Part 13 (1/2)

His face lifts. ”Clay, do they have caramels?”

Clay lends him a hand up. ”Any town worth a d.a.m.n's got caramels.”

When Ethan falls the second time, I run over to him again, pick him up and get him the water. I glance up at Clay who's leaning down with concern on his face.

”How much longer?” I ask Clay, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

Clay scans up the road. The sun's growing fat and orange in the west which means we're close to dusk. When the sun goes down, we'll be forced to camp without shelter while the nocturnal predators prowl for their suppers. This situation can't get much worse. I fight the panic that's clawing at my throat.

Clay takes off his hat and wipes the sweat off his brow. ”Think we got another mile or two.”

”Which is it?” I ask, the panic gathering. ”One mile we can do. Two, he'll never make it.” I grit my teeth and brush the sand off Ethan's cheeks.

”One mile,” Clay says. He picks Ethan up and puts him on his back.

I scan up and down the road again. The fact that there's no traffic to this ”town” is a bad sign. If there is some bustling city center one mile away, wouldn't trucks be coming and going? Clay probably has no idea what he's talking about. Good thing he's a crack shot. He'll need to be to defend us from the swarms of coyotes.

Only when we begin to spot road trash do I believe there's a chance Clay might be right. The tumbling bits of paper, old m.u.f.flers, rusting food cans-all mean people have been here. Clay points to an empty water jug. ”See,” he says, giving me an I-told-you-so look. Then he picks up the pace. Even with my brother on his back, he's hard to keep up with.

In the distance a decrepit house comes into view on the side of the road. As we approach my stomach sinks. The house looks like a blackened skull in this ruddy light. The warped wooden beams sag and bulge. The house hunkers in a yard of weeds and thorns. Thin, tattered curtains flutters like ghosts in gla.s.sless windows that trail us like sunken eyes. Gooseb.u.mps break out over my arms.

Stripped of anything useful, the sagging house is likely infested with bats, rodents or a starved vagabond who will kill us for our shoes. As we stride past, our gait quickens. I peer in, wondering what lurks in those shadows. Who's watching us as we walk by? A mile down the road, I still feel eyes on the back of my neck.

When the town wall appears, a brown scar across the face of the horizon, I know something's wrong. The broad stretch of wooden wall has a gaping hole in the center like a mouth widening in a scream. The gate creaks mournfully in the breeze. No town would leave a gate open like that. Clay's eyes lock with mine and we exchange a look. The fear in his eyes is unmistakable.

”Do we keep going?” I look around at the gathering dusk. The first stars peak through the navy canvas above. ”It's getting dark.”

He s.h.i.+fts Ethan up on his back and wrinkles his brow. ”I guess so. Can't bed-down roadside or we'll be coyote food. And our water's 'bout as dry as a dead dog's dingo.”

Up until now Ethan's been dozing on Clay's shoulders. He lifts his head, rubs the hair out of his eyes and peers toward the town. ”Why's the gate open?”

”Maybe it's busted,” Clay offers.

Maybe they're all dead, I think. I nod along with Clay, but I pull the rifle into my arms.

When we reach the gate, Clay puts Ethan down and draws his guns. ”You two stay put.” He takes a step forward, tightening his jaw.

I shake my head and turn to Ethan. I think about telling him to stay behind, but we can't leave him alone outside the gate.

Ethan shakes his head as if reading my mind. ”We stick together.”

We turn toward the gate as the twilight thickens around us. The two ma.s.sive wooden doors on either side of the road give phantom sighs as they sway in the breeze. The slow screech sends more goose b.u.mps over my arms. The long stretch of road leading into town is empty. On either side are squat brick structures lining both sides of the street in various states of disrepair. A broken stoplight, drooping on a few fraying wires, jangles in the breeze. A rusted car with a smashed front end sits off to the side as if someone got in an accident as they were trying to leave. And leave they should. The eerie quiet-not even animal sounds breaks the stillness-makes the thudding of my heart too loud. The smell of decay hangs on everything. Warning bells blare in my head. Turn tail and run.

”Come on,” Clay says, as he takes a step in.

What else can we do? We follow.

Chapter Fourteen.

When I was young, Auntie used to tell me about picture shows they had when she was a kid. Back then there was enough electricity to run a local theater once a week. I'd sit on the warped porch boards and listen as she wove tales of adventure, love, laughter. I learned the plot to Cinderella by heart. But on nights when my mama went to bed early, and I could drag them out of Auntie, she'd tell me about horror movies. Horror movies with dark bas.e.m.e.nts, raspy breathing coming from a bedroom closet, ax-murderers running after their victims who screamed into the night. I'd clutch my knees to my chest and listen, barely breathing. Those nights I'd be so scared, any sound would send me flying upstairs to sleep on my parents' floor.

That is how taking our first few steps into this ghost town feels. Like any minute we're going to die. In the twilight, shadows lean from every corner. The dark doorways remind me of rancid open mouths. When the wind whips through, paper rustles and gates squeak, making me sure an ax-murderer will come barreling toward us from an open doorway. Each shadow might hide any number of horrors.

