else can worry about the problems of the world. I have to find Cal. I have friends to bury.
I’ve turned to grab Abe to pull him a little further into the trees when I see four people approaching the shack. High Pitch and Low Voice are in the front, glancing nervously at each other, their shoulders brushing together as their lips move, as if they are whispering to each other. My Aunt Christie follows behind them, a determined look on her face. Griggs follows behind her a few feet, the hunting rifle slung over his shoulder, my Colt in his hands. He cocks the Colt back and snaps a bullet into the chamber.
Boom, I think. Boom. Boom.
High Pitch and Low Voice reach the shack first and wait anxiously at the door. Christie says something to them, and they shake their heads. She scowls and turns back to the sheriff. She says something to him, but he doesn’t answer. He’s looking down at the ground and frowning. Christie speaks again, and he holds up his hand, silencing her. I don’t know what he’s looking at. I can’t see from where I stand. He bends over and I can only see the top of his head. I look up the embankment and my heart starts to thud.
Drag marks, down the embankment. Through the mud. He’s seen the marks left by Abe’s feet.
Christie opens the shack door. She grimaces as she takes a step back.
High Pitch and Low Voice peer over her shoulder.
She says something to Low Voice. He looks tense but steps around her and into the shack.
Griggs stands, looking down the embankment. He sees me. His eyes widen.
I smile up at him.
He jerks his head toward the shack. “Don’t!” he roars as he spins.
Christie turns to him, startled.
The shack explodes in a burst of fire much larger than I expected. There’s a bright flash, and then a concussive blast hits me like a heated wave. I’m knocked off my feet and onto my back. Rain falls on my face. I open my eyes and see the trees dancing in the sky above me, branches waving in the wind. An arc of lightning. A ripple of thunder, though it might be an echo of the blast, rolling down into the valley. Black smoke starts to smudge against the dark-gray clouds. Leaves and grass press against my back. It’s all wet. Everything—
i have is blue
—is wet, and I need to get up. I need to get off my back and up. I have to run. I have to run.
I sit up. My ears are ringing. My eyes are focused, unfocused. Focused, unfocused. I shake my head and push myself to my knees. Up the embankment, fire rages, hissing in the rain as if angry. It sparks in reds and oranges, but also blues and greens. I wonder how hard I hit my head until I remember the chemicals that were in the garbage bags.
I need to leave, but I have to know.
I make my way up the embankment, coughing at the smoke and smell of burning plastic. I slide in the mud, avoiding a burning piece of wood. I pull myself up until I’m at the top. The shack itself has been leveled completely, bits and pieces strewn out in a twenty-foot radius. A piece of the roof has landed on the hood of the truck, the front tires now completely flat.
Run.
A burnt body lies on the ground in front of me. I can’t tell if it’s High Pitch or Low Voice, but I’m assuming its Low Voice since he was the one who turned on the light. Off to the right, the door to the shack remains somehow intact, and I can see an arm sticking out from under it. I hobble over to the door and lift it. Christie is underneath, and next to her is High Pitch. He groans, but doesn’t open his eyes. Some of his hair has burned off, and his left eyebrow, but his skin doesn’t appear charred, just red, as if he has a really bad sunburn. My aunt looks the same. I watch as her chest rises and falls steadily. She’s alive. I toss the door to the side. I reach down and go through their pockets. There’s no phone on either of them. If Low Voice had one, it’s burned up like he is.
Run. Please. Run.
I tighten my hand around the knife as I turn to Griggs.