Red Runs the River Page 11

  Beyond Juli, he saw many of his other followers, staring at him, gawking at him. Their faces clouded with confusion and worry. He knew he needed to compose himself and calm them, but his limbs still trembled from the onslaught of God's latest message.

  "Can you say something, Grady? Anything?" Juli said.

  "We found you on the bluff."

  Grady's head swiveled to the new voice and he saw Owen. "You had a convulsion or something."

  "No," Grady said. "It wasn't a convulsion or a seizure. I was listening to God."

  "Looked painful," Owen said under his breath, but Grady head him nonetheless.

  "It was. God's message for me." He turned to the others. "For all of us. It was hard to hear. To see. But now I know what we need to do and what travails we'll experience along the way. God is pleased with our work thus far, but we've been moving too slowly. We're running out of time. We must move on."

  "But why? It's nice here." Phyllis, a woman in the crowd asked.

  "That's exactly why. We must abandon all of the comforts of civilization because it was those very comforts that made us lazy and complicit to sit idly by while Evil took over the Earth. Every minute we sat on overstuffed chairs watching vain and immoral people on our enormous television sets we drifted further from God.

  “Every night we spent on our ergonomic mattresses, we fell asleep not praying to and thanking God, but dreaming about our own hedonistic desires. God demanded a clean start and now we must start anew."

  "Where are we going, Grady?" Juli asked.

  "To the desert. And along the way we need to save more souls. God has commanded it. He said we don't have enough. We haven't brought enough into our flock. We need more. He needs more."

  "How many?" Juli asked.

  Grady turned to her. He knew what they needed to do, and he knew it was going to be the greatest challenge of his life. Of all their lives. But they didn't need to know the details. Not yet.

  "All of them," Grady said. Then, he turned to Owen. "Take us to Brimley."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Wim! We're coming!"

  Wim's arm felt like it was burning and his first thought was that he was still holding onto the bridge. But he couldn't understand why everything was black. He squeezed his eyelids tight, then opened them.

  He realized he was no longer dangling in midair, but instead sprawled sideways on the ground. His face was pressed into a bristly clump of weeds, their jagged edges scraping at his eyes, and he tried pushing himself out of it. That's when the burning sensation in his arm turned into a full-on inferno.

  Wim collapsed, again landing face first in the bush which he was growing more than a little irritated with. He thought about trying to move again but the pain in his arm, and all of his left side really, made him reconsider.

  "Stay where you are."

  That was Mead's voice. It sounded fairly close and Wim looked skyward assuming the man was shouting at him from the bridge. But when he looked up all he saw was the gaping hole through which he, Pablo, and the wagon fell.

  The next thing he knew his face was getting wet and slimy. A sideways glance revealed a mound of fur that could only be Aben's dog.

  "Oh, heck, Prince. Stop with the licking."

  The dog didn't stop, and Wim couldn't push him off, so he laid back and accepted the wet fate until Mead arrived on the scene.

  "Prince, that's enough." Mead gave the mutt a gentle shove back and Wim enjoyed the break from the onslaught of slobber and dog breath.

  "Are you okay?" Mead asked.

  "Define okay."

  "Well, on a scale of one to ten with ten being riding on the wagon without a worry in the world and one being Pablo, where are you?"

  Wim looked down the ravine where the wagon was shattered, and blood seeped out from underneath it. "Well, in that case, I'm about a six."

  "Poor Pablo, man. Dude's flatter than a tortilla."

  "I wouldn't have thought of it quite that way, but, yeah," Wim tried to work his way to a sitting position, with the same pained results. He grimaced. "Help me up."

  "No, don't move him."

  The new voice was Aben's and Wim cocked his head in its direction. He saw the big man almost crab crawling down the bank.

  "You stay still, Wim."

  Wim didn't like being told what to do, especially when it came to something as simple as moving, but when he remained motionless the pain shifted from torturous to bearable, so he resigned himself to being lazy.

