“Get in,” Rosita calls. When I hesitate, she shifts the car into drive as a final warning. “Get in, Goddamn it.”
I fall into the passenger seat. The gate is still open, so Rosita never slows. We hit the main road hard, fishtailing as she tries to straighten the hearse. The silence inside the car is only interrupted when low-hanging tree branches scrape the roof as we race out of the hollow.
“What are we going to do?” Rosita asks.
I’m still thinking of Caroline locked inside the bathroom. No doubt they’re breaking the door down, dragging her out and either adding her to the bodies in need of disposal or forcing her to comply with whatever story they fabricate. I shouldn’t have left her. I should have stayed no matter what.
“Do you have a phone?” Rosita asks. “I can’t find my cell.”
I look in the rearview to see if anyone is pursuing us. “No,” I say. “Did you get a picture?”
“Several.” She points a thumb to the camera bags in the backseat.
The confines of the hearse are boiling, so Rosita cracks a window. I expect the licorice scent of the chemicals. Instead, the sweet rot of honeysuckle floods in until Rosita shakes a cigarette from her pack. She lights it with the car lighter and offers me a drag. The smoke opens my lungs until I feel as if I’m coughing out all the morning’s terror. I start to cry, not sure if it’s nerves, worry for Caroline or the delayed heartbreak of seeing her with another man. That final reason is foolish next to what’s happened, but I can’t deny I’m still wounded by it.
“Take me home,” I say, passing the cigarette and wiping my eyes.
“What about the police?” Rosita flicks ash out the window. “What about the water?”
“I’ve got a phone and a well on the property. It’s the safest place.”
I tell Rosita to take the next left and bypass downtown. Eventually, the road narrows, poorly managed pavement giving way to gravel and later to dirt. We drive a long spell before coming to the edge of the creek. The expanse at my crossing isn’t much, maybe twenty feet through the shallows to the far bank. The current is weak, but I can see the chemical foam sailing on the little rapids. The frothy clumps break apart downstream against the miniature summit of rocks jutting from the water. Invisible particles float on to taint other pools.
I reach for the door handle, but Rosita grabs me.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m gonna wade across and use the phone.” I wasn’t aware of my intentions until I said it out loud. “You wait here.”
Rosita shakes her head. “You can’t get that shit on you.”
Images from last night’s news flash across my mind. The dishwasher’s lobster-red hands and boils the size of nickels oozing on the skin of children. If I wade alone, no one can help me in these woods. Still, we shouldn’t risk the car. Russell made it across once in the hearse, but the tailpipe is low, sure to be submerged. After that, the cab will fill, and we’ll be stranded in the center. Part of me still wants to risk it. I don’t want Rosita to leave and go get help. Maybe it’s the way she protected me or maybe it’s a lingering curiosity about the project she showed me last night? All those bodies and their scars have become a mosaic in my mind. A swirling that blends mutilations until all the amputations, shrunken limbs and twisted bones feel whole. I still have trouble believing the coincidence that a music journalist only wants to add my body to some strange collage, but that doesn’t matter like before. Something inside says Rosita has more to share. I need to get her across the creek to find out what that is.
Maybe we can make it. After all, Russell did just days ago.
Rosita guns the engine. I unbuckle the seatbelt and put my feet up on the dash in preparation for when the water seeps inside. We hit the creek hard, the frame rattling and a torrent splashing high on the windows. A tire blows out as we roll over the uneven bedrock. The headlights submerge in the deepest pool. I watch a wave crest over the grille and drain inside through the slits in the hood. A hiss emits as water cascades onto the hot engine. Steam roils out until I think I hear the radiator crack. If the chemicals are flammable, the surface of the water will ignite and burn down the twisting stream like a serpent made of flame. I wait for fire as the exhaust gurgles and the tailpipe drowns.
“Don’t let off the gas,” I say. “Push it.”
If the motor stalls, we’ll have to wade. I think about my skin peeling off in long strips, but no imagination can conceive of the agony created by such a chemical flaying. If the car stalls, it might be better to sink with it.
Water begins to seep up through the carpet in the floorboards. Rosita stomps the pedal. The hearse doesn’t have much of an engine. As we lurch forward, I hear rocks scraping the frame, the flattened tire thumping and sediment clacking against the grille. Rosita is praying again. I consider whether I should join her. Will the old celestial tyrant finally hear if we offer enough voices? Somewhere along the way, I’ve become too angry to pray.
The hearse makes it to the other side. We coast for about a hundred feet before stalling. Rosita pushes the throttle, but the engine only whines. Eventually, I smell gasoline instead of the sweet creekwater.
“We’ve killed it,” I say. My feet are still up in the seat. I’m pleased to find them dry.
“Fuck it,” Rosita says. “It’s stolen.” She smiles, a bit giddy from the reckless behavior.
Crossing the creek has awakened the pain in my back. The jostling feels as if it loosened something between my uneven shoulders. I try to stretch my arm and the shock is so sudden all other concerns recede. I stop worrying about Rosita stranded or how long we can hold out on the provisions in the house. Stop worrying about everything until I can swallow a few pills.
I open the door and try to stand, but the pain forces me back down. I bite my bottom lip to stifle a scream.
“Let me help,” Rosita says.
She takes hold underneath my arms and heaves. My back protests with another spasm, but she gets me on my feet. The pain won’t let me stand alone, so I cling to her for support. This close, I can feel the curves of her body the way I used to feel Angela. I always feel alien pressed against another person. So many others in the world have grown straight and true.
“You okay?” she asks.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I just need my pills.”
“Should I run and get them?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “I can make it. It’s not that far.”
I rest against Rosita’s shoulder as we travel across the overgrown field. It feels like crossing the wasteland from one of my songs, each step forcing me lower until I’m tempted to crawl. When we reach the porch, I sit on the steps and rest for a moment. It’s a mistake. As soon as my ass hits the planks, it’s clear I’m not rising anytime soon.