The Cabin at the End of the World(57)

Andrew goes to Eric and coaxes him onto his feet. Eric says, “We have to leave. We have to take her with us,” and they both look behind them at Wen, and they rest their foreheads together, and they break down into more tears, the kind that bow, bend, and mesh the men’s bodies into the shapes and symbols of grief.

Andrew breaks from their embrace, is the first to stand upright, and he props up Eric. He whispers in a flash flood of words, “I need your help. We need to tie him down. We’ll tie him down so he can’t follow us and then we can go. The three of us will go away.”

Eric says, “Okay, okay,” but he doesn’t appear able to focus and he sinks to his knees. Eric is not well. Because of the physical strain and exertion of the fight, he must be experiencing renewed symptoms of his concussion.

Andrew speaks in a conspiratorial lower register. “You hold the gun, and hold it on him. I’ll tie him to the chair. All right? I’ll tie him, you watch him, make sure he doesn’t get up. You can do that, right? I know you can do it.”

Eric says, “No.” He shakes his head as deliberately as a shadow creeping across a sundial. “I can’t do that.”

“You have to, please. I’ll tie him down and you hold this.” Andrew looks at the gun in his hand and his eyes widen as though utterly horrified by what he sees, or horrified by what he saw.

“I’ll tie him. I can do that.” Eric staggers and careens away.

Andrew continues talking as though Eric is still next to him, leaning on him, listening to him. “And you shoot him if he—” He can’t get it all out and he breaks down and the gun rattles in his hand.

Eric wobbles like he’s navigating a high wire. He veers around Adriane’s legs instead of passing over her and plops himself onto his butt in front of Leonard. Eric’s eyes are all whites and pupils. He looks at Leonard once, or through him. He reels in coils of rope; one end is still tied to the leg of the chair in which Leonard sits. Eric then winds the nylon around Leonard’s legs, making no mind of knots, snares, and tangles. He isn’t doing a good job; there’s no pattern or reason to the loops and he isn’t pulling tightly on the rope to ensure there’s no slack.

Leonard initially thinks he will be able to wiggle free if he wants to, but there is a lot of rope and Eric uses it all on Leonard’s now mummified legs. Eric then belly-crawls behind the chair and gathers the other rope Leonard kicked away moments ago.

Leonard puts his hands behind the chair before Eric asks him to do so. He tells Leonard to do it, anyway, and his voice floats up like he’s speaking from the bottom of a hole. He winds a couple of lines around Leonard’s chest, under his arms, the back of the chair, and then spindles the rest of the rope around his hands and wrists.

A blast of wind crashes the open front door into the wall and drags into the cabin its tail of dirt, dried grass, leaves, and pine needles. Eric cries out, startled and terrified, and he collapses to Leonard’s left. Eric cries and talks to himself, and he crawls to the front door that indecisively hovers on whorls of air, pushed and pulled by unseen hands.

Andrew limps over Adriane’s body and stands in front of Leonard, well within arm’s reach if Leonard had a free one. The gun is lowered. He isn’t looking at Leonard and he isn’t looking at Eric. He looks at his red swollen hands and the gun.

Leonard knows what he is thinking. How can he not think it? Saying it will not help, but he says it anyway. “It’s not your fault, Andrew. It was an accident. You can’t blame yourself. I know you didn’t—we were wrestling and the gun was in both our hands and . . . and . . .” and Leonard can’t bring himself to say that he squeezed his hands and the gun went off. He is not going to say that out loud. He is not going to say that he knows, ultimately, Wen is dead because he and the others heedlessly went along with what they were told to do and he couldn’t say no because it was too hard, maybe even impossible, but he still should’ve tried to say no anyway. He is not going to say that despite the horror of what’s already taken place, he will still try to save the world, even as he fears it is no longer worth saving.

During Leonard’s stammering pause, Eric makes it to the door, which winnows in and out of his grasp.

Andrew’s face is stippled with overnight growth of black beard stubble and his hair hangs in front of one eye, and the other doesn’t blink. He presses the end of the gun barrel, that black dot rimmed in steel, against Leonard’s forehead.

Leonard hopes he shoots. He wants this to be over. He is sorry he couldn’t save everyone. He couldn’t even save one child.

The front door slams shut and Leonard jumps in his chair and exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He grieves that the slamming door was not a gunshot. He wants to cry that he is still here with Andrew looking at him the way he’s looking at him.

Leonard finishes off his long pause because he’s selfish. “The gun just went off, Andrew. It’s no one’s—it just went off. And I’m—”

Andrew pulls the trigger. Leonard hears the empty click. He hears it even though Andrew is screaming in his face. Andrew pulls the trigger again and again and again. He presses the gun harder into Leonard’s forehead, forcing his head back until Leonard is looking up at the ceiling. The dusty old wagon wheel hangs above. Leonard’s eyes water and the wheel is blurry and it sways slightly, acknowledging the struggle below it, but the wheel is not turning and it will never turn again.