in the gravel. He expected a moment of mourning. Expected the smallest bit of reverence for perhaps one of their own but then they opened fire and the body gyrated as if electrocuted as it took the hate. The men filled the body with two dozen blasts and when they were done and the echoes disappeared, Cohen heard a cackle of laughter and the men stood and stared at the body and passed around a bottle.
But then another shot fired from somewhere and the men jumped and hurried into the trucks. Not this way not this way, Cohen thought, but both trucks swung around and turned in his direction. He put the Jeep into gear, his back tires spinning but the front tires on the asphalt and he pulled forward, backed up, tried to get turned around. By the time he managed they were on him.
Horns honked and they yelled out the windows and fired over and around him. Cohen squeezed the shotgun and tried to figure out what to do. Didnât want to lead them past his house but there was no turnoff between here and there and any side dirt road would be nothing but a sinkhole. Maybe they wonât notice the house with the night and the cloudthick sky so just drive on by like you donât see it either but maybe they will and you know theyâll either stop at the house or chase you until either you or them run out of gas. He beat at the steering wheel and tried to think and the truck right behind him flashed its headlights and a head leaned out the window and screamed and another shot was fired over the Jeep.
He couldnât lead them there and there was only one curve left. A hundred yards from the house Cohen slammed on the brakes. The truck so close behind skidded and swerved right to miss him and whoever was leaning out the window tumbled out and into the flooded ditch. The second truck had no time and its grill slammed into the other truckâs back end and then it fishtailed and caught a big patch of water and slid to a stop with its front tires submerged. The two pair of headlights shined into the grayblack night at crooked angles and Cohen jumped out of the Jeep and fired into the side of one of the truck beds, two big metal thwacks. They yelled out, cussing and pleading and Cohen knew they couldnât see him, didnât know if he had an arsenal or if he was done. He hustled back into the Jeep and threw it in gear and killed his headlights, knowing every bump and lean in what was left of this piece of road. The shots came but he disappeared into the night and just as he made it to his driveway, the sky opened and the rain pounded the flooded land.
COHEN KNEW THEY were coming. No matter the strength of the storm. No matter how long it took them to get out of the ditch. He knew they were coming and that they would drive slowly and look for him. And if they didnât come, someone else would. And they would go into his house and sleep in his house and look at what he left behind. They would go through Elisaâs closet and sit in the chairs she used to sit in and stand at the kitchen counter where she used to stand. They would eventually wander out across the back field to the still-standing clump of trees where she and the baby were buried and they would touch the tombstones and he couldnât have any of that.
He sat on an ottoman on the ceramic tile floor in the living room. A lantern and a box of shells on one side. The bottle of bourbon and a Coke can on the other. The shotgun across his lap and a hacksaw in his hand and he had worked up a sweat sawing off the double barrels. The window was open and he paused, wiped the moisture from his face. He stared into the storm, into the black pit of night, and the gusting wind sounded like the push of one world into another and he knew he would not sleep. Would not try. And even if he did, it had become nearly impossible to separate the dreams and the nightmares from the real thing.
This was just the beginning.
Rivers , the award-winning novel by Michael Farris Smith,
But then another shot fired from somewhere and the men jumped and hurried into the trucks. Not this way not this way, Cohen thought, but both trucks swung around and turned in his direction. He put the Jeep into gear, his back tires spinning but the front tires on the asphalt and he pulled forward, backed up, tried to get turned around. By the time he managed they were on him.
Horns honked and they yelled out the windows and fired over and around him. Cohen squeezed the shotgun and tried to figure out what to do. Didnât want to lead them past his house but there was no turnoff between here and there and any side dirt road would be nothing but a sinkhole. Maybe they wonât notice the house with the night and the cloudthick sky so just drive on by like you donât see it either but maybe they will and you know theyâll either stop at the house or chase you until either you or them run out of gas. He beat at the steering wheel and tried to think and the truck right behind him flashed its headlights and a head leaned out the window and screamed and another shot was fired over the Jeep.
He couldnât lead them there and there was only one curve left. A hundred yards from the house Cohen slammed on the brakes. The truck so close behind skidded and swerved right to miss him and whoever was leaning out the window tumbled out and into the flooded ditch. The second truck had no time and its grill slammed into the other truckâs back end and then it fishtailed and caught a big patch of water and slid to a stop with its front tires submerged. The two pair of headlights shined into the grayblack night at crooked angles and Cohen jumped out of the Jeep and fired into the side of one of the truck beds, two big metal thwacks. They yelled out, cussing and pleading and Cohen knew they couldnât see him, didnât know if he had an arsenal or if he was done. He hustled back into the Jeep and threw it in gear and killed his headlights, knowing every bump and lean in what was left of this piece of road. The shots came but he disappeared into the night and just as he made it to his driveway, the sky opened and the rain pounded the flooded land.
COHEN KNEW THEY were coming. No matter the strength of the storm. No matter how long it took them to get out of the ditch. He knew they were coming and that they would drive slowly and look for him. And if they didnât come, someone else would. And they would go into his house and sleep in his house and look at what he left behind. They would go through Elisaâs closet and sit in the chairs she used to sit in and stand at the kitchen counter where she used to stand. They would eventually wander out across the back field to the still-standing clump of trees where she and the baby were buried and they would touch the tombstones and he couldnât have any of that.
He sat on an ottoman on the ceramic tile floor in the living room. A lantern and a box of shells on one side. The bottle of bourbon and a Coke can on the other. The shotgun across his lap and a hacksaw in his hand and he had worked up a sweat sawing off the double barrels. The window was open and he paused, wiped the moisture from his face. He stared into the storm, into the black pit of night, and the gusting wind sounded like the push of one world into another and he knew he would not sleep. Would not try. And even if he did, it had become nearly impossible to separate the dreams and the nightmares from the real thing.
This was just the beginning.
Rivers , the award-winning novel by Michael Farris Smith,
Similar Books
My Animal Life
Maggie Gee
The Rules According to Gracie
Stefanie London
Outward Borne
R. J. Weinkam
The Goddess Hunt
Aimée Carter
Drama Queen
La Jill Hunt
Betrayed
Marisa Michaels
Over Tumbled Graves
Jess Walter
Breakaway
Nancy Warren