My shoulders sag. “You scared me.”
“Ha-ha.”
Then he slumps over. Shudders wrack his body. He claws at his throat, body flopping on the ground. He’s having a seizure and I can’t remember what to do. Put something between his teeth so he doesn’t swallow his tongue? Or is that something they only do on TV, something completely useless in real life? I roll him onto his side and hold him as steady as I can in the recovery position while he shakes like the earth’s plates are colliding inside him. Everything scatters when I upend my purse on the floor. I scramble for my cell phone and dial 911.
The line rings out. Rings out again. I redial just in case I messed up those three easy digits. Nothing. Just the huff of frustration that escapes my lungs.
James falls still. I wait for the aftershocks, but there is nothing but the sound of the operator picking up.
“What is the emergency?”
My fingers search for his pulse, but there’s nothing beneath the clammy wax that just a few moments ago was his skin. I must be wrong. There’s a pulse. There has to be.
“Hello?”
I’m looking in the wrong place, that’s it.
“James, wake up,” I say.
I press a hand to his chest and feel for the bump-bump, bump-bump. And wait while my lips give out my address by rote.
“What is your emergency?” repeats the tin woman.
“Just hurry. Please.” The phone flies across the room, gently persuaded by my fist.
“James? Get up now.” I slap his chest. Slap his face so hard it jerks to the right. “James?” Louder now, like’s he’s old and deaf and not—
—dead.
I need to will him back to life. I throw my weight into pumping his heart, force my breath into his mouth, and… nothing. His heart rejects my touch, his lungs my breath. His soul cares nothing for my will. But I keep going until I realize there’s a thin noise coming from his throat.
No, not his throat exactly. Further back, a direct drop from his ears.
It looks like my mother’s roast lamb when she cuts deep slits into the meat and forces a garlic clove into each gash. Only, his neck’s covered with paper-thin flaps—
I breathe into James, press his chest with both hands.
—that quiver as air tags them on the way out.
I’ve seen these before, in aquariums and seafood restaurants. Gills. James has gills.
It’s the noise that wakes me, small and secret and hidden. Some sounds belong to misdeeds, and when we hear them we know something is wrong.
I keep still, eyes tight, suppressing one sense so the other can requisition its strength. The fire is dying; I no longer feel its heat raging, although there is still a gentle warmth kissing my skin that tells me not all is lost. By dawn the fire will be gone, and, soon after, so will we.
With my vision restrained, I pick through the night’s sounds for the anomaly.
Dark is louder than light. Under the guise of night, the underbelly of nature reveals itself. Creatures slither and slink so as to not attract the attention of their natural foe. Predators are less cautious. They flap and soar until some meat-object takes their fancy. Then they dive and snatch up what they can. There are the desperate cries of prey in those final moments as death rattles their bones. Chirps and clicks herald a desire to mate. And there’s the musical tinkle of water wending through the land, searching for its source… or leaving home.
Even without these things, darkness has a sound of its own that has nothing do to with silence in the same way that space has nothing to do with emptiness. That’s an illusion that fools us all until we really pay attention.
My mind drifts until it catches on that noise that doesn’t belong. A whimper with a whisper chaser. Is it crying? Because that’s what it sounds like. There’s that same hitch between breaths.
I slowly sit, pull my body together in case I need to spring up in a hurry. Push off the ground until I’m standing.
I’m alone. Lisa and the Swiss are missing. But not for long. I find them underneath the stars and it is here I discover the source of the anomalous sound.
Even with his back to me, I know. I’ve been there. I’ve been her. The Swiss stands while Lisa kneels before him, servicing him with her mouth. I’ve seen how she turns to him with reverence and adoration, a twisted cousin to Stockholm syndrome. Worshipping a savior who is also your subjugator. He knows I’m there. He always does. He laughs at my shock. I am no prude and yet, there is a crudeness, an obscenity about him, that goes far beyond the bounds of love and sex and porn.
“Watch if you like.”
“You’re a pig,” I say. The girl tries to pull away at the sound of my voice but he holds her fast by the hair until she gags. He releases Lisa, steps back so she falls onto her hands, retching into the grass. She crawls further into the scrub, until she fades to a heaving silhouette.
“She’s sick.”
“Morning sickness.” He zips up, tucks the gun into the back of his pants like they do in the movies.
“How do you know it’s not White Horse?” I ask.
“She was stupid enough to have unprotected intercourse. Recently.” His stare is cool and laced with triumph. “She told me freely, without my asking. In a few months she will be cured. Do not think I’m the father. I’m not.” He swaggers like he has a secret worth keeping.
“It could still be White Horse.”
“She showed me her breasts. They look like road maps. Have you seen your own recently? Are the veins not more prominent? Are your breasts not fuller when the rest of your body is slackening and growing thinner each day?” He draws up level to me, his lips curled into a cruel sneer. “You can raise your children together without fathers. Bastards.”
He can never know who the father of Lisa’s baby must be. Ever. Because behind his eyes, just beyond the cold crust he wears as a protective shell, sits a pile of broken hinges; there’s no way to gauge which way his sanity will swing.
“You’re only with us because three is safer than two,” I say.
“I’m with you because I choose to be. Whether you and that little whore like it or not.”
“Keep on thinking that.”
“You’ll die without me. Like your stupid friend almost died.”
Lisa’s shoulders heave. Not White Horse. Not going to die. Pregnant. Just like me. I know the Swiss is right; once again, I was too busy watching for death to recognize the signs of new life. Relief mixes with my fear and coagulates to the point where I can no longer distinguish the two.
What a pair we are.
The chain-link fence wears a razor wire crown, a tiara a former beauty queen has cast aside. Its tarnish and regret do not stop it from maintaining its dignity; once upon a time, it stood for something.
We stand on the road, watching it turn to rust. After one perfect day, the rains have come again, more vengeful than ever.
“I’m going there,” the Swiss says. There’s a capillary road that bleeds off this one and walks right up to the structure’s front door.
I turn away, pick up my stride. “We don’t have time. The land is completely flat. That could be miles away.”
