Devils Unto Dust(74)

“You should have told us,” Curtis says.

“Would you have kept going if I did?” He doesn’t speak, and that’s answer enough. “Don’t matter now, anyhows,” I say quietly, watching the flames lick at my brother’s body. “It were all for nothing.”

“Willie—” Sam starts.

“There’s nothing can be done, Sam. There’s nothing left to say.”

“Do you . . .” Ben clears his throat. “Do you want us to help you along?”

I meet his gaze, and his face looks pained. It’s a kind thing to ask, a kind thing to offer, this small mercy. But I don’t want that from Ben, I don’t want his last memory of me to be bloody.

“Thank you,” I say, “but I can take care of it well enough on my lonesome.”

The three of them stare at me and the weight of their combined gaze presses me deeper into the sand.

“You should go,” I say, swaying. “It ain’t safe.”

“No,” Sam says. “Willie, we can’t leave you—”

“Curtis, please,” I say, closing my eyes.

“Come on,” Curtis says, pulling Sam away. “There’s nothing we can do.”

I keep my eyes shut so I don’t have to see Sam struggle against Curtis. When I open them, only Ben is there.

“Go,” I tell him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Me too.”

“I wish . . . I wish it weren’t ending this way. But I’m glad to know you.”

“Good-bye, Ben.”

“Good-bye, Willie.”

I lie back in the sand as he walks away, turning my face against the sun. The ground is hot beneath me and smoke drifts into my nostrils as I curl up on my side and wait for my brother to turn into ash.





57.


I’m cold when I start to move again. Nothing is left of Micah but charred bones and bits of buckle. I look at the mess of darkened sand and ashes, but it doesn’t sicken me; that is not my brother. Not anymore.

I don’t know where I’m going, only that I don’t want to be in this spot anymore, where Micah stopped being Micah, where his blood is still soaking into the sand. It hurts my joints to walk, it hurts my chest to breath, but I drag myself forward, one foot in front of another. My skin is on fire and when I try to drink something my stomach rebels and I keel over, retching into the sand. My vision is dark and narrow, and I can’t tell which direction I’m headed or if I’m still on the road until my feet bump up against something hard. I look up and my eyes piece together wood and tin into the shape of a hotbox. It’s a little large for a coffin, but I reckon it’s as good a final resting place as any.

My hands run over the rough wood until I find the notches and begin to haul myself up. I’m trembling when I get to the top, sweat beading along my arms and neck. I pull open the latch and try to lower myself in slowly, but my strength gives out and I land hard on the floor.

I lie where I fell, my breath coming in short, rattling bursts that only leave me more desperate for air. I never thought I’d die like this, alone in a box in the sun. I held Ma’s hand at the end, waited until the last bit of warmth left her fingers. No one will hold my hand, no one will weep over my body. Maybe we get the deaths we deserve.

It’s dim in here, and cool, and I wipe my damp face and prop myself up against a wall. The ache that’s been building in my head starts to streak down my neck to dance along my spine, but the pain is nothing compared to the tear in my heart.

I slide my pack off my shoulder and pull my gun from my hip. I hope the Garretts and Sam are far enough away that they don’t hear the shot. They must be almost to the station by now. I wish I could’ve have gone with them; I wish I could have held on just a little longer. Maybe if I’d told them earlier, maybe if I’d told Sam—but it’s no use going down that road. I knew the odds, knew them the second I stepped outside Glory, and I risked it anyway. I’m as bad a gambler as Pa.

I check to make sure my gun is fully loaded, with no empty chambers. Mouth, I wonder, or temple? I shot Ma through the head, so maybe it’s right that I end the same way. Temple will be cleaner, and I don’t want to leave blood splattered on these walls. I wonder who will find me in here, and when; a hunter, most likely, but it could be days or months before the box is needed. I should have done this outside, I realize, but I don’t have the strength to climb out now. And I don’t like the idea of leaving my body unprotected, of pieces of me ending up in some shake’s stomach. A hunter will know not to touch my blood, at least, to avoid the hole in my head when they move me. But my hand—they won’t know not to touch my hand.

I glance down at the wicked slice across my palm. Such a little line with such a long reach. The cut has split open and blood weeps from one corner. This last small thing I can do, and I send a silent apology to the poor soul who finds me. I pull my matches out of my pack, tossing the rest aside. I won’t need anything from it anymore. I take my knife from my belt and strike a match with unsteady hands, holding the blade over the flame. When the match goes out, I light another, and another, until the steel singes the tip of my finger when I test it.

I take a tight, raw breath, and I press the hot knife against my hand. My palm erupts in fire, and I scream, loud and long, out here where no one can hear me. It hurts, and I’m glad it hurts, because I’ve earned this pain. The blade sticks to my skin, like it’s melting into me, and when I tear it away the ground drops out beneath me. A black wave rolls over me and I understand too late that I made a mistake; unconsciousness flutters and I fight it, fight with all I have left, because if it takes me, I won’t wake up again. Not as myself. I need to end it, I have to end it—I reach feebly for my gun and my fingers brush the metal before my eyes roll back in my head. Forgive me, I beg, and I don’t know who I’m asking. The last thing I see is a patch of sun through the hatch, and the searing, endless white of the desert sky. It’s not so bad, I reckon, as last views go, and then the wave crashes and drags me under.