to the metal door. A scrap of red and white gingham is taped over the window with a strip of salty duct tape. Even in its better days this camper probably wasn’t all that great.
“No, Rex. No, I do not.” The door screeches like a raccoon when I kick it open. Somehow we make it down the metal steps without falling.
Rex doesn’t look any better in direct light. He looks worse in fact. Much, much worse.
Salt-covered weeds crunch under my feet. Rex leans against me, heavy as a wet sandbag. All around us there are weird lumps of campers and building and piles of wood. They’re spaced out like this place used to be a neighborhood.
It’s not a neighborhood now.
“Everyone hears the voice,” Rex says. He’s not breathing right. It’s shallow and coming in little gasps. “That’s what makes you human.”
We’re at the beach. But it’s like no beach I’ve ever seen. The water spreads as far as I can see. Water, that’s what we need. That’s what Rex needs. But this water looks thick, jellylike. It has a reddish tinge that reminds me of blood. The waves, what passes for waves, wiggle like Jell-O shooters. Along the shore, from the last crumbled building to the edge of the water, lies a blanket of decay. Fish, birds, creatures that climbed out of the ooze and never fully formed lay in a thick decaying blanket. Is it the ocean? Did we ride that far? Has something unimaginably horrible happened in the world while I slept?
The riders sit around a fire in the skeleton of a boat that looks like it may never have been seaworthy.
“We now hold out to you wars which contain the glorious reward of martyrdom, which will retain that title of praise now and forever.” The red rider stands on the ledge of the crumbling boat. She looks like a warrior. She is war.
Fuck.
I get it now.
“You got to listen to that voice now, Kitty. You’ve got to do what it says. That’s God telling you what to do.”
I stumble toward the riders. Curls of black smoke rise from their fire like phantoms. Which culture told fortunes with smoke? It makes sense that they’d do that. There seems to be meaning in the shapes and billows of black as it moves through the gray air.
“I don’t have that voice, Rex. I just don’t have it.”
His body sags. Grows heavier.
“I’m really sorry.”
Rex stumbles. I grab his arm and hold it tight.
“Kitty, you remember how I told you I got a second chance?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think I did.”
“You’re going to be fine, Rex. We’re going to get you some help.”
“I want to tell you something before the next part starts.”
Rex clutches me and makes me stop.
“What is it, Rex?”
The air is as hot as the inside of an oven. It’s too hot for a fire but still the riders lounge around theirs inside the broken-down boat.
“I shot that old woman when I stole her boy’s car. Left her on the floor of her house.”
My mouth falls open. Of all the things I’ve seen and done, why would this be shocking?
“I stepped over her for two weeks until I couldn’t stand to look at her no more. I’m sorry for that.”
“The picture in your suitcase?”
“That’s her.”
The nasty water laps at the shore—and everything is encrusted and sparkling with salt. I liked the Rex I used to know better. But I love this Rex. The real one. He gave me his truth.
I look down at the shirt that I’m wearing, Rex’s shirt. It’s tattered and not as white as it was. I lock onto the monogramed B . “What’s your real name?”
He can’t be a Bill or a Bob. Maybe Bronson, Broderick, Bruce?
“That’s not my shirt,” he says.
Baldy, the world’s ugliest dog, crouches on the rocky beach. He’s opening his mouth like he would if he were yapping, but only a croak comes out. He’s wiggling and squirming to get to the water—going crazy.
Harvey, a tiny silhouette of Harvey, is served up on the white-hot plate of the setting sun. He’s in the water. He’s on the water. He’s walking on
“No, Rex. No, I do not.” The door screeches like a raccoon when I kick it open. Somehow we make it down the metal steps without falling.
Rex doesn’t look any better in direct light. He looks worse in fact. Much, much worse.
Salt-covered weeds crunch under my feet. Rex leans against me, heavy as a wet sandbag. All around us there are weird lumps of campers and building and piles of wood. They’re spaced out like this place used to be a neighborhood.
It’s not a neighborhood now.
“Everyone hears the voice,” Rex says. He’s not breathing right. It’s shallow and coming in little gasps. “That’s what makes you human.”
We’re at the beach. But it’s like no beach I’ve ever seen. The water spreads as far as I can see. Water, that’s what we need. That’s what Rex needs. But this water looks thick, jellylike. It has a reddish tinge that reminds me of blood. The waves, what passes for waves, wiggle like Jell-O shooters. Along the shore, from the last crumbled building to the edge of the water, lies a blanket of decay. Fish, birds, creatures that climbed out of the ooze and never fully formed lay in a thick decaying blanket. Is it the ocean? Did we ride that far? Has something unimaginably horrible happened in the world while I slept?
The riders sit around a fire in the skeleton of a boat that looks like it may never have been seaworthy.
“We now hold out to you wars which contain the glorious reward of martyrdom, which will retain that title of praise now and forever.” The red rider stands on the ledge of the crumbling boat. She looks like a warrior. She is war.
Fuck.
I get it now.
“You got to listen to that voice now, Kitty. You’ve got to do what it says. That’s God telling you what to do.”
I stumble toward the riders. Curls of black smoke rise from their fire like phantoms. Which culture told fortunes with smoke? It makes sense that they’d do that. There seems to be meaning in the shapes and billows of black as it moves through the gray air.
“I don’t have that voice, Rex. I just don’t have it.”
His body sags. Grows heavier.
“I’m really sorry.”
Rex stumbles. I grab his arm and hold it tight.
“Kitty, you remember how I told you I got a second chance?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think I did.”
“You’re going to be fine, Rex. We’re going to get you some help.”
“I want to tell you something before the next part starts.”
Rex clutches me and makes me stop.
“What is it, Rex?”
The air is as hot as the inside of an oven. It’s too hot for a fire but still the riders lounge around theirs inside the broken-down boat.
“I shot that old woman when I stole her boy’s car. Left her on the floor of her house.”
My mouth falls open. Of all the things I’ve seen and done, why would this be shocking?
“I stepped over her for two weeks until I couldn’t stand to look at her no more. I’m sorry for that.”
“The picture in your suitcase?”
“That’s her.”
The nasty water laps at the shore—and everything is encrusted and sparkling with salt. I liked the Rex I used to know better. But I love this Rex. The real one. He gave me his truth.
I look down at the shirt that I’m wearing, Rex’s shirt. It’s tattered and not as white as it was. I lock onto the monogramed B . “What’s your real name?”
He can’t be a Bill or a Bob. Maybe Bronson, Broderick, Bruce?
“That’s not my shirt,” he says.
Baldy, the world’s ugliest dog, crouches on the rocky beach. He’s opening his mouth like he would if he were yapping, but only a croak comes out. He’s wiggling and squirming to get to the water—going crazy.
Harvey, a tiny silhouette of Harvey, is served up on the white-hot plate of the setting sun. He’s in the water. He’s on the water. He’s walking on
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