Robert Coover - The Brunist Day of Wrath

But they’ve just parted ways there in the woods and Georgie is alone in the dark when he sobers up enough to recognize how stupid it is. He and his pals are too drunk, the two boys are too sober. What did Moroni mean, “take care of”? Were they armed? There are strange sounds all around him. This is supposed to be fun. What happened to his happy stag party? He doesn’t feel like he’s in the real world anymore, but has got dropped into some nightmarish place where weird shit can happen. He tries not to panic, but he is panicking. He decides the only sane course of action is to beat it back to the car. First, though, he has to set off all these fireworks. Was that an owl hoot? Close enough. He has just lit a few fuses when the quiet night is torn open by a howling scream. It’s Cheese Johnson. He’s being attacked. “Fucking Christ, they’re killing me!” Georgie is on the run, fireworks popping behind him. He hears shots. The sky lights up with flares. The screaming gets worse. And the others start yowling. There are desperate cries for help. Must have been an ambush. Georgie runs away from the wild screaming (what the hell are they doing to them?), his head full of confusion, suddenly smacks up against the periphery fence. Didn’t see it coming. He is down again, his shirt torn by barbed wire. Probably he’s bleeding. His face hurts, his jaw hurts, his arm hurts, his gut hurts. There is a lot of noise in the camp now, shouts, Cheese and the others yowling, crackers popping, gunfire. The whole place is lighting up and coming alive. No place to turn. He is suddenly back in the exploded mine. Most terrifying moment of his life. His faceboss Vince Bonali told them to stay put while he went to phone topside, but some of them couldn’t wait. He couldn’t wait. He remembers the thick dust, the darkness, the fear of fire and of suffocation, Pooch Minicucci’s panic, screaming with terror like Cheese Johnson is now, and how it got to him and Wally Brevnik, sending them off on a mad suicidal run. He has always bragged about getting out before Bonali did, but he knows it was a big mistake and he and Wally could have ended up dead like Pooch and his buddy Lee Cravens, the last of their air sucked up by that mental case Giovanni Bruno, the only bastard who was trapped and got out. The one this camp is named for. That thought sends a shiver down his spine. Has he come full circle? Is he being punished now for his stupidity that night? He’s scrambling along the fence, snagging himself on it, trying to find the end of it, avoiding the moonlight when he can, feeling his own air getting sucked up. There are gunshots, more shouts: “It’s the murderer! He’s back!” He starts praying. First time since that night when he was lost in the black mine. C’mon, God, do me a fucking favor, for Chrissake! Some high-pitched voice way off somewhere is screaming about witches. What the hell is that about? “Over here! This way!” More shots. He seems to hear bullets ripping through the trees overhead. Something stinks. He has either shat his pants or kicked a skunk. He begins to cry, begs for pity. From God, the Devil, Lady Luck, whomever. The fence ends. He wipes his tears away. There’s an open field dangerously lit up under the moon. He decides to risk it, doubled over so if he gets shot he’ll get shot in the ass, not the head. Nothing happens. He reaches a copse, another creek, brambles, still running, a ditch, turns his ankle and goes down hard, more brambles, finally a paved county road. He recognizes it. Leads into town past shithead Lem’s garage. First he pauses to throw up and take a long sticky piss. He’s full of rage, pain, terror, nausea, self-pity. He realizes he’s been clutching the sackful of remaining fireworks to his chest the whole time like a lifejacket. He drops it, starts limping down the road back to town, then realizes he is turned around and going the wrong way, makes the correction, throws up again. Passes the dropped fireworks. Picks them up again. Long walk back on a swollen ankle. But still alive and out of there. So he should probably give thanks. But hey. God may have saved his ass, but why did He let him get in so much trouble in the first place?

“Ain’t never burgled a haunted house, Patti Jo. Sure y’wanta do this?”

“I’m sure.”

“Looks all boarded up.”

“Yeah, but, see? The padlock on the door’s been broke. I hear tell it gets used now for high school beer parties. If you stumble over any bodies, don’t worry, it’s just probably drunken kids passed out.”

“I stumble over any bodies, little darlin’, and I’ll see ye later back at the Moon.”

“It all looks so empty and busted up I can’t hardly recognize it. But I remember you turn left here into the dining room and then left again. The stairs are off the kitchen. Shine your light a sec, Duke. Here, this way.”

“What a hole. Worse’n the swamp I never growed up in. I cain’t smell no beer, but them kids has been relievin’ theirselves wheresom-ever it’s took their fancy.”

“It’s so sad. Marcella’s family had to get by on so little, but her mama always kept a neat house in a old-fashioned way. Now everything seems like either broke up or stole. C’mon. Marcella’s bedroom is up here at the back, looking out over the porch roof and backyard. Marcella kept a flower patch down there. She talked to the flowers like they were little people.”

“What are we aimin’ t’find?”

“I don’t know. But I’m thinking maybe that little gold cross she always wore on a chain around her neck, the one I saw in my — Oh…!”

“Whew! Nuthin in here, Patti Jo. Only scribblin’ on the walls and a ole rotten matteress which the kids probly been usin’ fer their party games.”

“Her room was always so pretty. I just loved coming here. It’s like something worse has happened to her than her dying. I feel like crying.”

“This room has had a lotta rough traffic. You ain’t gonna find any gold necklace here, angel.”

“No…but shine your light over there under the radiator. There’s something…”

“Lemme see…no, it ain’t nuthin but a cheap plastic hair clasp.”

“That’s it, Duke! We’ve found it! It was one of her favorite things. Mine too! It’s filthy now and all scratched up, but it used to be shiny, and if you got close you could see your face in it but warped in a funny kinda scary way. It was like another world and we made up stories about it. Right here in this room! Sitting here on the floor, next to her bed! I think she must of been wearing that barrette in the dream, too. And I think I even saw a face in it…but not mine. Let’s take it to her, Duke.”

“Whoa! Tonight? I ain’t keen on dead a night graveyard romps, sweet cuz. Cain’t we save it fer daylight?”

“No, let’s do it and get it done. It’s what she wants, I know. Anyhow, the moon’s so bright tonight it’s almost like daytime. I’ve picked up some grass from that bad boy they call Moron. We can set on a tombstone and have us a party. C’mon, Duke. If you wanta have fun, come along with me…”

…

“It’s okay now, Duke. You’ve been a true pal. I’ll never forget it. Does your hand hurt?”

“Some. It’s swoll up a mite, but the weed’s helpin’. And this dead people party gits your mind off other things. Won’t throw another knuckleball for a while, though. Don’t know ifn I’ll be able to pluck a gittar right soon neither. Y’may hafta tape the pick to my finger splint.”

“I’ll do whatever you want me to, lover. I’m so grateful and proud. Nobody ever stood up for me like that before. You made me feel like a real person. And you did it with style. You really laid dumb Georgie out.”

“That pore mizzerbul joker was borned to be stood up’n knocked down. He ain’t even a number.”