Walk the Sky (17 page)

I AM NOT PATHETIC IT IS YOU HUMANS WHO ARE PATHETIC YOU ARE THE BANE OF THIS WORLD I WILL DESTROY YOU ALL
 

—and Clay lifted the two sticks of dynamite, closing his eyes and thinking of his daughter and smiling as he tossed those two sticks of dynamite toward the dancing flames, the two sticks sailing through the air tumbling end over end until they, too, joined the dance.

part five

RETRIBUTION

30.

Witashnah tugged at George’s arm to keep him moving through the tunnel. They stumbled forward, George resisting, Witashnah determined not to give in to his desire to go back and help his friend.
 

“You cannot help him!” Witashnah shouted. “If we go back, we die!”
 

George paused, weighing her words, and then he nodded and turned back toward the tunnel’s entrance.
 

Witashnah made the same turn ... only to discover they were trapped.
 

The far end of the tunnel, where it opened to the outside, was churning with creatures.
 

They were too big to squeeze into the opening and were fighting each other for position, dark forms writhing in a pile that made them almost impossible to discern individually.
 

“What now?” George asked.
 

“We cannot go back.”
 

“Doesn’t look like we can go forward, either.”
 

Witashnah said nothing. Chances were they weren’t going to survive either way. But at least this way they had a fighting chance.
 

She gripped George’s arm and pulled him forward, running as fast as she could through the tunnel. As she hit the wall of writhing creatures at full speed, she lowered her head and braced for the impact—which came right as the world exploded behind her.
 

The sound was deafening.
 

The ground rumbled.
 

Rocks and gravel rained down from overhead.
 

She stumbled forward into the creatures, managing to break through, losing her grip on George as the concussion of the blast flung them forward.
 

She hit the ground hard, her hands extended to break her fall.
 

George landed a few feet away, crying out in pain.
 

A massive cloud of dust billowed from the cave entrance, obscuring their view of the creatures surrounding them.
 

Witashnah sat up, her ears ringing. She reached for her gun but it was gone. All she had left was her knife, and while she knew it was worthless against the creatures, she pulled it from her belt anyway.
 

Somewhere beside her, George groaned.
 

She gripped the knife tightly, waiting for the first creature to strike.
 

Nothing happened.
 

Besides the ringing in her ears, the world was silent.
 

Then the dust began to settle. A cloud shifted in the sky and the moon showed they were indeed surrounded.
 

But the creatures were gone.
 

Now all around them, stretching far down the ravine, stood a cropping of cacti.

*
 
*
 
*

Witashnah stood up straight, surveying the empty horizon.
 

George groaned again. “My ankle ... I think it’s broken.”
 

She helped him stand, bracing his weight against her, as he favored his right leg.
 

They stood in silence, suspiciously watching the cacti.
 

“What happened to them?” he asked.
 

Witashnah didn’t answer. Still bracing George’s weight, she took an unsteady step toward the closest cactus. She reached out her hand, the one gripping the knife. The tip slid into the flesh of the cactus, but that was it. The cactus did not move. It did not bleed black blood.
 

“Is it dead?” George asked. “The god?”
 

When she didn’t answer again, he glanced back at the tunnel entrance.
 

“They’re now trapped in there, aren’t they? Probably dead.”
 

“You cannot kill a god,” she whispered. She lowered the knife to her side, looked too at the tunnel entrance which had become sealed by an avalanche of rocks. “But you can cause it to leave.”
 

“So it’s gone?”
 

She nodded. “For now.”
 

There was a moment of deep silence until, somewhere in the dark, first one cicada began to chirp, followed by another, and another, and another, until an entire chorus rang out into the night.
 

“So now what do we do?”
 

She glanced down at his ankle. “Can you walk?”
 

He put some pressure on the foot, scrunched up his face, and said, “I can try.”
 

“Then let us walk.”

*
 
*
 
*

Without their horses, they did not go far. An hour passed and they had barely made it down the mountainside.
 

“Would you like to rest?”
 

“No,” he grunted, but it was clear the pain was too much.
 

“Are you thirsty?”
 

“Do you have water?”
 

“No.”
 

He grinned. “Then yes, I’m very thirsty indeed.”
 

She allowed herself a small smile. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Everyone she had ever known and loved was gone. She was the last of the Tachucua tribe. What was she supposed to do now?
 

George stared off toward the horizon, then raised his face toward the stars.
 

“Where are we going anyway?”
 

“I do not know.”
 

Soon they started out again. This time their pace was even slower. As they reached the base of the trail, Witashnah paused, holding George beside her.
 

“What’s wrong?”
 

“Do you hear that?”
 

“Hear what?”
 

She smiled as they continued forward. Several minutes later they rounded the corner, and standing on the other side of a massive rock was a saddled horse. Its coat seemed to gleam in the moonlight.
 

“Well, would you look at that?” George said. “Guess our luck hasn’t run out after all.”
 

Behind them, a voice said, “Not quite.”

31.

George closed his eyes, grimacing against the pain as he and Witashnah turned around.
 

