“Over here,” Russell says.
I follow around the side of the house and find him standing over the discarded top from The Reverend’s truck bed. This detachable shell lies upside down, the fiberglass dome meant to protect cargo wasted by age. The metal in the corners is marred with rust, the tinted glass covered in a coat of mildew too thick to scrape off. Russell steps inside the proposed raft.
“Where did you find this?” I ask.
Russell points to the storage shed at the corner of the house. The broken padlock hangs from the latch. I’m hesitant. It’s not much of a raft, and I’m considering my belief that certain objects carry their owners’ ghosts. If there is any truth to that superstition, we can’t use this. The truck top endured years locked in the shed. All that time marinating in the same dead air will have rendered it malevolent. Nothing would be more likely to drown us.
“You want to take that thing across?” I say.
“Why not?” Russell gives it a nudge with his foot. “Good as anything else.”
I touch the square front end. It won’t cut smooth through the water, but the high sides might protect us from the tiny rapids. The real concern is leaks. Each corner is full of spiderwebs, the contours so weak any strike against the river bottom might pierce the thin plastic membrane. I rub my hand over the hull. I expect it to be malleable, but the hot plastic holds firm. I remind myself that The Reverend is dead. This is just an old truck cap and nothing inanimate can harm me. Best to worry about the man with the gun.
“I guess we have to make do,” I say.
Russell grabs the front of the truck-bed topper and begins to drag it closer to the bank. His tight grip causes blood to well up underneath his fingernails. His cuticles seep a clear fluid as if all moisture is being purged from each digit. He doesn’t seem to notice, but I’m less concerned with the gun than his illness. I don’t want to be seized by those potentially contagious hands.
“We can’t shove off where the cars go in,” Russell says. “Too shallow. The rocks will shred this thing. We gotta go downstream where it’s deeper.”
Down on the bank, Russell sits in the dirt to rest. The creek flows harder around this bend, the water a little higher so that the only exposed rocks create a downstream rapids that we’ll need to avoid. The opposite shore is farther here. Almost half the length of a football field instead of the thirty feet or so at the usual crossing. If we fight the current, I think the rocks can be avoided.
Russell pushes the truck top into the shallows. It bobs in the wake while we look for leaks. I don’t see it take on any water. Still, I wish we had something to bail with just in case. As Russell climbs in, the truck top sinks a little with his weight. He offers a hand, looks down at the blood dripping from the ends of his fingers and shoves them in his pocket.
“Come aboard,” he says, so I climb in.
Russell breaks a nearby sapling off the bank. He goes to the squared bow and uses the crooked trunk to steer us out like the pilot of some homely gondola. The current pulls us downstream as the water presses into our side, trying to flip us. If we don’t control the ride, there’s a danger of beaching on the sandstone downstream.
We’re halfway across when I hear a hiss like air from a pierced tire. Water seeps in through the back corner of our improvised vessel. Not a flooding breach, but enough to lap at the soles of my shoes. The false boat grows sluggish with the added weight.
“We’re sinking,” I say.
When Russell looks back, I see one of his fake fangs is missing. The stick he wields is slick with blood from his hemorrhaging hands, but Russell rows faster, flinging the branch from one side to the other. I widen my stance, allowing the stream of water to run between my feet. Russell drops the improvised oar, leans forward and begins to paddle. I try to stop him, but Russell spits out a frantic “Don’t touch me.” I think about his blood and recoil.
We hit a rock and Russell falls overboard. I grab for him, but he clings to the front of our raft. The water breaks against his chest, white froth clinging to his clothes. I wonder if it burns, if the chemicals are strong enough to eat through the fibers like acid. I should dip my hands in and help row but can’t bring myself to do it after watching the blood leach from Russell. I’d never have the dexterity to play again.
A wave splashes against Russell’s chin. The water washes the skin clean to reveal the stubble beneath the ghoul paint. His entire face is still a mask. The upper half ash gray, the lower covered in red dots and blisters.
Once we’re closer to the bank and Russell is only waist deep, he gets behind the truck top and pushes it toward land. I step onto the soft earth entirely dry while he sloshes forward to kneel beside me. Closer, the skin on his neck looks too tight, swelling a bit as he breathes.
“You need a doctor,” I say.
Russell digs the gun from his pocket and points the wet barrel at my temple. “You’re still taking me to her.”
I’m more worried about him suffocating than pulling the trigger.
“You can barely stand,” I say.
Russell pushes himself up from the mud. Behind us, the back end of the truck topper disappears beneath the water. I could sit and watch the whole thing submerge, but Russell urges me forward by waving the gun.
“You’ll never make it,” I say.
He spits out the other false fang. “Gonna try.”
* * *
• • •
I don’t know how long we walk. My calves burn without my cane to lean on, and I keep thinking of sitting down in the weeds. The only thing that keeps me moving is Russell. If he can shamble along bleeding like a gut-shot stag, then I can’t justify taking a rest. I’m surprised every time I glance over my shoulder and see he’s still standing. He doesn’t complain much out loud. Just winces and rubs at the burning blisters.
“I shoulda known better,” he grumbles under his breath. “Shoulda known better.”
I can only assume he’s talking about Victor. It’s the same kind of refrain men repeat whenever their hearts are broken. The Reverend warned me when I was a child that the world was full of deceit, then proved it by being equally false. Still, I let Rosita slip inside. Why is it all the hardest lessons can only be taught with pain?
Russell notices I’m watching him stagger. My face must imply some question because he shrugs his shoulders and launches into an unsolicited explanation. “It’s just that no one else ever treated me equal. Everyone was always so impressed by my father and the money. I grew up with nothing but people who kissed my ass. I was just finally glad to have found a friend who didn’t care about the money, who hated my father the way I did.”
I want to ask him if he regrets killing the old man. There seems to be a struggle inside him, a self-inquiry into whether Victor fed the hatred into something murderous or if that was always dormant inside. I’m debating which when Russell changes the subject.