looking to stock up in preparation for the end of the world would simply let themselves in. If Crate didn’t shoot them, of course. And judging by the look in his eyes after he’d taken out the pitiful things that had, only this morning, been the Willits, he’d almost certainly enjoy it.
After the kids from Fresno had driven away with Samson Niebolt, there had been no more dead visitors from Beistle. “Why would there?” Crate had said, an hour later, after she’d wondered aloud why that might be. “Mark and his kids were coming home. Whatever it was that they’d become, they still knew where home was, honey.”
“ That’s…” she’d said, unable to finish.
“ That’s goddamn awful is what it is,” Crate had said, his eyes haunted. He’d placed a hand on her knee.
It had been three hours since Junior had shown up and the kids from Fresno had gone up to the Niebolt property to smoke dope and mess around. The television said the same shit, only worse, worse and worse by the hour. She stepped behind the counter and retrieved the bottle of Jamaican rum she kept on the bottom shelf. She fished around for her glass, couldn’t find it, and opted to take her poison straight from the source.
“… can’t stress this enough, people.” An angry-looking man with a shiny bald head, thick glasses that seemed to catch and hold the studio lights, and a ratty salt-and-pepper beard yelled on the television screen. “These are dead people. How and why the dead are returning to some reduced form of life is something we haven’t figured out yet, but it’s a fact, despite what this godforsaken imbecile sitting across from me is saying. I know it—”
The godforsaken imbecile tried to cut in, but the bald guy ran him down with words.
“ I don’t know why it’s so hard for some of you to believe this,” he said, looking into the camera. “I mean, how many people in this country believe that a Jew who died two thousand years ago is still alive and planning his big comeback special. Come on, people, let’s just look at the facts—”
Misty turned off the television. Bottle in hand, she went into the back.
Charlie lay across the bed. He’d taken off his shoes, and the bottoms of his socks were dirty. His shirt was tight against his large belly. The fingers of his right hand were closed around the neck of a bottle of gin. On the television, the guy she’d silenced out front continued his personal crusade against stupidity.
“ ...I am calm, you brick-headed son of a bitch,” he said, his upper lip curled back in disgust. “I just can’t believe what I’m hearing. With all you’ve seen, with all each and every one of us has seen, you’re going to tell me that—”
“ I’m just saying that we don’t have the facts yet, is all.” His opponent said, leaning forward. “There’s no reason to be so damned belligerent. And there’s no reason to start blaming this on the supernatural. We can-”
“ The supernatural,” the hothead screamed. “The supernatural ? Who the hell said anything about the supernatural?”
“ I’m sorry, Mr. Fallows, but the dead only come back to life in ghost stories, and there must be some other explan—”
Misty silenced the discussion once again.
“ I was watching that,” Charlie said.
“ And you can go out front if you want to keep watching it,” She said, walking over to the bed. He was lying on her side. She slept alone most of the time, but she still had her side of the bed. Charlie scooted over.
“ I was waiting for the crazy one to punch the other guy,” he said, and knocked back some gin.
“ There’s the door.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, drank deeply of her own bottle. When she’d had enough, she capped it, set it on the nightstand, and lay back, kicking up her feet.
“ No,” Charlie said. He set his bottle on the other nightstand and, grunting with the effort, scooted over to her side and pressed himself close. She tensed.
“ Not
After the kids from Fresno had driven away with Samson Niebolt, there had been no more dead visitors from Beistle. “Why would there?” Crate had said, an hour later, after she’d wondered aloud why that might be. “Mark and his kids were coming home. Whatever it was that they’d become, they still knew where home was, honey.”
“ That’s…” she’d said, unable to finish.
“ That’s goddamn awful is what it is,” Crate had said, his eyes haunted. He’d placed a hand on her knee.
It had been three hours since Junior had shown up and the kids from Fresno had gone up to the Niebolt property to smoke dope and mess around. The television said the same shit, only worse, worse and worse by the hour. She stepped behind the counter and retrieved the bottle of Jamaican rum she kept on the bottom shelf. She fished around for her glass, couldn’t find it, and opted to take her poison straight from the source.
“… can’t stress this enough, people.” An angry-looking man with a shiny bald head, thick glasses that seemed to catch and hold the studio lights, and a ratty salt-and-pepper beard yelled on the television screen. “These are dead people. How and why the dead are returning to some reduced form of life is something we haven’t figured out yet, but it’s a fact, despite what this godforsaken imbecile sitting across from me is saying. I know it—”
The godforsaken imbecile tried to cut in, but the bald guy ran him down with words.
“ I don’t know why it’s so hard for some of you to believe this,” he said, looking into the camera. “I mean, how many people in this country believe that a Jew who died two thousand years ago is still alive and planning his big comeback special. Come on, people, let’s just look at the facts—”
Misty turned off the television. Bottle in hand, she went into the back.
Charlie lay across the bed. He’d taken off his shoes, and the bottoms of his socks were dirty. His shirt was tight against his large belly. The fingers of his right hand were closed around the neck of a bottle of gin. On the television, the guy she’d silenced out front continued his personal crusade against stupidity.
“ ...I am calm, you brick-headed son of a bitch,” he said, his upper lip curled back in disgust. “I just can’t believe what I’m hearing. With all you’ve seen, with all each and every one of us has seen, you’re going to tell me that—”
“ I’m just saying that we don’t have the facts yet, is all.” His opponent said, leaning forward. “There’s no reason to be so damned belligerent. And there’s no reason to start blaming this on the supernatural. We can-”
“ The supernatural,” the hothead screamed. “The supernatural ? Who the hell said anything about the supernatural?”
“ I’m sorry, Mr. Fallows, but the dead only come back to life in ghost stories, and there must be some other explan—”
Misty silenced the discussion once again.
“ I was watching that,” Charlie said.
“ And you can go out front if you want to keep watching it,” She said, walking over to the bed. He was lying on her side. She slept alone most of the time, but she still had her side of the bed. Charlie scooted over.
“ I was waiting for the crazy one to punch the other guy,” he said, and knocked back some gin.
“ There’s the door.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, drank deeply of her own bottle. When she’d had enough, she capped it, set it on the nightstand, and lay back, kicking up her feet.
“ No,” Charlie said. He set his bottle on the other nightstand and, grunting with the effort, scooted over to her side and pressed himself close. She tensed.
“ Not
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