  Aben worked his way down, making their duo a trio. He was out of breath and Wim thought that was more panic than from the exertion. "You took a long fall, buddy. You could have done some serious damage." Aben knelt at his side. "What all hurts?"

  "Only my left arm. I think maybe I broke it. The rest I can deal with."

  "What about your legs? Can you feel everything? Can you wiggle your feet for me?"

  Wim rocked them to and fro. "Nothing the matter with my feet or legs. It's my arm."

  Despite the assurance, Aben ran his hands up and down Wim's legs, checking for injuries. Then he moved to his pelvis and waist.

  When he started unbuttoning Wim's shirt, Wim managed a smile. "I'm not sure we know each other well enough for this."

  "Just wait till I check your prostate."

  "That's not even funny."

  Aben pulled his shirt apart, but any time he got close his left side Wim lost his sense of humor. Instead of trying to remove the shirt the usual way, Aben took out a knife and cut it away from Wim's left arm.

  "I liked that shirt."

  "Oh, shut up," Mead said. "You've got another dozen just like it."

  Wim knew that was close to the truth.

  "Can you bend your arm for me, Wim?" Aben held onto his wrist, providing surprisingly gentle support for being such a rough character.

  Wim gave it his best shot but before he'd moved it an inch, his head was swimming. Aben must have seen the pain on his face. "That's okay."

  "Is it broke?"

  Aben stared at Wim's shoulder and Wim turned his head sideways to see what was so interesting. He saw a large, fist-shaped ball a few inches below his shoulder joint. That certainly didn't look good.

  "Not broke. But you definitely dislocated it."

  "So how do we re-locate it?"

  Aben turned his eyes from Wim's shoulder to his face. "Well, it won't be fun."

  A few minutes later and Aben had managed to straighten his arm, an act which caused more pain and more woozy, floating feelings in his noggin. The big man sat on the ground perpendicular to him and had one foot in Wim's armpit and the other against his neck. In his meaty hand, he held Wim's wrist.

  "Ready to give this a spin?"

  Wim kept his gaze turned skyward. "I don't reckon I have much choice."

  "Not if you want to use that arm again any time soon."

  "Well, then, get on with it. Are you gonna do a three count or--"

  Aben didn't count. He leaned back, using his body weight to pull Wim's arm taught. Wim felt like his upper arm was filled with broken glass which was shredding his muscles and tissue and whatever gooey bits were under his skin. He fought against fainting as the pain rocketed from a six to an easy nine.

  Aben pulled and leaned, easing back slowly, millimeters at a time.

  "You're gonna pull his arm off," Mead said from the sidelines.

  "I don't plan on it."

  Further. Further. Wim almost wished his arm was gone. He thought about telling Mead to give him a machete and cut the sucker off, but he couldn't squeeze out any words through the pain.

  "I think we're getting close, buddy."

  Some curse words passed through Wim's thoughts, but he kept them inside and gritted his teeth together as if that would somehow dull the pain.

  And then it popped. It wasn't audible, but Wim felt it through his whole body.

  "Son of a bitch!" Mead yelled and that made Prince bark.

  "Is it done?" Wim dared look and he found the fist-s
ized bulge was gone and his arm looked normal enough. "Can I move it?"

  "You tell me," Aben said.

  Wim tried bending it. There was a bit of pain, but it was a raindrop in the ocean compared to what he'd been dealing with. Then he raised it up and across his chest.

  "Take it a little easy." Aben said. "It's back in place but everything in that joint's going to be stretched out and inflamed. You go too crazy and it's liable to pop out of place again."

  "Then I won't go crazy." Wim sat up, ignoring the ache that lingered.

  "I'd even consider a sling for a week or so," Aben said.

  "I wouldn't go that far." Wim climbed to his feet, careful not to use his left arm. He looked down at himself and saw a variety of cuts and scrapes, but when he glanced at the bridge twenty feet above, he felt himself more than a little lucky.

