than a sunrise,” Bowie said.

  “Ain’t you precious.”

  “And I also ain’t shy about asking what I want and then trying hard to get it. Don’t see why you would hold that against me. So how about a truce.”

&n
bsp; She smiled despite herself. “Sure, why not. We got a truce.”

  “You want to have a beer with me or not? Otherwise, I’ll git along.”

  Amy paused in the road. The stand of yellow poplars lay ahead, and beyond that her house. She felt better knowing it was right there in easy reach. Just a short walk and she could be home, but she didn’t want to go there, not just yet. She liked the music on his player. It had gotten its hooks in her. As for Bowie, he wasn’t bad company. A loser but with some of the same qualities she found appealing in Jake.

  In any case, sitting in Bowie’s car would be a lot more interesting than watching TV with her suffering mama. Sparring with him was kind of fun.

  Don’t do it, the little voice in her head warned. Mr. Benson’s lecture shouted in her ear. Her mama saying, Don’t take risks and don’t be stupid.

  Ray Bowie wouldn’t do anything crazy, though. Amy had taken his measure. She had a good handle on him. A delicious thrill ran through her, the idea of drinking beer with an ex-con. She had a perverse want to wrap this skinny man around her finger. She just bet she could.

  Maybe she had a little more of her mama in her than she was normally willing to admit.

  “All right,” she said. “You know what. I could do just that. Just one beer as long as you promise to behave like a gentleman.”

  He stopped the car. “Hop in then.”

  Amy walked around the other side of the car and slid inside. The door clunked shut. The leather seat felt worn and smooth as an old saddle. McDonald’s wrappers and empties littered the floor around her feet. The ashtray was overflowing.

  She dumped her schoolbooks on the dashboard. “I really love this car. You should think about cleaning it sometime.”

  “It’s lacking a woman’s touch,” Bowie said.

  He jerked a can of Bud off its ring, cracked it open, and handed it to her before opening another for himself. He raised his can in a toast.

  “To new friends,” he said.

  “No promises on that,” she said.

  She sipped her beer, taking it easy. He polished one off and started another, looking out the window at the thickening twilight.

  “This is nice,” he said. “Just sitting here with a pretty girl.”