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The Wisconsin River
Lewiston, WI
Day 41 of The Rise
“So they’re called Variants, huh?” Stevie grunted. The color in his face had gone and his voice was weak and broken. He craned his neck, trying not to look at Max suturing his calf.
“Look a little pale there, pal,” Dave said, a little bemused.
“Fuck off!” Stevie snapped, and the color returned to his cheeks in a flash of rage.
“Kid’s got a temper, huh?” Dave said, turning the Harry. Harry lowered his head, choosing, instead, to stare at his dirty fingernails. “Cat got your tongue?” Dave asked. Harry shrugged it off and took a step toward Hannah.
“He doesn’t like strangers,” Hannah said quietly.
“Who does?” Dave reached into his back pocket and removed a crumpled pack of Marlboro Mediums. The gold font kicked up a bit of morning light and streaked across Hannah’s face. He shook the pack and a cigarette tipped out. He stuck it in his mouth and lit it with a shiny, silver Zippo. Hannah watched him curiously, and when his eyes met hers he offered her the pack. “Want one?”
She shrugged.
“Is that a no?”
“No,” she said. “I think I will have one.”
“You don’t smoke,” Harry whispered.
“He speaks!” Dave cried. “Thank God almighty the boy speaks. It’s a miracle, I tell ya! It’s a miracle.” Dave’s voice took on his radio persona. He raised his arms to the heavens, shaking them in mock lunacy. Hannah took a step toward Dave and he handed her the pack. She clumsily withdrew a cigarette and stuck it between her lips. Dave couldn’t help but smile at her awkwardness.
“What are you grinning at?” Hannah barked.
“Nothing.” But, of course, that wasn't altogether true.
“Just light it.”
Dave flicked open the Zippo and clicked back on the thumbwheel. A flame kicked up from the wick and he held it to her. Hannah leaned toward it, captivated by the dancing flame. The tip kissed the end of the cigarette and she inhaled. Her lungs contracted as the smoke worked its way inside of her and she choked on a breath. Then heaved. She lowered her face and her tongue fell out, saliva spilling across the dirt in a disgusting line. It took nearly a minute for her breathing to normalize again. Her back and chest felt tight and sore and the cigarette continued to burn between her fingers.
“You all right?” Dave stuck his cigarette between his lips and took a long, patronizing drag.
“Fine…” Hannah muttered. She put the cigarette back to her lips, took a quick breath in, and immediately blew it out, not daring to let that foreign smoke torture her lungs again.
“All done,” Max said placing a fresh piece of gauze of Stevie’s calf.
“Okay.” Stevie hobbled to his feet.
“The way the world’s going, sounds like we all need a break.”
Stevie nodded. “Well, then I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Max asked, zipping up his medical pack.
Stevie cocked the .22 and pointed it between Max’s eyes.
“What the hell’s this?” Dave shouted. The cigarette, which had been dangling from his lips, fell from his mouth and rolled into the dirt.
“We’ll be taking your packs now,” Stevie told them.
“Excuse me?” said Max.
“You heard me! Hand it over.”
“Listen, friend—“
“I ain’t your friend!”
“Stevie, what are you doing?” Hannah screamed.
“We might need their packs!”
“We might need them!”
“Doubtful.”
“What are you gonna do? Kill them?”
“If I have to.” Stevie’s words were so cold and definitive they seemed to knock Max backwards.
“You don’t mean that,” Hannah said.
“Hannah, just shut up and take the bag!”
“You don’t want to do this, son,” said Dave.
“Shut up!”
“Stevie!”
“Stop yelling or I’ll shoot all of ya!”
Silence tore through the group and Max shook the bag off his shoulder. The strap fell lazily to the crux of his elbow and he wiggled it to his fingers. There was a moment of hesitation, maybe contemplation, before he extended his hand to Hannah. “Here.”
Hannah lowered her head and stepped to him. She took the leather strap in her fingers. “I’m sorry.”
Max nodded his recognition then averted his eyes. Sweat lined his brow in tiny droplets of glimmering terror. Stevie’s finger danced over the trigger with anxious energy.
When the gun would go off—some seconds later—the bullet would exit the barrel in a thunderous flash, whiz so close to Hannah her hair would flutter and skip over Max’s shoulder fraying his tattered, wool sweater. The bullet would eventually lodge in one of the pines fifteen feet behind them, splintering wood and tearing bark in the process. That first bullet, however, wouldn’t draw any blood. “Now I want you two—“ Stevie started. But the hammer dropped on the .22 and the bullet exploded out of the barrel. Stevie’s eyes went wide. Hannah dropped to the ground. Max clasped his hand to his right ear. But Stevie knew they came out unscathed when he saw the pine trunk spray a cloud of bark dust.
