Black Bird of the Gallows(62)
The image isn’t romantic. It’s as alien and unnatural as the Beekeeper’s changing face. I should be repulsed. I should be sickened by his true nature, and I suppose I would be if that were his true nature. But right now, he is probably suffering as he takes in all this death just to keep his soul alive.
Unless he was in the path of the landslide. In which case… No. I won’t think that.
Deno stops and waits for us to catch up. There’s impatience in the line of his body, but he says nothing. We’re on an incline with about a half mile of loose rock and debris to cross before we reach the area where the center of town is—hopefully, will still be. We’re in the dark, shivering in the rain. In the worst shoes imaginable.
Lacey scowls at her four-inch wedge-heeled sandals and mutters something about poor fashion choices. I’m in no better shape with lace-up platform boots.
“I know. I didn’t expect to go hiking tonight, either.” I hug myself and rub my numb hands over my arms. “Left a perfectly good jacket in the break room.”
She looks at me, wide-eyed. Mascara runs tragic black rivers down her cheeks. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to go slowly and not bust an ankle.” I glance back in the direction of my house, then to the dangerous path before us. “We’ll get there.”
Lacey and I pick our way over the debris field. The loose rocks are slick and unstable. Serenity still growls in the night. At one point, another chunk of rock face breaks free. We hear the crack and freeze as a few boulders tumble down the mountain. Nothing nearly as big as the first slide, but it sends another plume of dust and dirt into the air.
My dad calls. I nearly double over with the comfort of hearing his voice. My phone is wet from being in my jeans pocket, but I cup my hand over it and try to talk. The noises that come from my mouth are garbled fragments and aren’t comprehensible to my own ears, but he’s just happy to hear my voice. He’s so choked up, I can barely understand him, too.
“I’m sorry, Angie,” he says, panic cracking his voice. “I should have taken you with me on my trip. I should have— They won’t let me come back. All the roads are closed. I don’t know how to get to you. I can’t find you.” The hysteria coloring his voice is about more than just this particular event. His pitch and frantic tone are the same as they were five years ago, when distrustful, twelve-year-old me was first returned to him. I couldn’t get to you, I couldn’t find you… This is bringing back years of searching for a missing child for him, and I can’t stand it. I want to be strong for him, explain to him exactly where I am, that I’m close to home—and make a joke that will defuse his terror—See, Dad? An ice cream a day keeps the landslides away, but I collapse in tears on a pile of rocks and tell him that I love him and that I’m safe and that I wish he were here. And then the rain works its way into my phone, because it cuts off abruptly with a dead screen. I tuck the thing in my bra—I don’t care—dig my fingers into my scalp, and let out a wrenching cry that’s stolen by the pattering rain, the sirens, and that infernal growling mountain that has just torn apart my town.
Lacey and Deno remain silent and waiting while I am on the phone. I imagine they are thinking of their own families. Lacey’s parents didn’t answer when she called. Deno didn’t even try. I get up. We keep moving in the dark—Deno’s phone flashlight stopped working a while ago.
We know we are closer to the center of town, because the debris is thicker and smoke pours from between the rocks. It wouldn’t be so terrible if it smelled like a campfire, but it’s not just wood burning. Chemicals. Plastic. Something else, utterly nauseating. Smoke chokes our lungs and rain splutters over our mouths, noses. I pull the front of my soaking shirt over my nose and pull in air, but breathing is hard.
There are sounds. Noises that make bile climb up the back of my throat and whimpers escape my lips. People moaning, crying. Calling for help with far-off voices. Dogs howl just like Roger did when the Ortleys were killed.
“Look!” Lacey points to open pavement ahead. We get clear of the debris and look around to get our bearings. “We’re getting close.”
We are? This section of town is comprised of blocks of near-identical houses laid out in a grid. The destruction has upheaved the landscape. A number of homes are on fire, filling the air with smoke and ash. Our location is indistinguishable to me without street signs, and I can’t see any of those. Not in the rain in the middle of the night.
Up ahead, people huddle together on the corner of an intersection. Some buildings are perfectly intact, while others are flattened, buried, or just collapsed during the tremors. People are frantic, calling names, crying. Some lie on the ground, injured or dazed. Some lie on the ground, not moving at all.
The three of us start to move apart, scattered, overwhelmed. I don’t want to be alone—not with Rafette out there, possibly watching me. I don’t want them to be alone, either, depending on what they find at their homes. “Hey guys,” I call out. Deno and Lacey come over, and I put an arm around each of them. I draw them into a huddle, momentarily blocking out the upended world surrounding us. “Do either of you know where we are?”
Lacey hesitates, but Deno nods, pointing behind him. “The corner of Winkel and Dunn Streets. I sold candy for The Boy Scouts all around here— What?” he says when Lacey raises her brows. “I was like nine years old.”