Devils Unto Dust(53)

“I reckon,” he says. We stare at each other for a long, tense moment, and then he lets out a breath and lowers his gun slowly.

“You should go back to sleep,” he says, his voice flat.

“I’ve slept enough,” I tell him. “I want to watch the sunrise.”

“There’s plenty of those to see,” he says.

“Ain’t you heard? It’s never the same twice.” I tuck my knees up and hug them close. “I don’t want to miss this one.”

He blinks at me and finally shifts his gaze away and it feels like I’ve lost something. “Whatever you say.”

I’d like to think that I confuse him as much as he confuses me. I can never tell what he’s thinking, or where I stand with him. We sit in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. I rest my chin on my knees and look up. Yesterday the night felt rich and soft, but that was a world ago. I find no joy in the darkness, only the cold certainty that the stars do not shine for those of us watching.





42.


The sky starts to lighten to pale blue streaked with gold, and the sun glints into view from behind a low mesa. I squint my eyes nearly shut and watch it rise beneath the shadows of my lashes. It’s strange, but I feel calm right now, even with the sickness raging inside me. I know too well what’s coming; at the end, Ma was mad with the fever, fighting ghosts only she could see. The room stank of dirty hair and her hand was just bone wrapped in gray gauze. This is only the calm before the storm, but I’ll take whatever small bit of peace is offered.

The others start to stir, their breathing going from even sighs to short gasps as they wake up. Micah pops up from inside and blinks blearily, looking so much like a prairie dog that I smile. Ben gives up his watchful position and starts to walk a bit, getting his legs moving. The fire’s gone cold, leaving nothing but a few blackened, cracked branches.

My stomach feels hollow, like it’s been scooped out. I’ve been spoiled these last days; I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to be hungry. The pangs are familiar, an old enemy come calling. I reckon I should be used to it by now, but it doesn’t really work that way.

I stand up and stretch my arms out, ignoring the throb of my hand. Being hungry makes me focused, makes me sharp. Dawn’s a good time for rattlers, they’ll still be sleepy from the cooler night. I scan the ground until I see a larger rock that looks promising.

“Micah,” I call, and he yawns at me, still sleepy. “Rifle.”

“What for?”

I jerk my head at the rocks. “Breakfast.”

He nods and pulls his rifle from his back. With a grunt he tosses the gun at me and I catch it and swing it around to grip the barrel, ignoring the pinch of my cut. I free my knife and hand it to Micah and we approach the rock quietly, our movements familiar. Unless I miss my guess, there’ll be something underneath.

“What are you two doing?” Curtis asks.

“We need food, right? Ready?” I ask my brother, and he nods. “Go.”

Micah kicks over the rock with his boot, and the rattlesnake hisses at me, surprised and angry. I keep just out of its reach, and when it lunges at me I pin it behind the head with the butt of the rifle. Its tail thrashes around, the rattle a constant low buzz. Micah crouches down and with one swift slash he slices off the head. I let up with the rifle and we wait for the body to stop twitching, just like we have a hundred times before.

“Feels like home,” I say to Micah, who pokes at the snake’s head with his foot. I trade him the rifle for the knife and pick up the body to examine it; it’s not the longest snake, but it’s thick.

“What do you think?” I ask, holding up the snake for the others to see. “It’s not Elsie’s bread, but if you get the fire going again I’ll do my best.”

“Works for me,” Curtis says.

I make a small cut down the neck and get a good grip, then yank the skin off in one long strip, like pulling off a sock. I cut it off at the tail, just before the rattle, which I break off and toss to Sam. I usually let the twins have the rattles, and they see which one can annoy me the most with the noise. Sam catches the tail and gives it a shake, setting it buzzing.

I focus on cutting up the snake, happy to have a task; I let my mind empty of everything but the simple act of pulling out the entrails. The morning sun beats down on the back of my neck, and my skin prickles with the heat. With my hands covered in snake guts and my stomach empty, I feel more like myself than I have since I left home.

We each get a chunk of snake meat on a stick or a knife tip to roast over the fire. I prefer snake when it’s fried, but we’re hardly in a position to be picky. Without any seasoning the meat is gamey but mild enough, and soon we’re all scraping the last scraps off the ribs. It feels wrong to toss the skin away; I resist the urge to clean it and hang it to dry.

When we finish eating, Curtis quickly covers the remains of the fire with dirt, then passes around a canteen of water.

“Just one drink each,” he tells us. “We gotta make it last.”

I pick up a scoop of sandy dirt and scrub the blood and guts from my hands. Making sure no one is watching, I untie my filthy bandage. It sticks to my palm and I wince as I peel it off. The skin around my cut is swollen hard and weeping pus. I rewrap my hand with the same dirty cloth; it’s not as if it can cause more damage. I tie the bandage tightly, and the pressure sends a tremor up my arm. I pull my sleeve down as far as it will go, but with shakes roaming around, no one is looking at my hands anyway.