Devils Unto Dust(46)

37.


The storm lasts minutes, or maybe hours, or maybe days. Inside the house, I lose track of time. It’s dark, the storm sucking all the light from the sky. Or maybe there’s no more light; it could be midnight or high noon for all I can tell, the lamp casting long shadows on the floor. My back aches from bracing against the wind and my cheeks still sting from the sand.

The cans turn out to be stewed carrots, which we eat cold with some biscuits and hard cheese from the way station. My gun is packed with sand, and I hand it off to Micah for fixing; he’s better with the fiddly parts than I am. Outside the wind beats against the walls, throwing fistfuls of debris with a determination that feels personal.

The waiting is the worst part. Ben throws his knife at the floor, where it lodges in the wood, upright and defiant. He tugs it out and tosses it again, and again, making a rhythmic thumping until Curtis glares at him to stop.

I sit on the old rug, away from the others, wanting only my own company. I cross my legs and I’m tempted to pull my boots off to give my feet some air, but when I try and tug them off they won’t come. My feet are swollen from all the walking, so I give up on the boots and just let them rest. Curtis and Sam poke around the room until they’re sure there’s nothing of interest, then they flop down on the chairs, noisily and gracelessly, stirring up plumes of dust. The swirls lift into the air, and for a moment I see shapes in it. A cat jumping, a ship with a sail; is this what people see when they look at the stars? I’ve never been able to see the constellations, to find the plow or the bear in the tangle of lights. It doesn’t make sense to me, to single out one bright spot in the spiderweb. I can’t see anything but everything, all at once.

For a while no one says anything, and in a way it’s peaceful. Or it would be if everyone weren’t thinking so loud I swear I can almost hear it. Sam is thinking about how much longer the storm will last, how much water we’ll need, doing the calculations in his doctor’s brain. Micah is fussing with the barrel of my gun and wishing he had a different life, one where nothing is uncertain and everyone has a future. Curtis is planning, checking his watch, running scenarios in his head and weighing the results. I know what it’s like to have people depending on you, looking to you for guidance; it’s a lonely state, one I don’t begrudge him. And Ben, Ben the gruff and taciturn; him I just can’t read. He stares at the gashes his knife made in the wood, I would swear he’s not thinking anything if I didn’t know better. Maybe he’s scared; I’m scared. I’m scared I won’t leave this house, that I’ll become one of the ghosts haunting it. I’m scared because it’s not enough to have a plan. I had a plan, and look where it got me.

My hand hurts. The pressure is building up, the blood and the disease packed tight beneath my skin. I try not to think on it, but it throbs along with my pulse. Every heartbeat only serves to remind me that my heartbeats are numbered. I don’t want to be stuck in this house, I don’t have the luxury of time. My backside goes numb from sitting in one spot on the frayed rug, counting down the hours I’m wasting.

And then, when I’m starting to forget how time passes, the wind dies without so much as a good-bye. Light breaks through the cracks in the walls, spilling faint and yellow onto the floor.

“Is it over?” Sam asks, getting to his feet.

Curtis holds a finger to his lips and crosses over to a window. He presses his eye to the slit between two planks of wood.

“Looks clear,” he whispers, stepping back.

After the noise of the storm, the silence is deafening. It takes a moment for my ears to adjust, and that’s when I start to sense it. It’s nothing I can hear, not voices or the din of people living, but it’s there, on the edge of my awareness. A presence made up of shallow gasps and drawn-out sighs, the thousand tiny creaks and moans of shifting bodies.

“They’re out there,” I breathe.

“They don’t know we’re here,” Ben says, his voice low. “Curtis, how do you want to do this?”

Curtis shakes his head. “I’m not sure.” He pulls out his watch, looking down at it and frowning. “All right, listen up.” He sits back on his chair and we gaze up at him, like he’s about to tell us a story. “We’ve only got a few hours of light left. I’m putting this to all of you: we can stay the night here and leave in the morning, but the shakes are gonna be rowdier by then. Or we can leave now, while they’re still shook up from the storm, but we won’t make it to Best before sunset. That means we’ll have to stay out through the night, find a hotbox to hole up in. I leave it up to y’all to decide.”

Micah looks contemplative, but I don’t need to think about it; I don’t have a night to spare.

“I think we should go now,” I say firmly.

“I don’t know, Willie,” Sam says. “We’ll be blind at night, we won’t be able to see any shakes.”

“Better one shake at night than dozens in the morning,” I counter.

A wail comes from outside, piercing and long. The hairs on my neck stand up, and then other voices join, shrill snappings and low moans. It’s like some horrible song, all discorded and jangled, and then the howl cuts off in a choked gurgle.

“What are they doing?” Micah whispers, nervously handing my clean gun over.