  "Well, boys, I'm sorry about all this. I really thought the bridge would hold."

  "The bridge did," Mead said. "Some rotten boards was all it was. No one's fault. Just bad luck."

  "Worse for some then others," Wim said as he looked to the wagon. "I'd say we bury him, but I didn't bring a shovel."

  "Probably not much to bury anyway," Mead said. Aben threw a scowl his way and Mead shook his head. "What? It's the truth."

  "I feel like we should say something, at least. A few words on his behalf. You both knew him better than me."

  Aben and Mead exchanged a glance that, to Wim, made it clear neither wanted to take the reins on this and it became a staring contest for a good half a minute.

  "Okay," Mead said. "I'll do it."

  The three men turned toward Pablo's resting spot. Mead pushed his hair out of his face before starting. "Pablo was one of the best men in Brimley. He worked hard and would take on any chore assigned to him, even though before all this shit he was an educated man. He enjoyed hot peppers and playing the harmonica and he even sang a little when he had a few drinks in him. He loved his family and, in the end, was able to get some closure on that whole mess. He was a good man. And he'll be missed."

  Mead looked to them. "Anyone else?"

  Wim and Aben kept silent.

  "Well, then. Pablo deserved a less shitty end than getting crushed by a wagon, but I guess we don't get to choose our grand finale. So, with that, goodbye and God speed."

  "To Pablo," Aben said.

  "To Pablo," Wim repeated.

  "Is that good enough?" Mead asked.

  "That was fine, Mead. Just fine. Thank you."

  Mead nodded. "Now I want to get the fuck home."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After more than two weeks clean Saw woke up and realized he'd slept through the night without the need to puke into the bucket, or on the bed, or on himself for that matter. When it came to regurgitating his stomach contents, where they ended up tended to be a mystery.

  As he sat up in bed his head went for a swim and he closed his eyes to regroup. The feeling passed soon enough and, when he opened them again, he was surprised at how good he felt. His head ached, of course. That dull throb, like someone tapping on his skull with a ball peen hammer every three seconds was never-ending, except when the opiates had drowned it out. But, in a way, the familiar feeling of pain reinvigorated him.

  He rose to his feet, stretched, and ripped a loud fart all at the same time. That made him grin and when the rank smell of it hit his nostrils, the grin turned to a full-on smile. It was pure sulfur and made him hungry for eggs. Sunny side up if possible, but scrambled would do just as well.

  Saw was naked as the day he was born and when he looked down at himself he was surprised to see his pecker swaying lazily in the morning light. He couldn't remember getting such a good look at his prick in years and he went to the bathroom to see what else had changed.

  He pushed his way past stacks of garbage, moving through the maze of trash that had overtaken the hallway. When did the house get so bad, he wondered? They'd had a girl come and clean once a week, but the lass clearly hadn't been up to task. He added that to his mental 'to do' list.

  When he got to the bathroom and caught his reflection, he might have thought he was looking at a stranger if it wasn't for the hole in his head. His jowls were gone, his spare tire had vanished. He'd always been a fire hydrant of a man but now he was well on his way to being a bean pole. He couldn't recall any point in his life when he'd been so slender, and he didn't like it one bit. Yet another thing he'd need to fix. But first he needed to get dressed and eat, in either order.

  The trash filled hallway was a harbinger of the rest of the mansion he and Mina had called home for a few years. It looked well on its way to being a garbage dump complete with flies dive-bombing him as he descended the staircase and moved toward the kitchen.

  He almost lost his appetite when the smell of rotten food hit him. The flies in the rest of the house were only the first wave. The bulk of their forces had taken residence in the kitchen and when Saw saw maggots writhing amongst half-eaten food on dirty dishes, he was tempted to look for a match and light the whole place up. Maybe a fresh start was what they needed.

  He abandoned the kitchen, heading to the dining room when he saw Mina in the back yard. She sat on a wooden lawn chair and held a liquor bottle in her hand, occasionally raising it to her lips and taking a drink before going back to staring at nothing.

