Gary Braunbeck - Keepers

As soon as my hand touched its side, the cat became still; its body relaxed, the choking stopped, and it rolled its head toward me in that same lazy, easy, sleepy-eyed way that any cat looks at you when your touch wakens it from a nap. We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, and then it leaned its head down against the back of my hand and rubbed its face against my thumb.

At least you cried, said a voice, but who, where, or what it came from I couldn’t tell.

The mist crept back in, blanketed the cat, and a moment later my hand touched only cold air.

At least you cried.

I rose to my feet and looked at Magritte-Man once more, my unanswered question still hanging between us.

He shook his head. He seemed genuinely sad about it.

Looking into the eyes of the creatures surrounding me, I sighed. It sounded like a petulant child’s noise. “That’s what I thought.”

At least the cat had forgiven me. At least I had that.

I struck flame to the lighter’s wick as the rest of the Bowlers came at me.

I shot at anything that moved as I backed into the guest bedroom. I couldn’t tell if I’d hit Magritte-Man or any of the remaining Bowlers because I couldn’t see a damned thing, couldn’t hear a sound because the mist devoured everything, but I kept shooting until I was in the room, then slammed closed and locked the door. Everything stank of charred wood and melting plastic and burned flesh. I could barely breathe.

Above me, the ceiling was beginning to sizzle and smoke from the blames burning through from upstairs. I tore the tape away from my hand and shoved the gun into the back of my pants, then pushed the bed up against the door, nearly passing out from the effort.

Dropping to the floor, coughing and wheezing and choking, I fumbled my hands around until I gripped the handle of the trapdoor; I threw it open and dove down head-first, scrabbled around in the dirt, reached up, and pulled it closed. I looked over to where she lay under the porch, then began crawling toward her.

Her eyes were open and watching me. She did not bare her teeth or snarl.

We had maybe a minute, a minute and a half before they came through the trapdoor or found the entrance to the crawlspace.

I slid down next to her and pulled out the gun. Her gold-flecked eyes looked at me with something like gratitude as she moved closer and nuzzled against my chest. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small blue tag that had fallen from the envelope.

“Still Mr. Slow-on-the-Uptake, I’m afraid.”

She made a soft, pained noise in the back of her throat and I heard the echo of her voice from the phone call that night: If I put out, they didn’t treat me like I was some kind of dog-and I’d spent so long being treated that way I started to believe that’s what I was-I still do, sometimes.

I tossed away the tag and embraced her. “You shouldn’t have left the house that night,” I choked into her fur. “I would’ve made it all right.”

She rolled her head to the side, licked her lips, then pressed her head against my shoulder: I know.

I looked at the silver tag hanging from her collar. I wondered if anyone was watching us at this moment. I made a small wave and mouthed the words “Hi, Mom.”

A loud crack from above shook the floor as they broke through the bedroom door and began shoving the bed out of the way. At the other end of the crawl space, one of them knocked aside the trash cans and knelt down, his goggles casting their eerie light on our faces.

I looked at the gun. How many shots had I fired? God, please let there be two bullets left.

I ejected the clip.

It was empty.

But one bullet remained in the chamber.

I looked into her eyes. She shook her head, raised a paw, and batted the gun from my grip.

I held her close as the trapdoor was wrenched open and the Bowler at the other end began crawling toward us.

Then I remembered Carson’s question about swans, did I like them and did I know what made them different from other animals? 338

“Swans,” I muttered to her. “They mate for life, don’t they?”

Yes. Pressing closer against me. I would never let her go. Never.

“Then it’ll be swans.”

I closed my eyes.

Her breath against my neck was like summer sunlight. I could smell the cooking from inside. Mom and Mabel were preparing dinner. Dad was busy collecting eggs from the henhouse while Whitey butchered a too-loud rendition of “Hello, I Must Be Going” on the out-of-tune piano in the parlor. My sister and Carson were on the front porch. Carson was attempting to draw her picture. One of these days he’d get it right.

An old man is chasing his hat across the highway in a comic dance. Thank God there’s no traffic at this hour. This will make a great story at dinner. I will tell it with perfect timing and make Whitey proud.

Beth is there, smiling, holding out her hands. I will take them, and we will dance in the autumn twilight, turning, turning, until we turn round right. I will say something funny, and her laugh will ring like crystal. We will look into one another’s eyes. And her smile will linger; oh, how it will linger.

I touch her face, revel in the perfect texture of her skin. She moves closer. A moment, a breath, a sigh. Now.

The world is returned to the way it should have been.

Her smile and touch tell me all I need to know.

I kiss her gently in the lilac shadows…

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