Michael Smith: Rivers

“I was just checking on her,” the boy said.

“Don’t say nothing else,” Cohen said.

“You know she got snakebit.”

“I said hush.”

“I swear to God she got snakebit.”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

“She can’t halfway walk,” the boy said and he turned again to the girl and this time the girl came forward and Cohen felt the cord around his neck and his head snapped back and the shotgun fired off and blasted out the windshield. He dropped the gun and tried to get his fingers between the cord and his neck and the boy punched him in the face and he fought with one hand and tried to pull at one of the girl’s hands with the other and his air was running out in a hurry. His eyes bulged and the girl’s hair fell over his face as she choked him with everything she had and the boy kept punching at him, hitting her as much as him. Cohen tried to twist and get around the seat but the boy held him down and the blood turned his face red and in desperation he let go of her wrist that he was trying to pry away from his throat and he snatched her by the hair and snatched him by the hair and yanked as fiercely as he could before he was choked to death. The girl screamed and came forward enough to ease the pressure from the rope cord that had been yanked out of a lawn mower and the boy clawed at Cohen’s arm to get free. As he got his air he got strong again and they saw they couldn’t handle him. The girl jumped out of the backseat and into the water, the cord still tight around Cohen’s neck, and it brought him down headfirst and he splashed into the water. She yelled at the boy to get the gun, get the gun, and the boy picked up the shotgun and was holding it on Cohen as she let go of the cord and hurried back away from him. She climbed into the back of the Jeep and they waited for him to come up. He’d hit his head on the asphalt bottom on the way down and his body was lifeless in the dark water. They watched. The boy with the gun on him and the girl breathing heavy from the fight.

“You think he’s dead?” the boy said.

“I don’t know.”

“Go poke him.”

“I ain’t going to poke him.”

Suddenly Cohen shot up, gasping for air and falling back again. He fought to get to his feet and he flailed his arms like a child learning to swim and then he was on his feet but staggering, a red line around his neck and red down his face and he choked for air and spit out the dirty water. The boy gripped the shotgun tightly and the girl moved behind him and she was yelling shoot him. Shoot him shoot him now.

Cohen got straight up and he wiped at his eyes and held his arms out in submission.

“What you waiting on?” she said and she elbowed the boy in the back of his shoulder.

He cocked back both hammers and pulled the trigger and there was a click. He pulled it again and there was another click. “Holy shit,” he said and he sat down quickly behind the wheel and cranked the Jeep and Cohen rushed at them, the girl yelling and the boy fighting the gearshift but he got it in first just as Cohen was diving for him and Cohen’s shoulder banged against the crossbar as the Jeep jerked forward. He fell limp into the water and floated there, dizzy and gagging and left in the wake as the Jeep moved on ahead, up out of the water and onto the highway, the girl’s wet black hair flapping in the wind as she stood in the seat with her back to the road, watching Cohen as they drove away.

He raised out of the water, his right arm drooping, and he didn’t have to look to know that his shoulder was separated. He stood still to get his breath and he grimaced with the pain of his shoulder and water and blood ran down his face and neck, his forehead gashed from the headfirst fall. When he was breathing steady, he began walking out of the thigh-high water, his right side lagging. It was a heavy walk and the line around his throat burned and he wanted to wait until he was out of the water to try and pop his shoulder back in but he couldn’t wait. He felt his shoulder socket to figure out where it was supposed to go and then he took a deep breath and with his left hand he lifted his right arm and shoved and it didn’t go and he screamed and went down to his knees. Oh goddamn, oh goddamn, he said and then without getting up and in anger he lifted and shoved the arm again and there was a pop and a fiery pain but it was in.

He screamed out again and let his face fall into the water and then he raised up and spewed the water out of his mouth. He stood up and began walking again and it took a few minutes but he came out of the water and he sat down on the asphalt between the wet tracks from the Jeep. He was cold and wet and the blood from his forehead wouldn’t stop and the pain ran from his shoulder and down through his back and the red line around his neck was raised. He pushed his hair back from his face and found the gash with his fingertips. Floating out in the water was his sock hat and he got up and walked back out and got it and pressed it against the gash. Then he walked out of the water again, looked back behind him at the gathered clouds and the pops of lightning. Still far away but coming. Out in front of him the sun was nearly down and a red sky stretched the width of the skyline. It was cold but would get colder when the sun fell and he was too far from home.

He looked around. Nothing but land and water in every direction. But he couldn’t stay there so he started along the highway, dripping and bleeding and hurting, the clouds moving in his direction.

ALMOST DARK AND THUNDER NOW with the lightning back off to the east. The wind had picked up and he shivered in the wet clothes and the falling temperature. He tried to remember as he walked. Tried to remember anything along the road that was still standing. Even halfway. Anything that he could get into for the night, before whatever was in those clouds got to him. But nothing was left save a small church down one of these side gravel roads and he’d have to guess which one as they all looked the same. Maybe the church was still there. He couldn’t be sure but it was the only option. As he walked, he was repeatedly startled by the movements in the brush off the side of the road—rabbits and possums and he hoped that was all. A doe walked out into the road ahead of him, stopped and stared, then went on. Dark now and the sky littered with stars in the low western horizon and he tried to hurry but the fatigue and the pain were wearing on him and he shook with chills and he felt the beginnings of a fever. He came to another gravel road on his right and he looked down it. Some trees remained along the roadside and he thought hard. Knew the church was a mile or two walk down whichever road. There was thunder and he looked back over his shoulder and the lightning danced in the clouds and he didn’t have time to think about it anymore.

The road was mud and it gave under his feet and he slipped over and over again as he half-ran. He hoped that the road wouldn’t be washed away up ahead, sinking mud and giant potholes, and it wasn’t. He hurried on, the wind stronger now and hanging limbs beginning to fall away and the lightning bright behind him and helping to light his way in split-second bursts. He had no idea how far he had gone and it seemed that he had gone far enough but there was still no church and still nothing else and he tripped and fell and tried to land on his good shoulder. Up quickly and wiping mud from his chin and the lightning flashed again and this time he saw up ahead the small brick church. The thunder crashed and felt like it was right on top of him and he took off running, his knees buckling as he hit the puddles and nearly falling but keeping on, and the lightning hit and he saw the front doors of the church missing and then he heard footsteps beside him and he was startled but then there were more and more footsteps surrounding him and he raced into the church doors and collapsed in the aisle as the baseball-sized hail pounded the earth.