Devils Unto Dust(47)

“Eating their dead,” Curtis answers, his face stone.

I shudder, my stomach turning over. They have to eat something to survive, but I don’t want to hear it; I don’t want to have to picture the torn skin and broken bones. At least they wait until one of them is dead; it’s the only civil thing shakes do.

Over the awful noises comes a panicked bray from the corner, loud and startling; Nana’s eyes are large and white with fright.

“Easy, girl,” Curtis says, running over to her. “Easy.”

Nana screams and shakes her head, pawing at the floor. Curtis strokes her neck, but she jerks away.

“Curtis, shut her up,” Ben hisses at him.

But the mule is beyond help. She kicks her back legs out, smacking the wall and leaving two huge cracks. Curtis grabs for her reins, but he’s too late; Nana jolts forward, half mad with fear, and strikes at the door with her front legs. It splinters and breaks, the wood bowing out and light coming in.

“Stop her,” Curtis cries, but she rears up and we can’t get between her hooves and the door. She brings it down with an echoing crash, then leaps over the frame and she’s gone, out into the sunlight and whatever lies in wait.





38.


I stare at the empty doorway in shock, half expecting her to come back. She can’t really be gone; if we lost Nana, we lost everything she was carrying. All we have left is what’s on our backs. Curtis takes a step toward the door like he wants to go after her; his face is as drawn as I’ve ever seen it.

“Everyone back,” Ben says, urgently. “Get back. Curtis, help me,” and he grabs the legs of the table, dragging it away from the window. “There’s no way they didn’t hear that.”

Curtis blinks, like he doesn’t understand what Ben’s saying.

“Curtis,” Ben shouts at him. “I need you here, brother.”

Curtis stirs himself and runs to help. “I’m sorry, I’m here.”

They shove the table against the gaping hole in the door, and Ben drags a heavy chest in front of it. There’s a loud thud as something bangs against the house.

“I guess they’re here, too,” Curtis adds, and my stomach drops.

Ben goes to the window and squints outside.

“I can’t make out—there’s at least three. More coming, but I reckon they’ll mostly be aiming for the front.”

Something slams against the broken door and I let out a startled yelp. The table shudders and Micah and Sam scurry back, as far from the door as they can get.

Curtis swears and frees his gun from its holster. He braces one arm against the table, holding it in place. “Ben, get over here. If we keep the door blocked, it should take them some time to get through.”

“But they will get through?” Micah asks.

“Eventually, yes. It won’t hold forever.”

Ben pulls out his smaller gun, leaving the rifle on his back and going to stand next to his brother with the same resigned expression. He shoves his shoulder into the table, looking relaxed, like he just wanted to lean against it.

“When they get through, we start shooting. We can bottle up the door with bodies, that oughta slow them down,” Curtis says.

But not stop them. There’s five of us, and who knows how many of them. We’ll run out of bullets before we run out of shakes.

“Make every shot count,” Ben says. “Maybe we can last.”

My hand wraps around the butt of my gun and it feels cold. Maybe this is for the best; better to go out in a hot blaze of gun smoke and grit than to wait for my body to turn on me.

“We need to get out of here,” Sam says, turning in a panicked circle, looking like a cornered animal.

“We can’t, Sam,” Micah tells him, his lips tight.

The sharp creak of breaking glass whips my head around, and a shake’s face and arm thrust through the exposed window.

“Micah, windows,” I yell, and run forward, pulling my gun free. I carefully aim for the head and shoot, and the bullet finds its target. The shake slumps over, its blood dripping down the wall. Maybe this would be a good end for me, but not for the others. I can’t let Micah die like this, I can’t let go just yet.

A crash from behind me signals the end of the other window. I turn around and see a shake launch its body through the shards of glass. Micah’s there, but the shake rushes him before he gets a shot off. I scream and raise my gun, but I can’t shoot it with Micah underneath. He grabs the shake by the wrists, keeping its teeth out of range. The shake snarls, biting the empty air in front of Micah’s face.

“Willie,” Micah yells, struggling to keep the teeth away.

“Shoot it,” Curtis shouts at me.

“Hold on! Sam, chair,” I order him. “Get that thing off him.”

Sam, quick as ever, understands right away. He grabs one of the chairs and with a grunt he swings it at the shake, knocking it clean off of Micah. It lands with a growl and I put two bullets in its chest before it has a chance to get up again.

“Thanks,” Micah gasps, sitting up.

A loud bang from the front door ends my relief.

“Hold those windows,” Ben says, grimacing as he repositions himself against the table.

“You two take that one,” I tell Micah and Sam. I retreat to the other window, the blood now pooling in a large circle on the floor. A stray arm tries to shove its way past the dead shake. I shoot once and it recoils.