Colin Winnette - Haints Stay

“There will only be more men like us,” he said. He coughed and spat. “You will only kill and kill until you are overcome.”

Brooke stepped forward as if to offer himself up to the man.

“Would you like to stick me one last time before we finish you?” he said. He set his good leg out before their kill. He leaned back to smile at Sugar, who shook his head and plucked tobacco from his sock.

“Don’t be grotesque,” said Sugar, as the man plunged the curving knife into the bones of Brooke’s foot.

The boy came finally from behind the tree as they were gathering up the four men’s belongings and placing them in the center of the clearing. They had leaned the bodies against the surrounding trees and the men sat slumped as if napping, their chins to their chests, their palms at their sides, opening skyward.

“Meat,” said Brooke, cinching then letting fall one of the bundles.

“Probably their man’s,” said Sugar.

“Probably our deer’s,” said Brooke. He plucked a separate bundle from the stack and held it to his nose. “Or neither,” he said. “This one isn’t fresh.”

“Who… who were they?” said the boy.

Brooke slid the curving knife out of his belt and held it out.

“Take their teeth,” he said. He held out a small bag. “Place them in here.”

“Why?” said the boy.

“So we can bury them with their ghosts,” said Brooke.

“I don’t know how.”

The boy would not take the bag or knife. He clasped his hands behind his back and watched Brooke’s face as he explained there was no particular way to do it, just saw into the gums until the teeth came loose in your hand.

“There will be blood, but not more than you can handle. And remember,” he explained, “they can’t feel it.”

“Deer,” said Sugar, holding up a pair of dark bundles. “This is the deer, I think.”

“Or the man,” said Brooke.

“More meat than man,” said Sugar, raising the bundles to shoulder height.

Brooke nodded and held out the knife to the boy. He held it by its blade, leveling the handle with the boy’s belly and bouncing it up and down.

“It’s a good thing,” said Brooke, “to let a man be buried properly as possible. You’re doing them a service.” He jiggled the knife’s blade, trembling the handle. “You’ll be doing us a favor too, and we’ll all be safer for it.”

Finally, the boy accepted the knife.

“Just the teeth?” he said.

“No time for the skeletons,” said Brooke. “And besides, we couldn’t carry all of this, even if we wanted to.”

Sugar dug a small hole with his fingers and slid in the gory bundle. The boy was wiping his hands in the grass, on his shirt, on the bark of the trees around them. He had vomited, but finished the job. Brooke was separating the fresher bundles from the rotten ones. They were all but set to go.

Sugar placed dirt over the bundled teeth, and then grass. The bodies leaning against the trees seemed to watch it all.

“Rest,” said Sugar.

“Are there going to be more men?” said the boy.

“There will always be more of someone or something,” said Brooke.

Sugar was silent and watching the hole.

“I don’t want to do that again,” said the boy.

“You probably won’t have to,” said Brooke. “But you might have to.”

“Can we eat?” said the boy.

“Not here,” said Brooke.

“Can we go somewhere and eat?” said the boy.

“You’ve got an appetite after all that?” said Brooke.

The boy nodded, ran his hands across his shirt once more. They had not eaten for some time and the hunger was beyond thinking about.

Sugar unclasped his hands and set his eyes in the direction of the treetops.

“What’s he looking at?” said the boy.

“Everything and nothing in particular,” said Brooke. He hoisted two of the fresh bundles onto his back and kicked through the blankets once more, looking for the freshest one.

“What are you looking at?” said the boy.

Sugar lowered his eyes to the boy and said he was looking at nothing but whatever it was the trees were doing.

“Is that where the ghosts went?” said the boy.

Sugar shook his head. “They’re right there,” he said, pointing at the bodies, and then at the small, fresh hole near his feet.

That night, the sun did not set. Sugar placed a strip of fabric over his eyes. Brooke slept on his stomach, his face buried in his elbow. The boy sat awake and watched the trees bend and heard them creak and imagined he heard men approaching from all directions. He heard laughter. Then a twig as it broke. He listened for more, for the hiss of those sounds fading out to confirm them, but heard nothing. It was as if the enormous quiet of the woods around him consumed any possible sounds, growing stronger, more present, more oppressive and huge. He nudged a rock with his toe to provoke a faint scraping, the mild tremble of a rock turning against the earth. As quickly as it rose the sounds were gone. Brooke shifted, rocked his hips. The boy was not afraid of anything in particular, but he was impatient to know what was coming. What was after them and when would it get there? What were they after and would they achieve it?

A black bird curved into view overhead and tilted toward a tall branch. Settling, it picked between its toes and squawked at nothing in particular. It lifted just as suddenly and curved toward the boy and Brooke and Sugar. It landed near their bundles and hopped. The boy watched it hop and tilt and examine the bundle. It pecked a small tear in the corner of the bundle, where the darkest blood had gathered. It pulled something from the bundle and tapped it a moment with its beak before going back in again with another quick peck. The boy toed the rock near his foot again, this time hooking it with his toe and drawing up his leg to bring the small rock to his hand. The bird hopped back and tilted its head. It stepped to the left and turned, as if examining the woods around them. Finally, it turned back toward the bag and pecked again and the boy loosed the rock. It struck the ground and the bird rose only to land again a foot or so away from the very same bundle. The boy drew another rock to his hand with his other foot. The bird seemed to watch him, its head tilted, its eyes blinking and fixed. It pecked at the bag and tapped its beak. It pecked again and the boy slung the rock, harder this time, with an audible exhalation. It struck the now extended wing of the rising bird.

The bird struggled in the dirt for a moment before trying to lift again and collapsing from the pain or the insufficient strength in its wounded wing. The boy rose and was on the creature before it could regather. Brooke rocked and Sugar did not stir.

The boy took the small head of the bird between his thumb and forefinger and held its body in the crook of his opposite arm. He angled the neck of the bird in an attempt to snap it but instead the bones seemed to slip and the pressure between his fingers cracked something in the skull of the creature instead, which sent it twitching and spinning back to the dirt. Brooke stirred then, kicking one boot out and reaching his palm to his face. The boy did not want help but wanted instead to know if he could eat on his own, if he had learned something and what he had in him and what he did not. He felt embarrassed to have dropped the bird and to have it struggling so pathetically there before him. Its wing wounded, its skull partially caved in or cracked like the shell of an egg, it seemed to be trying to gather itself up and again make an attempt at flight. After a few quiet steps he was back on the crippled creature and gripping its body and struggling wings with one hand while pinching the base of its skull between his thumb and forefinger, once again. But the neck was soft; it only bent and slipped when he angled to break it.