  Is this my fault, he wondered? He'd always been quick to fall in love - or lust - or obsession - or however he wanted to label it, and Mina was no different.

  He liked her moxie from the time she walked up to his truck, after he'd killed several of her friends on the Ark and asked him to take her with him. The broad had guts. And while he never got the feeling that she loved him back, he was fiercely protective of her.

  When they found this house, she'd commented that it looked like something out of a show on the telly she used to watch, something about rich housewives of California and he could see the awe in her face, the want in her eyes. That look was the reason he stopped his violent march across the continent and settled there on the Texas/Mexico border, even though the land was shit and the climate was worse. He did it to make her happy, even though he knew that happiness and Mina were like oil and water.

  He crossed the dirt and weeds that passed for a yard and was a few feet from her when he spoke. "Morning, Love."

  Mina jumped in her seat like someone had fired a starter's pistol. The liquor bottle tumbled from her hand and landed on the ground. "Son of a whore!"

  "Me mum had her issues, but whoring wasn't one of them."

  Mina stared at him, still wide-eyed with fright and anger, but now confusion seeped into the mélange.

  "What?"

  "Did I ever tell you about the rabbits?"

  "What?" She repeated.

  "No matter. Anyway, I didn't intend to cause you a fright."

  She grabbed for the bottle but most of its contents were already in the ground. "Well you still did."

  "My apologies."

  She squinted into the bottle. There was barely a swallow left and she put quick work to that. Saw took the now drained bottle from her and set it on the table. Then he grabbed her hand.

  "We're going to town."

  "What for?" Her eyes were wary.

  "Well first and foremost, to get some food. I feel like my stomach's going to swallow me arsehole if I don't get something to eat soon. And after that, we're bringing a group of men back here to empty out the house and clean it up right good."

  She turned her gaze toward the ground. "I suppose I fell behind a bit."

  That was the understatement of the millennia, but Saw wasn't about to scold her. He took his rough fingers and lifted her chin so she had no choice but to see his face. "Don't you fret about that, Love. You know why?"

  She shook her head.

  "Because, even though I haven't been acting the part of late, I'm still the king around here. King Solomon. Wasn't he in the bible or something?"

  "Yes. He was very wise."

  "Well,
I don't know how wise I am, but I'm still the fookin' king. And that makes you the queen. And last I checked, the queen don't got to do her own housekeeping."

  He thought something close to a smile pulled at her lips and he took that opportunity to lean in for a kiss. He could taste the whiskey in her mouth as he explored it with his tongue. He didn't like that she was half-way to drunk before noon, but he decided that nothing was going to ruin his good mood.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mead's feet felt like two sausages squeezed into heavy, leather casings. His steel-toed work boots weren’t meant for walking twenty miles a day and he was half-afraid his little piggies would be destroyed by the time they got back to Brimley.

  After the mess at the bridge, Wim rode Gypsy and Aben continued riding the younger, unnamed mare. Mead utilized Pablo's bicycle until he got a flat tire a few days later. Ever since, he'd been walking. And he grew more pissed off with each passing mile.

  Almost as bad as the throbbing pain was the fact that their already plodding pace had been further slowed. The other men needed to keep the horses at a slow trot so Mead didn't fall too far behind. The fact that he was bringing up the rear and constantly smelling horse farts and avoiding piles of steaming horse shit didn't do a thing to better his sour mood.

  So, when he heard rustling in a thicket of brush off the side of the road, he was more than willing to take a detour into the weeds and kill whatever was making the racket. It would do him well to take his frustrations out on something.

  He stuck his middle and index fingers in his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle to get the attention of the men who were ten yards ahead. They looked back to see what the ado was about.

  Mead pointed to the scraggly brush that lined the road. "Something in there."

  "Need some help?" Wim asked.

  Mead shrugged his shoulders. He imagined he could handle it on his own, but he'd seen plenty of overconfident men and women die the last few years. "Up to you."