With Stevie’s eyes fixed on the recently executed pine, Harry snatched up a broken tree branch lying near his feet. Dave saw him grab it and witnessed Harry’s forearms flex and pulsate as he swung the branch like a baseball bat. Stevie’s ear twitched when he heard the rush of wind as the branch cut through the air. The top half of the branch struck the side of his face. There was a quick thwack as they heard the crunch of Stevie’s teeth dislodge from his gums and rattle around his mouth. The end of the branch caught Stevie on the forehead, just above the eye, slicing open his skin and drawing blood. A river of red flowed into his eye, stinging him.
Stevie screamed a horrifying, gut-wrenching scream and he lost his grip on the gun.
Harry wound up and struck him again. The branch connected with the other side of Stevie’s face and there was another crunch, this one originating from his nose. It flattened and made a sound like somebody stepping on a Twinkie still in its bag. Another scream sound amongst the pines. The scene was such a gory mess it would have otherwise made Harry puke, but his adrenaline was so immense his stomach wouldn’t cooperate.
Harry raised the branch over his head and brought it down on top of Stevie’s. This time there was a clunk, like a poorly struck golf ball, and Stevie dropped to his knees.
Harry began to hit Stevie with short, efficient strokes, each one drawing a small amount of blood, shooting out in quick spurts. Stevie’s body was fetal, his eyes clenched shut. He screamed in pleading bursts, but Harry refused to stop.
“Harry…” Hannah said warily. But she found she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted Stevie to suffer for what he had done to their father, for what he wanted to do to Dave and Max, and for what he probably would have done to her and Harry.
There was a clink that resonated after the final blow, Stevie’s bottom teeth connected with the tops and his head snapped back in one furious motion. Stevie’s body rolled off the bank, bouncing across the prehistoric roots, and splashed into the river’s shallow water. There was the brief sound of bone connecting with rock and then the current swallowed him up. Harry thought Stevie might float, even surface for a moment, but he didn’t; he was sucked into the depths of the river like some sort of evil vacuum.
Harry stood there, staring at the water as it settled back to its original, peaceful flow. Blood dripped from the end of the branch and formed an irregular puddle on the soil. His massive, broad chest heaved in and out with he gasping breath, but he perspired very little.
At last, Harry’s breathing slowed and he looked up at the others. Hannah’s eyes were the only ones that met his, Dave and Max were staring at the bloodied branch still clutched in his hand. Hannah was crying, but it wasn’t out of fear or sadness or anger, it was simply an emotional outburst she no longer could control. She would’ve liked to have swatted Stevie a few times herself, but that wasn’t how things had unfolded. And it was just as well. Harry dropped the branch and went to his sister. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Tears fell on the side of his neck as her sobbing intensified.
“Jesus, son, you sure do know how to give a licking,” someone finally said (Harry thought it was Mr. Cash), his words breaking the silence as well as the tension.
“He killed our pa.” Hannah's words shook as her crying tapered off. Dave and Max asked no questions and provided no inquires, they simply nodded their acknowledgement. “I’m Hannah. And this is my brother Harry. And I truly can’t tell you how pleased we are to have come across you.”
“Pleasure’s ours,” Max said shaking their hands. “Now then, why don’t you tell us what you’ve seen out there. Seems like we’re all gonna have stories that’ll unsettle more than a few nights of sleep.”
And that’s what they did, swapping stories for the next few of hours. The tales of horror and macabre seemed artificial and staged, nobody could truly believe the things they were saying. Though, all knew the stories were true and the terror was real.
They went on talking until it was nearly midday and then hunger struck them. Max opened a can of garbonzo beans and a pouch of tuna packed in water, a feast which they all shared.
After lunch Dave lit another cigarette and went on talking about a Variant who had entered the radio station, and how his producer, Larry Kling struggled with it until they both toppled out the twelfth floor window, landing in a bloody heap on Washington Boulevard.
When the beans were gone and the tuna pouch licked clean, they zipped up their packs and got into the boat. Harry drove the thing down the river while the others sat up front. And though he never said it, Harry traversed those waters half expecting Stevie to explode from its depths and pull him under like a savage crocodile. That, however, never happened.
Harry Phillips and Stevie Kohler would not cross paths for another twelve weeks, when a very alive, very bitter, very incensed Stevie Kohler would shoot Harry Phillips in the chest.
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