Daniel Charlie has not been burned. He stands there, shocked, baffled, wide-eyed, with his poncho smoking.
And then everyone is laughing. Everyone but Daniel Charlie and Brandon and Frost. Everyone but these three are doubled over or have had to sit on the ground and pound it with their fists and shriek with delight. Tyrell’s jackhammer stutter of a laugh batters through the crisp air.
Daniel Charlie gives a start and says “What’s that smell? Somethin’s on fire.” Louder laughter erupts. Some of Daniel Charlie’s hair has come unbraided. After three attempts, Frost manages to pluck from that hanging swatch of hair a small burning object in the shape of a horse’s head.
Daniel Charlie says, very slurred “Is my feather okay?”
“It’s okay” says Jessica.
The laughter starts to die down. People rise, assume more dignified postures, wipe their eyes.
Then the earth bucks.
Under the feet of the residents of Frost’s Farm the land blasts upward like a solid trampoline. Those who have risen fall, hollering in panic. Only Frost and Daniel somehow remain on their feet. Daniel Charlie staggers backward and steps into the fire. But immediately the earth heaves again and he steps out and lurches to hands and knees.
For a few seconds, before he turns a leg and cries out in pain and falls, Frost can see the far snow-covered fields twisting as if they were floating on a stormy ocean. He glimpses panicked eyes and open mouths nearby but can hardly hear the screaming because of a roaring like a tremendous rockslide below him in the ground. Lying on his back, tossed on the pitching earth, he is forced to witness a moon that seems to swirl in the sky, while the domicile sways above him like a reed. The roaring fills his head. It is pierced by faint sprinkles of shattering glass and by the sharp keening of baby Noor.
27
“My turn.”
Will handed Surrey the bow. Surrey slid a nail-tipped cattail stem from the plastic bag and set the small end against the bowstring. Because he was short he had to turn the bow sideways so the bottom end of it would not catch on the ground. He grunted from the effort but could only draw the bow a few inches back. The arrow, dry, straight, light as straw, zipped away and stuck in a rotted stump.
“Good shot” said Will.
“Whoa, dead” said Shaughnessy.
“Killed” said Surrey.
“My turn. Give me the bow” said Shaughnessy.
Will went to fetch the arrow. The nail had penetrated to some firm layer beneath the punk, and when Will pulled the arrow, the nail came loose and remained stuck. Will wiggled the nail free and turned from the stump, the shaft in one hand and the nail with its flattened head in the other. He started back. As he pushed the nail back into the dry pith of the stem something flashed past his face. There was a tick as the arrow hit the stump.
“Killed you” said Shaughnessy. He was speaking to the stump.
Surrey was also squinting narrowly past Will, at the arrow dangling by its tip. He said “A nail in your guts.”
The two boys were trying not to smile.
Surrey said “My turn.”
Will looked back at the arrow. He looked at the two boys. Shaughnessy stood with an arrow ready, but with the bow lowered. Will went and stood beside the boys.
Surrey said “Get the arrow, Will.”
Will did not respond or look at him. He put the arrow he was carrying back in the bag.
Surrey shot.
“You’re dead” said Shaughnessy.
“Two nails in your rotten guts” said Surrey.
“Get the arrows, Will” said Shaughnessy.
Neither Surrey nor Shaughnessy had an arrow now. Will picked up the plastic bag of arrows and took it with him to the stump and carefully extracted the two arrows they had shot and put them in the bag. When he turned, Surrey and Shaughnessy were staring at him coldly, with narrowed eyes.
Will said “Come on, let’s find somethin’ else to shoot.” He slung the bag over his shoulder and turned away from the other two boys and walked past the stump and past a foundation. The soil within the square of the foundation was laced with dark, limp vines and leaves of dead squash plants. Ahead there were more foundations, and there was brush. Will chose a way among the brush. He stepped around a white toilet bowl on its side. He stepped on a low compact mound of drywall gypsum. He did not see anything they could shoot at. Shaughnessy and Surrey were following. He could hear them whispering.
“Coyotes” said Will. He stopped, and when the other two boys came even with him they also stopped. The coyotes were yipping not far to the south, the direction they were heading. Will said “They’re happy ’cause there’s lots of rabbits.”
“Yum, rabbits!” shouted Surrey, and he and Shaughnessy threw back their heads and started yipping and howling. Will reached to take the bow from Shaughnessy, but Shaughnessy, without stopping howling, moved the bow away. When the boys stopped their noise the coyotes had fallen silent.
Will twisted the bag closed and led the way deeper into the burbs. It was not very cold. The ground was wet. Ragged clouds crawled toward the northeast. He said “Thousands of people lived here once. These were all houses.”
“Thousands of people” said Shaughnessy.
“Houses” said Surrey.
Someone choked back a laugh.
Shaughnessy’s shaggy white-blond hair hung over his eyes and was very dirty. He had his two ragged shirts and wool kilt. His feet were wrapped in layered plastic socks. Surrey wore his long wool shift, and today also wore foot-wrappings. Will had his patched sweat pants and poncho and sandals.
Shaughnessy said “What happened to all the people? Did your grampa kill them?”
Surrey guffawed. His boy’s voice cut the air like a blade.
Will looked back. He could see the domicile because it rose above everything, but it was small and far away. He did not walk any farther. The coyotes started up again. He said “First the good times finished. Then almost everyone got sick and died. The ones that were left burned up the trees for firewood. Then they burned the wood from the empty houses. Then they moved into the concrete buildins and burned up the rest of the houses. What’s left is the burbs.”
“Sick and died” said Shaughnessy.
“Burbs” said Surrey.
Will said nothing. He glanced at the distant domicile again. He glanced at the bow that Shaughnessy held. He said “I have to go back.”
Shaughnessy said “Your grampa’s old. I guess pretty soon he’ll get sick and die.”
Surrey said “Or else Langley will shoot him in his rotten old guts.”
Will said “I have to go back. Can I please have the bow?”
Surrey shook his head in amused disbelief at some memory and said “You should’ve heard my daddy howl when they stabbed him.” He held his side and screamed and then laughed, bending over. His face went red from laughing. When he stopped, the coyotes were quiet again.
Shaughnessy said brightly, as if he had a brilliant idea “My daddy got sick and died. I know all about it. I could come and show your grampa.”
Surrey doubled over laughing again.
Shaughnessy said “Where’s your sister?”
Will paled. His breathing became rapid and shallow.
Surrey said “Maybe she’s dead.”
“Dead in Town.”
“Maybe Langley shot her in her rotten guts.”
The boys waited for him to respond.
Will started back toward the domicile. He did not walk quickly. He looked straight ahead.