burst out. The younger boy’s face practically glowed with excitement. He swiveled on his knees toward Vorhees. “What did I tell you?”
“No fucking way,” Cruk scoffed. Of all of them, his role was the skeptic’s; he wore this mantle like a duty.
“I’m telling you, it was him. You could just feel it. The way everybody was.”
“And what would Coffee want with a bunch of traders? You tell me that.”
“How should I know? Maybe he buys lick for his men.” A new idea came into Tifty’s face. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Or guns.”
Cruk gave a sarcastic laugh. “Listen to this kid.”
“Joke all you want, I’ve seen them. I’m talking real Army weapons, from before. M16s, automatic pistols, even grenade launchers.”
“Whoa,” Boz said.
“Where would Cousin get guns like that?” Vorhees asked.
Tifty eased up on his knees to look around, as if making sure no one could hear them. “I’m not sure I should be telling you this,” he continued. “There’s a bunker, an old Army base near San Antone. Cousin runs patrols up there.”
“I can’t listen to this another second,” said Cruk. “You didn’t see Coffee or anybody else.”
“You saying you don’t believe he exists?”
The idea was sacrilege. “I’m not saying that. You just didn’t see him is all.”
“What about you, Vor?”
Vorhees felt caught. Half of what Tifty said was pure bullshit—maybe more than half. On the other hand, the urge to believe was strong.
“I don’t know,” he managed. “I guess … I don’t know.”
“Well I believe him,” Dee proclaimed.
Tifty’s eyes widened. “See?”
Cruk waved this away. “She’s a girl. She’ll believe anything.”
“Hey!”
“Well, it’s true.”
Tifty leveled his eyes at the older boy. “What if I said you could see Coffee for yourself?”
“Just how would I do that?”
“Easy. We can go through one of the spillway tubes. I’ve been down there lots of times. This time of year, they don’t release until dawn. The vents go right to the base of the dam—we should be able to see the camp from there.”
The challenge had been laid down; there was no way to say no.
“There’s no goddamn camp, Tifty.”
* * *
It took them three days to work up the nerve, and even then Cruk forbade his sister from coming. The plan was to sneak out after their parents were asleep and rendezvous at the shelter; Tifty had plotted a route to the dam that would keep them out of site of the DS patrols.
It was after midnight by the time Tifty arrived. The others were already waiting. He appeared at the end of the alleyway and made his way toward them quickly, the hood of his jacket drawn up over his head, hands stuffed in his pockets. As he ducked into the shelter, he withdrew a plastic bottle.
“Liquid courage.” He unscrewed the cap and passed it to Vorhees.
It was lick. Vorhees and Boz’s parents, prayerful people who went to church at the sisters’ every Sunday, wouldn’t have it in the house. Vorhees held the open bottle under his nose. A clear liquid with a harsh chemical odor, like lye soap.
“Give it here,” Cruk commanded. He snatched the bottle and sipped, then handed it back to Vorhees.
“You ain’t never drunk lick before?” Tifty asked Vorhees.
Vorhees did his best to look offended. “Sure I have. Lots of times.”
“When did you ever drink lick?” Boz scoffed.
“There’s plenty you don’t know, brother.” Wishing he could hold his nose, Vorhees took a cautious sip, swallowing fast to avoid the taste. A blast of stinging heat filled his sinuses; a river of fire tumbled down his throat. God, it was awful! He finished with a wheezing cough, tears swarming his eyes, everybody laughing.
Boz drank next. To Vorhees’s embarrassment, his little brother managed to take a respectable sip without much more than a wince. Three more times the bottle traveled around the circle. By the fourth pass, even Vorhees had gotten the hang of it and managed a solid swallow without coughing. He wondered why he wasn’t feeling anything, but the moment he stood he realized he was; the ground lurched beneath his feet, and he had to put out a hand to steady himself.
“Let’s go,” Tifty said.
By the time they reached the dam, they were all giggling like maniacs. The passage of minutes had altered somehow; it seemed as if they had spent a long time getting there, and no time at all. Vorhees had a fragmented memory of hiding from a DS patrol under a truck but couldn’t remember the exact circumstances, nor how they had avoided capture.