Scowler (32 page)

One of the Crowley girls guffawed. There was a pause as dangerous as a dare and then Sarah giggled, carefree and clarion. Ry’s heart soared—it was like the birds returning all at once in a flock of astronomical size, the insects pouring back home with the sound of one hundred resplendent choirs. He thought he might wilt with the majesty of it all, but Esther and Jo Beth were there at both sides to keep him propped, while Kevin stood by the driver’s side door, overseeing the stacking of bodies.

“All right,” Kevin said. “All set back there?”

Jo Beth began to work with Esther to lower Ry into the passenger seat, but Ry dug his stiff ankles into the grass. Their progress was halted; all three faces still outside of the
car asked for explanation. Ry swallowed and tried to think of the right words. The last time they had tried to leave this farm they had almost forgotten the same thing.

“Sniggety,” Ry said.

Jo Beth’s face softened. Her lips pressed together.

“Sniggety’s … tired,” she said. “Let him sleep.”

The lie was all over her voice. Too tired to stop herself in time, she glanced at the doghouse. Ry wrenched his neck to get a better look. A mist of smoke forced him to squint, but yes, there was the old mutt lying on his side next to the scanty wooden box that had sheltered him for nearly two decades. Ry leaned forward, tried to see if the animal’s ribs were moving. He could not tell.

He pulled away from the women’s grip.

“Ry,” Esther said.

“Son,” Kevin said.

Ry reached into Jo Beth’s arms and wrapped his fingers around the shotgun barrel. Her eyes widened and she pulled back. There was no forgetting the postures Ry had struck near the end, the threat that had blazed from his eyes and the nightmare noises that had gurgled from his throat. She stared at him a good long while, transferring her trust slowly before letting up on her grip.

He checked the safety, arranged the stock so that it was planted firmly into the grass, and just like that the proper operation of crutches came rushing back from where he’d stored it along with sundry other fifth-grade memories. The Winchester was more the proportions of a cane, but the idea was the same, and once he was balanced on his swollen ankles, he struck forth. Stab, swing. Stab, swing.

Everyone was watching his every move, but he did not care. In fact, he welcomed it. From their shell-shocked silence he could tell that these people would forever divide time into before the rocks fell and after the rocks fell. But under no circumstances would he allow the events of the past two days to define him; he’d spent nine years defined by a single event and had learned that it was a terrible way to live a life. With each stabbing, swinging step, he visualized himself: five years postimpact, ten years, twenty.

It took him not much longer to reach the doghouse than it would someone of perfect physical health. Sniggety remained on his side in the dirt. His paws were not twitching. His lashes and whiskers did not flutter from the usual canine fantasies. Ry grimaced and took a knee. The pain became sharper, just a bit. He let his heart rate settle, placed a hand atop the dog’s ribs, and concentrated.

He felt it: Breath.

But it was weak. Ry gently pulled the skin back from one of Sniggety’s eyes, just as Peg Crowley had done to him minutes ago. The cornea was milky and unresponsive. He let the lid slide shut and then carefully lifted the freckled edge of the animal’s lip. The dull pink tongue pressed heavily against a row of grimy teeth.

A burden lowered itself upon Ry’s shoulders. It might have been smoke inhalation that had done this to the dog. It might have been two days of being rattled by the unfamiliar emotions of elation and panic. Or it might have been nothing more than the years sneaking up on him on a glorious morning complete with perfect round clouds and blowing grass and green leaves waving from the highest branches.
Sniggety would not wake again; these final long hours would be dementia followed by death, and there might very well be confusion and pain.

Ry checked the shotgun. It was heavy with bullets.

The others could wait. No one would bury this dog but him.

He stroked Old Snig’s neck, put his lips to the soft ear, and whispered.

“Good boy.”

Thank you to Richard Abate, Joshua Ferris, Alison Heryer, Beverly Horowitz, Amanda Kraus, Dale Kraus, Craig Ouellette, Grant Rosenberg, and Katie Ryan.

Daniel Kraus is the author of
Rotters
and
The Monster Variations
. A writer, an editor, and a filmmaker, he lives with his wife in Chicago. Visit him at
danielkraus.com
.