Into This River I Drown

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.

Griggs, the man who killed my father, who killed Abe. Who killed Cal. Griggs, who lies fifteen feet away, his jacket slightly smoking but otherwise looking intact. Bullets for the rifle he’s carrying spill out of a pocket where the zipper has broken. I take a step toward him and realize how easy it would be to bury the knife in his throat, to slice his neck from ear to ear until it opens like a bloody red mouth. It would be so very easy to watch his eyes flash open as he gurgles, blood bubbles popping out his lips, painting his face in a spray of crimson mist.

It would be so easy, I think as I find myself standing above him. His skin has pinked slightly, his hat knocked off his head. His hair is plastered wet against his skull. His eyes are closed. There’s a small piece of shrapnel sticking out of his right thigh, blood leaking slowly, soaking his pants. But still he breathes. His life is not threatened by injury. He’s alive. He doesn’t deserve to be. He deserves pain, agonizing pain. He deserves death in all its forms. I can do this. I can avenge the men I love and have lost. I stand above him and raise Estelle’s gift high above my head, ready to bring it down on him again and again and again. Once he is gone, this nightmare will be over and I just need to do it. Do it!

As I raise the knife as high as I can, I hesitate.

You are not the judge, my father whispers.

You are not the jury, Abe murmurs.

You are not the executioner, Cal says, and it’s so loud he could be standing right

next to me. A tear slides down my cheek. You are the protector. You are a guardian. It’s time to go home, Benji. It’s time to—

A hand reaches out and seizes my leg.

I look down. Griggs is awake and snarling up at me. I try to step back, but he has

a vise grip on my ankle. “I’ll kill you,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Run!

I jerk my leg away, using my good leg to kick him upside the head. He howls as he rolls away from me… directly toward the hunting rifle he used to kill Cal. He lands on top of it, and I’m already taking off toward the forest. I can still hear him screaming as I jump down the embankment, rolling as I land to avoid putting all the weight on my ankle.

I’m sorry, Abe, I think as I reach him and run right past. I’m so sorry.