I pass the man loading bags from the ice chest. Up close, the ice hoarder’s neck and face shine red from the exertion. He looks ready to drop, but his wife screams for him to hurry as a pond expands beneath their cart. The man wipes his forehead with the back of a wet arm and leans down to pull another bag from the chest.
I grab two jugs of water from the nearby cooler. Behind me, a small man in a hooded jacket and basketball shorts edges his way between the couple. He’s almost squirmed close enough to take a bag when the big man turns and pushes him away. Just a single stiff-armed shove, but the smaller man slips in the accumulating puddle and tumbles backward.
“Back off,” the ice hoarder says. He tosses another bag onto his pile. I can see he is unhinged, the sort who has probably been waiting for a day like this one. Canned food covered in dust in his basement, a doomsday bunker of some kind buried in the soil of his backyard. He’s prayed on the inevitable approach of days like today, seen himself as above the help suggested at least once by a brave friend or relative. The wife looks like a believer, too. She watches as her husband loads the cart, her face twisted into the sort of violent contempt that might look appropriate on a comic book villain. Neither turn from their task to see if the smaller man is injured.
The cashiers are watching now, but with so many shoppers tossing money in their faces, they seem reluctant to abandon their post. The man in the hooded jacket climbs up off the floor. The back of his white basketball shorts drip and cling until I see the pale hocks of his ass through the material.
“What do you need with thirty bags of ice?” he asks as he gets in the hoarder’s face. “Ever heard of sharing?”
The ice hoarder hits him in the stomach. All breath leaves the smaller man in a gust and he crumples forward as if his waist were a well-oiled hinge. I think someone will step forward now and stop this, but the tiny man rises again, this time armed with a can of peas that have tumbled from a nearby shelf. He clocks the ice hoarder just behind the ear with the dented can, delivers another blow as the big man staggers, trips and collides into one of the cooler doors. The ice hoarder doesn’t go through the glass, just shakes the frame and slides down it. The smaller man tosses the peas aside and turns to grab his own bag. He’s hefting it over his shoulder as a gunshot rings out in the silence.
For one deafening moment, I know I’ve been shot. Pain surges in my back until I decide that must be where the bullet entered. In a moment, I’ll feel the warm leak of blood. Screams pierce the echo. I turn and see the ice hoarder brandishing a snub-nosed revolver from his prone position by the freezer. Glass shatters and frozen pizzas disintegrate like clay pigeons as he fires another shot. Everyone seeks cover, hiding behind display cases of beer and saltine crackers. One cashier covers her mouth with a wad of bills meant for the drawer, but the denominations do little to muffle her cry.
The shot man looks more surprised than harmed. He sits down in the water, his hand clutching the wound as he sinks back until his eyes lock on the lights overhead.
“Son of a bitch brained me with a can of corn,” the ice hoarder says. The gun hangs limp in his hand as he pleads his case. “What was I supposed to do?”
I dash for the exit. My back agonizes in protest, but I just keep moving, my jugs of water dropped and forgotten at the sound of the first gunshot. Russell clears the door with a gallon under each arm. Out in the parking lot, a man stands on the open tailgate of his pickup and haggles with a group about prices.
“Twenty dollars a case,” the man calls. “Best get it while you can. They’re all sold out inside.”
We jump into the hearse and lock the doors. The radio comes on at high volume as Russell turns the key. The announcer reports that the governor has declared a state of emergency. The National Guard is being deployed to offer relief.
“Things are only going to get worse,” I say. “The best thing to do is drive straight for the interstate. Hit the Kentucky line and get a hotel somewhere.”
The idea of a dingy Super Eight has never seemed so close to salvation. I can put Caroline to bed and take a shower. When she wakes, we’ll sit with our feet dipped into a chlorinated pool. Perhaps the girls will convince the other men to wade out in their underwear. I won’t participate, just be happy to watch those better-made bodies prickle with gooseflesh and grow high from the smell of pool chemicals instead of fearing the sweet scent from my creek. Only problem is, I’m still at the mercy of those with wheels, and I still covet the money Russell will pay for Angela’s signature.
“Or just take me home,” I say. “Please.”
Even the gunshot hasn’t managed to drown out my internal music. When I close my eyes, the musician I’ve invented walks with the boy, both in rotting garb that doesn’t manage to keep the sand from their crevices. The guitar’s strings are growing thin. The man knows the music will not last much longer. He needs to ration the art, play only the essential pieces from the old world for the boy. I feel that same urgency. I need to transcribe before this revelation leaves.
“Take me home?” I ask again, but Russell shakes his head. “Where are we going then?”
“We need to go to your father’s house,” Victor tell Russell. He’s leaned forward into the front of the cab until he’s inches away from Russell’s ear. I expect the conversation to proceed in whispers, but Victor continues loudly enough for all to hear. “We need to discuss this with him.”
“It won’t do any good. You know that.”
Víctor shakes his head. “It’s time he was held accountable. If you tell him about all you’ve seen, I’m sure he’ll listen. After all, you’re his son.”
There is a preaching quality in Victor’s voice I recognize from The Reverend’s sermons. Seduction clothed in the false garments of pride and concern. This is all fork-tongued lies, but Russell seems captivated by it.
“What if it’s just like every time before? What if he won’t listen?”
“Then we make him see what he’s done,” Víctor says.
Russell looks at his reflection in the rearview. Smiles wide until his fangs sparkle under the interior lamps. Rosita glances in my direction, but I know it’s best not to protest now. No sane conversation is going to end this. We’re going to confront Russell’s father.
In the back, Victor has the revolver in his hand. The cylinder hangs open as he loads it with fat cartridges. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint,” he says. The brass gives a dull shine before Victor spins the wheel and snaps it closed.
SANCTUARY
Day One of the Contamination
The Watsons have been dug into Bradshaw for generations, the only family of note among the cluster of trailers and one-story shacks in the deep hollow. Their clan owned most of the timber leases in Coopersville at the turn of the century. This near monopoly on resources allowed the earliest Watsons to invest in coal and its related endeavors. Once they amassed enough wealth from underground, Watson Chemical and Watson Trucking provided even the most distant relations with a fortune. It stands to reason anyone who became so successful would have fled, abandoned our mountains for the thrill and luxury of a nearby city. For some reason, the Watsons decided to stick close to their roots, building a mansion at the head of Bradshaw Hollow.