David Means - Hystopia

When I feel a hankering to kill I appreciate the fact that blood is still flowing from the top of the state to the bottom, Rake said.

If I kill Haze it’ll be because he’s already close to dead, Rake said. I still have a little bit of honor left, such as it is.

June is the month of killing. April might be cruel, but June is pure murder, Rake said.

The day had been hot and the evening was only a bit cooler and there was a strange, unnatural silence. The lake sat shimmering and quiet, unusually smooth — two days straight of no movement, nothing at all — and in the woods the birds were silent, too, even the chickadees, and because of the airlessness he hadn’t caught the scent of a single tree, not one, on which to pin his hopes. Meg was inside resting, tired, her face healing. His father was out there, navigating by starlight or with a compass, reading charts, whatever he did as second mate.

What do you mean by that? I’m going to make damn sure it ends with both a bang and a fucking whimper, Rake said. He gripped the chair and screamed. That’s how it was in Nam, not that I want to talk about it, not that I give a shit, that part of me is dead and buried in the best way. You’d hear a little whimper and that meant shoot.

* * *

For two days he had been packing his gear, readying himself for another drug run, and then unpacking and repacking, testing everyone. When they could, Hank and Meg whispered assurances to each other, or exchanged meaningful glances. A plan will shape up, Hank assured her when he could. We’ll take action soon, but the timing has to be right or we’ll be the ones who end up dead.

Haze staggered around the yard with his arms out and practiced being blind because that’s what Rake had told him to do. Get used to what it might be like because that other eye of yours has seen almost all it’s gonna see, he said.

I’m not sure I’m sensing what I’m sensing, but it might be that one of you is trying to scheme against me, Rake said one afternoon. He held an ax over the kitchen table, swung it around. A sound came from outside, high-pitched, canine.

In the yard, MomMom was throwing another fit. She spoke of God as a friendly presence, as someone right on the edge of the yard, as a deity she knew personally, someone who would come charging to her rescue when the time came. Then she said she was the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. Seven bowls of angels will be fed the lamb of God.

Tell her to shut up. Make her shut up, Rake said, lifting the ax.

Hank went to her and lifted her off her feet and carried her back to the shed.

Mom, he said. MomMom, please, please, it’s me, Hank, you remember Hank, he said, and then he watched her eyes sway, unable to focus, up at the sky and then to the east and then, finally, when he lifted his index finger and waved it, asking her to follow it, she focused.

Sweet Hank, she said. Your mother loves you.

Rake sat in a lawn chair with his ax across his knees.

You get her fixed? If I hear the word God again I’m going to remove her head.

She’s might continue to mention God, but you know she’s crazy so it doesn’t mean anything.

Well, it means to me what it means. And I’m on edge.

I’ll keep her away, Rake. Whatever works. Or I’ll get rid of them both if that’s what you want.

Yeah, whatever works, Rake said. Meg was approaching from the house and he fixed his eyes on her and touched the blade and began to explain how it was going to be him first who took care of the girl, if anyone, and that was an order, and that if he wanted both MomMom dead and Meg dead he’d do it himself. To keep himself calm, Hank looked into the sky and tried to catch the scent of a tree. He imagined a group of men tearing into the trunk of an old tree, not cutting with a clean notch on top and then another on the bottom but hacking at all angles, opening a big fat wound, and leaving the tree standing to be invaded by insects. The image forced him deeper into the role. He shook his head in agreement and Rake gave him a brotherly nod, as if to say: We’ll both do what we have to do, and we’ll do it together as brothers in arms.

If he doesn’t kill her I might, Meg said, her voice loose and casual.

That’s a good girl, Rake said. That’s what I want to hear.

* * *

Hank glanced back at the trees and told her to pull away, to make it look as if she wanted to lunge for the water. She did as he asked and he pushed her down, holding her shoulders gently, but pushing hard, and then he gave her a fake kick to the groin and she gave a fake response so that Rake, who was up in the trees, hiding, watching, could rest assured. He had been trailing them daily — his footprints along the path, the feeling of being watched, his eyes in the trees, down in the grass.

Now let me help you up, he whispered.

I really do want to go in the water. I want to hear Billy-T again. I need to hear him.

The lake was shimmering with the last light of the day. It was still cold but would slowly warm up, the sunlight plunging down through the water, searching in vain for something solid.

Don’t cry. If you cry, he’ll know something’s wrong. I’m going to move you over there and I’m going to lecture you on that bird, you see it, the killdeer. He pointed, keeping his hand up so Rake could see if he was still watching. The river came out through the trees and spread in a small delta.

You clear forest and they come to nest, he said. Rake is going to go out on another run because he’s like that bird. He has to follow his internal compass, however messed up it might be, he said, pulling her. Now stumble a little bit and resist and let me pull you back again.

They made a show of it. The bird was glancing nervously in their direction, freezing still and then hopping, poking and probing in the rocks for food and glancing back intensely, fearful and yet free. As they moved closer, it hopped out into the flat, hard sand, dragging one of its wings.

It’s injured, Meg whispered.

It’s an act. They do it to lure predators away from the nest.

He took another step toward the bird and it skittered up the sand, keening loudly, dragging its wing.

Let me try to explain. Living things, all of them, are tied together. A bird is roped in tension, it’s beautiful to watch. It’s part of what makes a bird beautiful, he said. She’ll fake it until it’s a reality if she has to, luring a predator away, at the risk of her own demise. Once it gets near enough she’ll keep playing and playing until it’s close in and then she’ll try to scare it. That’s about ninety percent of what you need in the natural world; the one with a bigger bark, a display of power, wins.

And you have a big bark. Old Hank has a big bark, she said. She pulled away from him, hard this time, seriously. He yanked her back and got in close and looked down at her face tenderly.

I’ve got what I hope I need in the way of an idea, he said.

You and the bird.

Killdeer have a fine ability to mimic. I’ll say that much. I just said that much. He pulled on her ropes and marched her away from the bird.

Take me back into the water, she said, pulling away. He pulled her back and they continued walking, sticking close to the water. When they looked back the bird had settled down and was returning to her nest. Hank stood still, the wind ruffling his hair, and gazed at the trees to where Rake was hiding, or not hiding, watching them with intense scrutiny.

For miles, as they continued north, the needle was still making a shish pop, shish pop, as it rode the eternal runout groove at the end of Fun House on the signal out of Flint, strong off the night sky until, finally, it merged with white static and became faint background sizzle while the state unfurled — the same stubbled fields and denuded trees and finless windmills and equipment left to rust — and then, finally, Johnny Cash pushed through, his voice weary and low to the ground as he sang a lament that seemed to match the landscape, speaking from within the prison walls to a train whistle out there. Wendy was driving now, keeping both hands on the wheel, paying close attention, the kind of driver who concentrated on the road and made the conversion slightly one-sided.