Fred Bolton stepped out of the shadows, a revolver in his hand.
 

“Where’s Clay?”
 

“Why?” George asked.
 

“He and I have some unfinished business to take care of.”
 

George shook his head. “You mean after everything that happened tonight—all the people that died—you still want revenge?”
 

“Not revenge. Retribution.”
 

“What’s the difference? It wasn’t Clay who got your son killed. That was an accident. But you ... you strangled that poor girl.”
 

Witashnah released her grip on George, took a step away.
 

“Don’t move!” Bolton shouted, pointing the gun at her. He asked again, “Where’s Clay?”
 

Neither of them answered.
 

“He’s dead, isn’t he? I saw that explosion. I saw what happened to those ... those monsters.” Bolton shook his head. “They left town right after you three did. It was like something ... like something was calling them. They just stopped what they were doing and left. I was in the saloon at the time, trying to figure out a way to leave with my life. But then ... then when they all just went away, I hurried out and found a horse still alive in the livery, and I ... well, curiosity got the better of me, so I followed them. I watched them from a distance, surrounding that cave you were all in.”
 

George said, “Are you going to kill us?”
 

“Been thinking about it. Ever since I saw the two of you start down the mountain. I saw which way you were going and came down here to the base. Figured you would come through this way.”
 

Witashnah took another step away from George.
 

Bolton aimed the gun at her again. “I said don’t move!”
 

George glanced at Witashnah, not sure what she was doing. Then he saw what she was holding behind her back, the object she had pulled from her belt.
 

He said, “Your boy was a bully.”
 

The revolver swung back to George. “Watch your mouth.”
 

“None of the girls in town liked him much, so he had to force what he wanted out of them.”
 

“Shut your mouth!”
 

“But you already knew that, didn’t you?” George nodded to himself. “Yeah, you did. Like father, like son.”
 

The revolver began to shake.
 

Bolton’s jaw tightened.
 

He raised the gun, his finger on the trigger, started to speak—
 

“I’ll show you ...”
 

—when Witashnah’s knife buried itself into his shoulder.
 

Bolton screamed. He dropped the revolver, reached for the knife, his face going immediately pale in the moonlight.
 

Witashnah sprinted forward. She scooped up the revolver, aimed it at Bolton.
 

“Don’t,” George said.
 

She looked back at him.
 

He held out his hand, started limping forward. “Let me.”
 

She waited for him, keeping the revolver aimed, and when he reached them she handed him the gun.
 

Bolton again tried to reach for the knife in his shoulder.
 

“Leave it,” George said.
 

Bolton’s entire body shook. His shoulder was dark with blood. “But I—”
 

“Leave it.”
 

George opened up the gun, emptied the bullets into his palm, tossed the empty cartridges aside.
 

“Looks like there’s only two rounds left,” he said. He reinserted the two bullets, spun the cylinder closed, pointed the barrel at Bolton. “Make amends.”
 

“What?”
 

“Tell us truthfully what you did to Clay’s daughter.”
 

“I didn’t do anything.”
 

George pulled the trigger.
 

The hammer clicked empty.
 

“That right there?” George said. “That’s God giving you one more chance to own up to what you did.”
 

“What do you want me to say?”
 

“The truth.”
 

“No.”
 

George raised the gun to Bolton’s face.
 

“Okay, okay,” Bolton said quickly. “I did it. I killed her.”
 

“Why?”
 

“Because.”
 

“Why?”
 

“Because of the election! If the voters found out what my boy did, they wouldn’t re-elect me.”
 

“So you strangled a poor, defenseless girl.”
 

“Yes.”
 

“Just to save your career.”
 

Bolton was crying now. “Yes.”
 

“You talk about retribution? This is retribution.”
 

George tilted the gun down and shot Bolton in the ankle.
 

Bolton screamed.
 

George tilted the gun again and shot Bolton’s other ankle.
 

Bolton screamed again, this time even louder. He rolled on the ground, tears in his eyes.
 

George leaned down, withdrew the knife from Bolton’s shoulder. He wiped both sides of the blade on Bolton’s shirt, then leaned back and handed it to Witashnah.
 

“Now what?” she asked.
 

“Now we leave.”
 

She nodded and turned and retrieved the horse. She climbed up into the saddle, then helped George onto the back of the horse. Witashnah took the reins, steered them away.
 

“Wait!” Bolton screamed. “Come back! You can’t leave me!
You can’t leave me!
”
 

But they did. They kept riding, neither one looking back, until the mayor’s voice faded away on the wind like it had never been there to begin with.

Epilogue

They rode until the night began to dissipate and grow into morning. The dark black of the sky became a dark blue. Off in the east, the sun began to rise.
 

They came to a stream and stopped to let the horse drink and rest. Witashnah helped George to the water, and they washed their faces and wounds. Then they sat on the bank and watched the eastern light grow brighter and brighter.
 

“What do we do now?” George asked.
 

“I do not know.”
 

“I can’t go back home. Not after what I just did.”