Devils Unto Dust(32)

Sam and Micah have claimed the beds at the back, so I toss my pack on the cot to the right, nearest the opening and the freshest air.

“Is this all right?” I ask Benjamin when he comes in. “You and Curtis over there?” I point to the cots across from mine.

“Works for me. I’d rather be closer to the exit anyways,” he answers. “Just in case things take a turn.”

“We’re surrounded by hunters,” Sam says dryly. “How much safer could we get?”

I snort softly, and even Ben’s lips twitch at that.

Ben throws his pack on a cot, leaving the other for Curtis. The beds are old, straw-stuffed mattresses without a coverlid. I can see the imprint of where previous bodies have slept and yellowed sweat stains where their heads have lain. But I could sleep on a gravel road; I’m that tired.

“Go on and rest awhile,” Ben tells us. Micah is already half asleep, sprawled out on the cot with his head propped on one arm.

I take off my coat and scrunch it into a pad for my head, then unroll my blanket and spread it out beneath me. It’s too hot to get under it, but once the sun drops, so will the temperature. My gun and knife come off and get shoved under my makeshift pillow where they won’t poke at me. I pull my boots off and let them drop to the ground, rubbing my sore feet. Every bone in my body creaks and settles when I lay down. The roof of the tent is vaulted, coming down low where I’m lying; I could reach out and touch it, leave my finger streaks in the dusty cloth. I turn on my side and study the beam close to my head, next to the entrance. There are names scratched in the wood, some deep and some barely visible. Davis, I read. Rodriguez. Eames. One that could be Hicks, or maybe Ricks. Why do they carve their names, when only strangers will read them? A name is only a meaningless word with nothing to attach it to. Maybe it is enough just to be remembered, if only for your name; here is proof of life, faceless and voiceless but unmistakable. Immortality of a strange sort: a eulogy in wood. I lift my hand to trace the names when sleep takes me.





27.


Someone is calling my name, and I struggle to swim out of the depths of sleep.

“Will, wake up.”

It’s my brother’s voice, and for a blissful second I’m at home. Ma made breakfast and Pa is already up and working on the roof. The twins will be in any moment now, jumping on me and getting underfoot. I open my eyes a crack, expecting to see Micah leaning over me. But the light is wrong and the ceiling is too close and then reality comes crashing down around me.

“Will, come on, I’m hungry,” Micah says.

I sit up slowly, my back protesting. My eyes feel leaden and my mouth tastes bitter. I rub my face and swallow and peer at my brother, long shadows on his face.

“What time is it?”

“Almost six. Sun’s going down and they rang the bell for supper.”

“Where is everybody?”

“Already went to the mess hall, where we should be.”

“Nice of them to wait,” I say crossly, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

“You wouldn’t wake up, I told ’em to go ahead. Not their fault you sleep like the dead.”

I give Micah a shove and ease my way to my feet.

“Shut it. I’m still mad at you.” I pick up one of my boots from the floor and pull it on, hissing as it scrapes my heel. “Where the hell is my other boot?”

Micah grumbles, but he helps me find it and waits while I check it for scorpions and put it on.

“Can we go now?”

“Quit your bellyaching, I’m coming.”

I stand up and follow Micah to the mess hall, feeling unsteady on my feet. My head is pounding something awful; I need water, food, and more sleep, in that order.

The setting sun changes the desert, orange light spilling out across the horizon, stopping only where the sky bruises blue. Through the open walls of the hall, light and noise pour out, the yellow glow of kerosene lamps, the metallic scrape of knives on plates. Heavy wooden tables stretch from one end of the room to the other, benches tucked in beneath. There are maybe fifteen men in all, huddled together in their own companies. Curtis waves Micah and me over to where he and Ben are sitting.

“Where’s Sam?” I ask, but my eyes are on the steaming bowls in front of the brothers.

“Getting grub,” Curtis says, and points behind him. “Go and help yourself.”

We don’t need to be told twice. Micah beats me to the table in the corner, where a man with brown skin and a tidy moustache stirs the most enormous pot I’ve ever seen.

“Evening, young’uns,” he says cheerfully. “Grab a plate.”

Micah picks up a tarnished tin plate and hands one to me, and the man ladles out the stew.

“Eat up, now. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

I could love this man, I think. I give him my best smile, teeth and all.

“Thank you, sir,” I tell him.

“My pleasure, little lady.”

Salt pork and potatoes, thickened with flour; no one speaks while we eat. There’s a bowl of cornbread, only a little stale, and a pitcher of water set on the table for us. I don’t remember the last time I ate this much or this well. Micah catches my eye and we grin at each other over our plates. I’m so full I could almost forgive him. I inhale my first serving, but I take my time with my second, chewing each bite slowly and deliberately. I study the other men in the hall, keeping an eye out for Lewis, listening to snatches of conversation, nonsense mostly. There’s a rumor going around that the president might send the army to keep us locked inside our houses till the sickness dies out, and the hunters have been railing against Grant for days. I roll my eyes; the North has enough trouble, what with the strikes and the fires. Do the hunters really think anyone cares what happens down here? As long as the shakes stay confined to these few barren outskirts, the rest of the country is more than happy to ignore us. They’ve already stopped building railroads, now they’ll wait for us all to die out and then come in and raze the ground and salt it for good measure. We’re a speck on the map, a blight on the land, and no one’s coming to save us.