Devils Unto Dust(39)

“Here, drink this,” Sam says, and gives me a spoonful of clear liquid. I obey without arguing and swallow it. Bitterness coats my tongue, so sharp it burns. He hands me a canteen of water and I down it in one gulp, washing away the acrid taste.

“Sakes alive, that’s awful. What kind of snake oil are you giving me, Sam?”

“It’s just laudanum; it’ll help dull the pain.”

“How’s our friend?”

“Worse off than you. I’m pretty sure you cracked his cheekbone, but there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“That’s a shame,” I say, examining the knuckles of my hand. “I hope it doesn’t give him much pain.”

“It surely will,” Sam says.

“Pity.” I shake my head sorrowfully. “Thanks for patching me up, Doc. I owe you.”

“On the house,” Sam says, smiling. “I figure I’ll get plenty of business from you in the future.”

I smack him on the shoulder, like he’s one of the twins, but he catches my left hand.

“What’s that?” Sam turns over my hand, looking at the cut on my palm.

“Proof that I’m clumsy,” I tell him, snatching my hand away.

“You need to dress that, Willie, it looks infected.” Sam frowns at me until I nod my compliance. “Good. And next time don’t let it go so long.”

“What do you mean?”

“That looks like you let it fester a couple days. If you’d come to me sooner, I coulda fixed you up.” Sam gives me half a smile. “Now get some rest and stop trying to make my job harder.”

I lay down flat on my back, staring at the blank white walls until my eyes feel numb to the world. Curtis and Ben are talking softly to one another, though I can’t make out the words. Micah and Sam start up a game of mumblety-peg, which Sam will win like always. Micah’s a better shot, but you should never go against a doctor with a knife. They tried to teach the twins how to play; I found all four out back throwing knives at the side of our house. I put such an end to that, Sam didn’t come over for nearly a week. Seems silly now.

I turn over onto my side and slowly open my hand. The pink line of the cut rakes across my palm, definitive and resolute. From one corner of the wound pus weeps out, yellow and evil. Angry red streaks creep along my hand and move up my wrist. The skin is puffy and smooth, all the lines in my skin erased by the pressure underneath. My fingers start to tremble. It’s been hours since I cut it, not days; infection shouldn’t move this fast. Couldn’t move this fast, not unless—no. I turn the truth over in my head until it loses all semblance of sense. It doesn’t matter; I know what it means. I put an open wound in diseased water. It makes no difference if I bandage it or bleed it; no one survives once the sickness takes root. I have only days until the infection reaches my brain and I forget everything that makes me me. I’m going to lose myself, and Micah and the twins will lose the last parent they have left.

The pain in my nose is nothing compared to this. I feel like I’m drowning, like I cannot breathe. I know what happens next, I remember too well the madness and the pain and the stink of blood. This is not how I wanted to go, it was not supposed to be this way. Nothing in my life was supposed to be this way.

I’m not ready to die.

The laudanum is dragging me under, and I fight it. I have so few hours left, I don’t want to spend them sleeping. But the drug is too strong, and I am too weak. Sleep takes me roughly, and I have only one thought as I surrender: I’ve damned us all.





PART THREE:


THE


STORM


A woman in the shape of a monster

a monster in the shape of a woman

—Adrienne Rich





31.


I’m swimming, which is strange, because I don’t know how to swim. I’ve never even seen anything bigger than a creek, but here I am, weightless in water black and thick as oil. I swim deeper, farther into the darkness, each movement becoming harder as the water turns denser. It’s not water I’m swimming through, but blood; the blood of the already dead, congealing and hardening, so red it looks black. I open my mouth to scream and the blood pours in, coating my tongue and throat with its hot metal taste.

I wake up panicked, gasping for breath. This part is familiar, and I tell myself to calm down, that I’m safe in my house in my own bed. But that’s not true; this isn’t my bed and my face feels wrong and something terrible hovers at the edge of my consciousness. The night before comes rushing back, and the knowledge is no less painful with time to dampen the impact. I curl up, hugging my knees to my chest, making my body as small as it will go. I used to rock myself to sleep like this, when I was a child and so afraid of the world outside my door. If I could make myself small enough, I would disappear; if I could hide I would be safe. But I can’t hide from what’s inside me, and I can’t run from myself.

“Will, you up?” Micah’s voice pierces through my thoughts. I want to answer, but my mouth is not responding to my mind. I’m so tired; even drugged, the intermittent gunshots were loud enough to wake me up throughout the night.

“Let her sleep,” I hear Curtis say.

I can feel the sun streaming bright through the tent, but I keep my eyes shut and listen to the bustle around me; the clearing of throats, the splashing of water, and the clink of guns being polished and loaded. Everyone is moving, busy, so aggressively alive. It’s not fair.