Devils Unto Dust(52)

“You still carry it, though.”

“Yeah. Don’t know why. What are you gonna say to him?”

“I don’t know. I ain’t got that far yet,” I admit.

Micah puts the watch back in his pocket and sighs. “You might want to think on it.”

“You always were the smart one.”

“True enough. ’Night, Will.”

“’Night.”

I stare up at the tin roof and even though it’s there to keep us safe, I wish I could see the sky. It’s a strange thing to miss, because it’s not really gone. I listen to Micah breathing and shift my head so his boney shoulder stops poking into my cheek. He needs to eat more, if only for my own comfort.

I want to stay awake; I need these moments, I want to have every thought I can possibly have before my mind burns up and spoils. It’s useless, though, to fight against sleep, and my eyes shut against my will.





41.


In my dream, everything is on fire. I would move, but my feet are glued in place, and all I can do is watch as the flames start to lick at my ankles. The heat races up my legs, burning away my clothes and then starting in on my skin. I scream as my flesh starts to bubble and turn black, and then the fire is at my throat and pouring into my open mouth.

A gunshot wakes me and my eyes fly open; I cough and fight to catch my breath, still feeling the flames on my tongue. The warm stale air confuses me until another shot rings out and I remember where I am.

It’s still full dark in the box; I must’ve only slept a few hours. I blink, and see a pair of eyes shining back at me.

“It’s Ben,” Micah whispers, his voice tired but scared. “Think he needs help?”

A breeze brushes across my cheeks and I look up to see stars; the hatch is open. I glance at the others and find Curtis and Sam still asleep. I reckon Curtis is used to sleeping through gunshots, and Sam is too exhausted to care.

“I’ll go,” I tell Micah quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

He nods and gives my arm a brief squeeze. I reach for my gun and wrap my coat around my shoulders. My lips are dry but my eyes feel hot, and I shiver despite the temperature. The fever is starting to set in. I guess I was expecting it, but the reality is somehow crueler.

I carefully poke my head through the opening, my breath catching in my throat. Across the box Ben is sitting on the edge of the roof, his rifle across his lap and his face softly illuminated. With a grunt I haul myself up, my feet dangling and trying to catch on something that’s not there.

“Did I wake you?” Ben asks quietly, his teeth flashing in the dark.

I make a noise that could be taken as a yes and sit down next to him but not too near. The fire has burned low, but the embers give off some heat and light.

“How many were there?”

“Just one. Been a slow night so far.”

“How long have you been up?”

“Not long. I let Curtis take a breather.”

“Isn’t this dangerous? Being out like this?”

He nods toward the open hatch. “Time enough to get in if trouble comes calling. And I ain’t so good with small spaces.”

“I think for this one you’d be forgiven,” I say. “I felt like a chicken in a coop.”

I stretch out my arms and legs, enjoying the space.

“Is Curtis gonna be all right?” I ask. “He seemed awful upset about Nana.”

“Yeah, well. Curtis gets attached too easy.”

“And you don’t?”

Ben shrugs, picking at a nail. It irks me, that I can’t get a read on him.

“It didn’t bother you,” I ask, “setting that house on fire? Leaving all those people to die?”

“They ain’t people,” he says, still cleaning under his nails. “Not anymore, not really. They don’t even know the difference, if they’re alive or dead.”

I shake my head; he heard those screams same as I did. “I guess it’s easier, to think of them that way. To do what you do.”

“Go ahead and judge me, Willie,” he says, and I don’t like the stress he puts on my name. “You know the sickness will kill them sooner or later. Drifting around the desert, eating scraps or each other—that ain’t no kind of life. I won’t weep for ’em.”

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t expect you would.”

Chills go along my arms and I tug my coat tighter. I don’t want Ben’s tears, but I do want to be remembered. I want to be remembered as me, as Willie, not as a shake, not as something disposable that’s better off dead. So I guess it’s my responsibility to remember those shakes in Silver as something more—as people, real people, with desires and regrets. People with names and shoes, sorrows and babies and hats; solid things that existed, proof their lives were real and familiar. I’ll keep their memory if someone will only do the same for me.

Ben moves suddenly, lifting his rifle to his shoulder. He aims across the desert, at a dark and lonely shape.

The shot makes me flinch as the darkness swallows up the figure.

“They scream,” I say softly, and he turns to look at me, his face shadowed. “So they must feel pain. There must be something still in there.”

Ben gives me a strange look.