We shuffle through the gate and stop just inside. My legs feel like lead. I can't make myself leave the safety of the open road. What if we get inside town and the gate slams shut? What if this is some horrible trap? What if there are monsters ... Cut it out, I tell myself. I'm supposed to be brave. I look to Clay. His face locked up tight, his lips a white line, his eyes locked forward. Sweat beads beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. Ethan, to my left, trembles like an eight-year-old should. His bug-eyes flit between doorway, alley, abandoned car. I grab his sweaty hand. I want to feel him next to me.

From here the town looks abandoned. There's no signs of struggle. No dead bodies. No blast holes. There are a few vehicles parked on the side streets, but they look long abandoned. Not beat up, really, just left behind. That raises the hairs on my arms. No one leaves a good vehicle lying around.

To our left is a row of shops, all empty. Trash lies in clumps on the cracked sidewalks. I jump as a rat darts out from a pile of bricks, spots us and then scurries back. If animals can survive here, the water's okay. Probably.

A howl from the road behind us shakes everyone into action. I look to Clay on my right and Ethan on my left. Nodding, we start forward down the desolate street. I grip Ethan's hand in mine and feel Clay's shoulder inches away. It takes all my will to keep my feet moving forward.

We pa.s.s a small grocery store and I point it out to Clay. I stare at the faded sign until I can puzzle out Top Shelf Groceries and Liquor. Inside it's a mess of clotted paper, wet garbage, crumpled drywall. A bird has built a nest in one of the top shelves where they used to display apples or peaches. From here it looks picked clean, no canned goods, no bottled water. I think of going in, scrounging around, but the light is so scarce it wouldn't do much good. I swallow and turn away. So many shadowed doorways. And it just keeps getting darker.

More empty stores. Old traffic lights with busted gla.s.s dangle above our heads. The dryness in my throat seems to doubles as I spot a hydrant with the cap off. I look at the water jug that swings off Clay's pack. Three, maybe four cups left. I turn my thoughts away from water and to each building we pa.s.s. We'll have to pick a building soon and bed down. I can't imagine huddling in a dark shop, not knowing what might lurk in the wings. Each building seems darker than the next. A shop that used to be a cafe has a large, brown stain covering most of the tile floor. Blood. It has to be.

Clay stops and stiffens beside me. I swing around and look where he's staring. Between two shops is a dark, trash-strewn alley and something's moving. I tighten my hand over the rifle and Clay raises his guns. The thing moves. It's fury and too small to be human. The animal looks up at us. Four legs, round eyes, a dark muzzle. Coyote? I raise my gun. Then I see the patchy brown fur, the droopy ears and tail. It's a domestic dog. Sensing no real threat, it goes back to whatever it's eating. I think about calling it over until Clay's grips my arm.

”Get Ethan down the road. Now.” He pushes me forward as he turns toward the alley. ”Wait for me at the corner.”

What does he see? I pull Ethan away. Luckily he's got his eyes on some collapsed movie theater down the block. I take him to check it out the busted marquee. Just before I slip past the alley, I glance at the dog. A bright piece of fabric lies on the ground beneath the dog. A t-s.h.i.+rt? Then I see the arm, pale, bloated with crooked fingers. A body. That's what the dog's been eating. I clutch my hand to my mouth and fight the urge to vomit.

Ethan looks up at me as I pull him down the street. ”What is it?” His hand squeezes the blood out of mine.

”Nothing.” Oh G.o.d, my head screams. We're going to die!

He watches the alley where Clay disappeared with wide eyes.

The dog skitters out of the alley. Clay follows. When he meets us, his face is the color of uncooked dough. He nods at me and keeps walking. I want to ask him about the body. How did it die? Will we end up like it? Yet, Ethan's here and my imagination's supplying enough details on its own. I look up the street at more shops and dark alleys. What do I have to do to get out of here?

”Let's go,” Clay says. ”We need to get some place safe.”

Safe? Nowhere here is safe. We speed-walk down the street. I don't scan the shops. I'm too afraid I'll spot another body.

We find a long driveway at the end of the block. A two-story brick building looms large at the end of it. In the dark I can barely make out the words etched into the concrete sign covered with bird droppings: Magdalena Christian Academy. Three graying wood crosses lean on the weed-filled front lawn. At the entrance stands the greening sculpture of a woman, one arm outstretched, palm up. The other arm lies in a few shattered pieces at her feet. Her face, though, turned to the sky as if seeking forgiveness, is the first welcoming thing I've seen.

”Let's sleep in there,” I say, pointing to the building.

Clay arches his eyebrows up at me.

I shrug. ”Looks less scary than the rest of this G.o.d-forsaken place.”

Clay nods. ”Sure. We need to get inside anyway. Can't see a d.a.m.n thing.”

We stride up the busted blacktop to the front doors. A thick, rusted chain slinks through the handles on the big wooden doors. I yank on them and scowl. Nothing in this town comes easy. I scan either side of the brick building. The gla.s.s windows are long gone, but they're high off the ground with nothing to climb but flat, slippery brick.

Clay nods to the first window on the right. ”Come on. I'll give you a boost.”