Max Booth III - We Need to Do Something

“Okay,” Dad whispers, “I think it’s safe to talk now, but let’s still watch our volume… just in case.”

“Just in case of what?” I ask.

“…I don’t know.”

“What did you see out there?” Mom says.

“I couldn’t see shit.”

“Did someone shoot that guy?”

Dad goes wide-eyed and psychotic. “I’ll fucking kill them all, I swear to fucking god.”

“Maybe he was shooting something,” I say.

“ Something? ” Dad says, curious.

“I don’t know.”

“Like that dog!” Bobby says. “The dog that wasn’t a dog.”

“Your sister killed it.”

“How do we know?”

“I just know.”

“What was it, if it wasn’t a dog?”

“Bobby, do I look like I fuckin’ know?”

“It could still be alive,” he says. “It could have grown a new tongue. It could have attacked that man.”

“It could have been anything,” Mom says.

“Then why did he stop talking?” Dad says. “Why haven’t we heard from him since the shooting?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

“Me too, honey.”

Dad rubs his hands through sweaty hair, gritting his teeth. “God, this is so fucked.”

“What are we going to do?” I ask.

Nobody answers.

I clear my throat and ask again. “What are we going—”

Dad bursts out laughing. “Why the fuck do you think we have any answers, Mel? We know just as much as you do. Which is fucking nothing, okay? Okay? ”

“Okay.”

“Robert,” Mom says. “Come on.”

Dad doesn’t say anything for a moment, like he’s trying to control his temper. “Okay. I’m sorry. I don’t know what we’re going to do. I don’t know what’s outside. I don’t know who shot who or why they shot them. I don’t know if we’re ever going to get out of this bathroom to find out. I don’t know if I even want to find out. I don’t know a goddamn thing about anything right now.”

Bobby has the right idea. I can’t stop thinking about the thing we mistook for a dog however many nights ago. Last night? Last week? What the fuck. What the fuck. I don’t know. Has it happened yet, or is that still in store for us? We stole its tongue. Or we will steal its tongue. Ripped from its mouth by the hunter of tongues. Can its owner sense it digesting inside my stomach? Has the tongue drawn it back to claim what belongs to it? Except, what we heard outside was clearly a man, a man with a tongue. But what had he been shooting? Something with a strong sense of smell. Something that likes to suck on fingers…

…Unless I’m not the hunter of tongues yet, then maybe… maybe tonight this guy with the machine gun returns… sniffing out our fingers… pretending to be Spot… claiming to be a good boy…

No. That already happened.

This is something new.

Oh god what is happening out there?

I can’t hold it in any longer. “Do you think… do you think maybe this is… you know… the devil…?”

“If it is,” Dad says, “he sure as fuck knows how to make an entrance.”

“Mom? What do you think?”

“I don’t know what I believe,” she says.

“Because you’re an atheist?”

“I’m too tired and hungry to think clearly about anything.”

“Are we going to die here?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, god.”

Dad stares into the crack again. “Imagine the fucking irony of escaping, only to get mowed down by some maniac with a gun… shit, what the fuck is going on out there?”

“If it is,” I say, “uh… demons… and hell… do you think… uh… do you think someone could have… you know…”

He turns toward me. “Could have what?”

“…Caused it?”

“ Caused it?”

“Yeah. Like. One person. If they could have the ability to make… uh… I don’t know, the ground open up or whatever.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like witchcraft or something.”

“I don’t know how this works, Mel.”

“I just wondered if maybe they made it happen, if they could also make it stop. Like… if they could fix things.”

Dad sighs and rests his head against the wall, breathing heavy, not saying anything until he takes a deep whiff and grimaces. “Ugh. We reek.”

We take turns using the shower. When one of us hops in, the other three face the opposite direction, giving our best attempt at providing some semblance of privacy. Bobby goes first and lets out a shriek as the cold water sprays him directly in the face and I can’t prevent the laughter from spilling out.

“Don’t laugh, Sis! It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” I call out over my shoulder.

“Your big stupid butt is funny, Sis!”

“Shut up, Bobby. No it’s not.”

“Yes it is!” He howls with laughter as the water pours down him. “It’s funny because it’s full of farts!”

“Oh my god. Gross.”

“Your butt is full of a million farts, Sis! And they all smell like… like farts! Like old, disgusting, smelly, rotten… farts! ”

We use the same towel to dry off, then change back into our dirty clothes and apply an abundant amount of deodorant. We spend an extraordinary amount of time brushing our teeth. Somehow we end up tricking ourselves that we feel reinvigorated.

“We should have done this a while ago,” Mom says.

“Yeah,” Bobby says, “because Sissy’s butt was starting to smell, right?”

“Shut up,” I tell him.

“We were all stinky,” Mom says.

“Even you?” Bobby asks.

She nods, serious. “Even me.”

He frowns and rubs his stomach. “I’m so hungry.”

“I know, baby.”

“When are we going to eat?”

“I don’t know.”

“I want an omelet. I want an omelet with ham and extra cheese.”

“How much cheese?”

“All of the cheese in the world.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, only that much. But Sissy doesn’t get any cheese. Only I get the cheese. Right?” He taps my shoulder. “You hear that, Sis? You don’t get any of the cheese. Only I—”

But I’m no longer listening to him.

Ahead, on the floor, slithering inside the bathroom through the cracked-open door…

A snake.

Not just any normal gardening snake, either, but a big… thick… fucking… snake.

Brown, with a dark diamond pattern spiraling down the back of its scales.

I extend out my arm, pointing at it.

“What… what… what… what…”

Slowly, the rest of them follow my gaze.

It finishes entering the bathroom before any of us have time to process what we’re experiencing.

Bobby and I scream and backpedal against the wall, holding on to each other. Mom joins us seconds later. Dad, on the other hand, remains perfectly still next to the door, eyes bulging as he witnesses the rattlesnake approaches his feet. He looks at the snake, then us, then the snake.

“What… what do I do?” he whispers.

“Don’t move,” Mom says. “Maybe it’ll go away.”

The rattlesnake slithers over Dad’s shoe, perfectly at peace with the universe.

“Get this fucking thing away from me,” Dad says.

“It’ll only bite you if it feels threatened,” Mom tells him.

“Fuck that. Come help me.”

“Stop talking. Calm down.”

“Fuck you. You calm down. You’re not the one with a fucking rattlesnake dry-humping your leg.”

Bobby laughs through his tears.

“Be quiet,” Mom says.

“But Daddy said humping,” Bobby says, wiping snot from his face.

“Goddammit,” Dad says, “this isn’t fucking funny. It’s gonna fucking bite me. I just know it. Goddammit. Shit. Shit. Fucking shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuck. ”