Burn (Pure #3)(91)

“Yes,” El Capitan says. When was the last time he had something to drink? He’d love to get drunk. Ripsnorting drunk.

“I don’t know,” Bradwell says.

“Don’t,” Helmud says. He doesn’t like it when El Capitan drinks.

“What don’t you know?” El Capitan says to Bradwell. “There’s nothing we can do now—not for ourselves, not for Pressia. We can’t do anything until we hear from her. We may as well celebrate something while there’s still something to celebrate.” El Capitan turns to Gorse and says, “Let me make this simple: Hell yes!”

“Hell,” Helmud says nervously. “Yes.”

*

“To the mothers,” El Capitan shouts, raising the bottle, “who scare the hell out of me!” He’s already toasted the Dusts, the Beasts, the dead, the living, the boars, the creatures in the fog… He takes a long swig. It burns his throat, warms his chest. He and Helmud are sitting on the floor of the bank vault with Bradwell and Gorse and one other guy who’s passed out and curled up in the corner. The two-foot-thick circular vault door is permanently open, pinched by the buckled ceiling. The metal walls are lined with small rectangular drawers—all of which have been broken into and cleaned out. Most of the drawers themselves are gone. It’s cozy in here. Feels safe, secure. Smells like metal. El Capitan likes it.

As he passes the bottle on to Bradwell, Helmud reaches out and tries to grab it. “You’re getting your share,” El Capitan says. “It’s in the blood.” He laughs loudly. He knows Helmud doesn’t want a drink. He wants to take the bottle away from El Capitan. He doesn’t like to get drunk—and they both surely are now. El Capitan forgot how much he missed liquor—the way it softens the world, mutes noise, sets the world to blur. Old Ingership used to give him booze from time to time. He’s glad the man’s dead, but he misses the liquor.

“Your share, your share, your share,” Helmud mutters, arms slumped and head bobbing over one shoulder. He’s scolding El Capitan for taking too much.

“Shut up, Helmud!” El Capitan says. “We’re celebrating here. Right, Bradwell? Tell him. Right?”

“Right,” Bradwell says, handing the bottle to Gorse.

“Right!” Gorse shouts, taking a drink. El Capitan keeps a close watch over the bottle, trying to gauge if he’ll get the last swig or not.

He wishes Pressia were here, though he doesn’t want to bring up her name—not in front of Bradwell. He doesn’t want to know what happened between them when Bradwell ran after her in the rain. El Capitan likes to think of her now—with this nice drunk on. All of the pain is blunted. He can imagine a future with her—the two of them, or even the three of them, counting Helmud. And it’s good.

And then, like a switch got flipped, El Capitan thinks of the dead boy caught in the trap. Why now? He rubs his forehead. “Don’t. Don’t,” he mutters, but then there are more faces of the dead, flashing through his mind. Their faces are a blur. What happened to him in that crypt? That’s when it started. Why does he feel so sick about it all now? Jesus. He almost prayed to God or that statue of the saint for forgiveness. If he had done that, what would have happened to him? He’d have to admit it was wrong. It wasn’t wrong. Look—he’s alive! Helmud’s alive on his back!

“Why do they scare you?” Bradwell asks El Capitan.

“God and that saint?” El Capitan asks.

“What? No,” Bradwell says. “The mothers. You said the mothers scare the hell out of you.”

“You’re not scared of them?” El Capitan shoots back.

“I didn’t say that. I was just wondering why they scare you.”

El Capitan leans into the middle of the circle. “They seem good and nice and, well, they’re mothers. They used to organize potlucks and talk about curtains, and now they’ll kill you as soon as they look at you.”

“You’re one to talk,” Gorse says.

“Yeah, but I never prided myself on nurturing the young minds of tomorrow by picking out the best private school and driving to it in the best minivan.”

“We were all innocent once upon a time, though,” Bradwell says. “You were technically once a kid, right, El Capitan? I mean, shit—didn’t you once have a name other than El Capitan, or is that on your baptismal record?”

“Don’t remember it,” El Capitan says. Walden. Walden was his name.

“You don’t remember it?” Gorse says. “Your own name?”

“Helmud!” Bradwell says. “What was your brother’s name before it was El Capitan?”

“He doesn’t know,” El Capitan says. “Don’t make fun of him!”

El Capitan can feel his brother’s head jerk up behind him. “Don’t make fun,” Helmud says.

“I’m not making fun, Helmud. I’m just saying you might remember El Capitan’s name from your childhood together. I mean, it’s in there, deep down. Your mother used to call you into the house when you were little, right? She called, ‘Helmud!’ and then she said another name. What was it?”

Helmud bobbles some more. Is he remembering? Is there some pinprick of light illuminating the dark corner of his memory?