Devils Unto Dust(29)

“Watch me.”

“Willie, please—they’ll make me lance things.” Sam looks so horrified I almost relent.

“You shoulda thought of that before you left.”

I leave the boys to commiserate with one another and make my way over to Curtis, feeling fairly revenged.

“You’re a mighty cruel one,” he says, suppressing a smile.

“It’s their own damn fault for crossing me. And you were no help.”

Curtis raises his eyebrows at me. “You think my brother would stay put if I told him I was hunting alone?”

I glance over at Ben. “I don’t know. Have you tried?”

Curtis chuckles. “I haven’t been able to tell Ben what to do since he learned how to walk. He’s that stubborn.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I say dryly.

“Sign,” Ben calls out, putting all thoughts of muleheaded little brothers out of mind.

Curtis snaps to attention. “Where?”

“South,” Ben answers, pulling out his scope.

I look to our right and squint against the sun: human-shaped figures moving against the dirt, darker than the desert, their shadows stretching long and low.

“What is it?” Curtis asks, and for a wild moment I allow myself to hope it’s another rogue brother, or hunters, anything but—

“Shakes,” Ben says, and my neck prickles.

“How many?” Curtis asks.

“Six.”

“You sure?”

“Here.” Ben hands the glass to his brother. I wish he would stop talking in single words; it sets my heart beating faster.

Curtis presses the scope to his eye and makes a grunting sound I take to mean he agrees with Ben.

“There’s a bleeder,” he says, and I suck in my breath. Bleeders, the injured shakes, are the worst; their wounds never heal properly, so they don’t even have to bite you to get you sick. All they have to do is get close enough to bleed on you.

“What do you think? Half mile?” Curtis asks.

“Not even,” Ben says, his voice maddeningly calm.

I glance at Micah, and I don’t need a mirror to know we’re wearing the same face: creased brow, tight eyes, lips set straight across like a knife slash. I would bet we’re thinking the same thing, too: How fast can a shake cover less than half a mile?

Ben tugs his rifle off his back. The movement startles me, and I flinch and then curse at myself for flinching. At least this time my hands don’t tremble when I reach for my own gun.

“You ain’t gonna need that just yet,” Curtis says.

“What?”

“There’s a reason I let my little brother come along,” he says with a faint smile. He nods at Ben while I stand there blinking, feeling like I’m missing a large part of what’s happening.

“Stand clear,” Ben says.

I’m not close, but I still back up a few steps, putting even more distance between us. Ben raises the gun to his shoulder and takes careful aim, his breath coming out in a slow hiss. He stands stiller than I thought a human being could, his eyes unblinking and his chest quiet. He doesn’t shoot, and I glance back at the desert, wondering what he’s waiting for. The shakes are getting closer, their movements uncoordinated but purposeful. I look away before I can make out their features; I don’t want to remember their faces.

The shot takes me by surprise, the blast echoing across the flat plain. A heartbeat later one of the shakes collapses. Then the howling starts, high-pitched and wild; the sound an animal makes when it’s in pain.

“You got it in the arm,” Curtis says, the glass glued to his eye.

“Make it stop,” I say, shutting my eyes. “Garrett, put it out of its misery.”

“I’m trying,” Ben says, his voice a low growl.

I ball my hands into fists, the shrieking grinding into my bones. Another shot rings out, sharp and cold, and the screaming abruptly cuts off and I can breathe again. I relax my hands and open my eyes, afraid of what I’ll see but unable to look away. The shakes aren’t moving forward anymore; they fold in on themselves, converging into a mass of wet mouths and dirty teeth. I know it’s only my imagination, but I swear I can see a streak of red.

“It’s down,” Curtis says, lowering the telescope. “Nice shot. That should keep them busy for a while.”

I look away, feeling ill. I tell myself it’s like buzzards eating a rotting possum, but it’s not. It’s not like that at all.

Ben casually tucks his rifle onto his back, like shooting a shake at far range happens every day. I suppose, maybe for him, it does. But screams echo in my head, and I risk a glance at Micah. His eyes are slightly wide, and Sam’s eyebrows are so high they almost touch his hair. I reckon I could say I told them so, but I don’t much feel like it just now.





24.


We’re all walking slower and I’m not the only one limping when we cross the fourth marker and the next box. My eyes feel hot and heavy and my tongue is like sandpaper. I try to swallow, but I can’t get a lick of moisture in my mouth. My backside is one large ache, and I thank the stars for Nana. If I had to carry my pack this whole way, I’d be crawling by now. The only thing taking my mind off my poor feet is my hand, which is itching and throbbing something awful. The cut is deeper than I first thought, and the skin around it is red and puffy. It hurts to scratch it, but the tickle is driving me mad and I keep forgetting. Finally I tie another scrap of cloth around my hand; it may not help the itch, but it will keep me from scratching at it.