The Bottom Feeders and Other Stories (3 page)

“
Miss?”

Courtney started. “Oh. Sorry.”

“
Your change.” The
attendant’s pale hand—too pale for a man whose trade involved
greasy, oily work, held a few small bills and some
coins.

“
What is that building,
there,” she said while pointing across the street. “It looks like a
school.” She fumbled the change, dropped a quarter, and stooped to
pick it up.

“
The children are in the
hollow fields.”

Courtney stood and handed a dollar to the
attendant. “What?”

“
I said the school is
closed. The children are bused into Springdale.” He shoved his tip
into a pocket in his blue coveralls and nodded. “Thanks
ma’am.”

The hollow field whispered
to Courtney as she guided Zach’s car into the driveway. It was a
brief thing, like a soft breeze across her face or the brush of
someone walking past, but the call sent a braid of terror writhing
up her back—a
hollow
terror, a pervasive
emptiness
. She glanced at the house
to verify Zach wasn’t home yet and walked slowly toward the road
and the scabby earth of the hollow field beyond. The handle of a
shovel could be seen poking from the mound in the
center.

The fence separating the field from the road
was old, loosely fitted barbed wire stretched between rotten posts
of wood. Courtney hoisted one foot onto the top wire, careful to
maintain her balance, and pressed down. It gave with a dull
sproing, and she was able to step over the remaining wires.

The dirt gave beneath her
feet, much softer than she’d expected. In her memory, Courtney saw
Zach standing in front of the picture window, gazing out at the
rise in the field. She worked through the loose soil, stumbling
with one arm out for balance the other holding her belly. Waves of
pain radiated,
contractions
, she knew, she should
be back at the house, calling the hospital, someone, but she
continued to stagger to the middle of the field.

When she made the mound, Courtney dropped to
the dirt, scooped a handful, and let the small crumbles and clods
trickle through her fingers. It was damp, not wet, but damp, and
tickled as it fell to the ground. A pungent earthiness, a wholesome
smell—not decay or rot, but a rich, dark odor surrounded her. She
looked up and noticed a hole, a pit in the earth that had been
freshly dug.

“
It’s good soil, Court.
Good land.”

She tossed the remaining dirt into the hole,
and turned. Zach was walking toward her. “Zach?” Her abdomen
tightened.

“
It’s hungry land.” Zach
held out his hand, helping Courtney to her feet. She doubled again,
grimacing with another sharp stab of pain. “I’m staying here,
Court. In Broughton’s Hollow. Mr. Olson and Mr. Weedeman helped me
understand.” He smiled. “I want to be with you…I want you to stay,
too.”

At the next wave of pain, Courtney staggered
backward and bumped into the shovel. “Zach…”

“
Grandpa didn’t understand,
Courtney. He died here.”

Courtney’s hands wrapped around the shovel
handle behind her back. “Everybody dies, Zach,” she sobbed,
“everybody.”

“
We don’t have to, not in
the Hollow. All the land asks for is a little something in
return…and we can stay here, forever. They explained it to me. The
baby, Court. We give our baby to the land, a little sacrifice from
both of us, and we live forever. You and me.” One hand extended to
her; the other held a knife.

With a sudden gasp of air, she yanked the
shovel from the ground, swinging in a wide, awkward arc. The blade
caught Zach in the ribcage. He lurched forward with a dull groan,
and one foot twisted into the small grave.

She ran, both hands squeezing against her
swollen belly, eyes pressed tight as another contraction threatened
to throw her to the ground. At the fence, she leaned against a post
for a moment, catching her breath. With a glance over her shoulder,
she saw him, staggering from the center of the field, clutching his
side.

Weedeman and Olson were at the front door,
but Courtney ignored them, hopping into the driver’s seat of the
Honda. The car started with a groan and sputter. She reversed
quickly and sped from the house, the tires throwing clouds of
gravel and dust in her wake. Zach tumbled over the fence as the car
crested the first hill.

Through town, out the other
side, and safety
, she thought. She pushed
down on the accelerator, but the car responded with a shuddering
groan.
Something is wrong.

“
No, no, no.” Courtney’s
hands crushed the steering wheel. The fuel gauge showed full. The
steering wheel wobbled back and forth.
The
knife in Zach’s hand. The tires.
She began
to coast at the city limit of Broughton’s Hollow.

Cringing with another contraction, Courtney
guided the wounded car to the curb and looked in the rearview
mirror. A set of headlights began to descend into the town. “No…”
She held her breath against the pain and staggered from the car
toward the abandoned church. Twenty more yards…ten more yards…the
contraction slowed.

The inside of the church was dim with dusty
beams of yellow light cutting across the disheveled sanctuary. She
stumbled down the stairs into the basement, searching for a dark
corner, some place to hide, to wait at least until Zach passed.
Would he bring Weedeman and Olson? She pushed her back against a
wall, hidden from the front steps behind an open door.

Moments passed. Her heart collided against
her ribs. She rubbed both legs, sore with running and the
contractions. The front door of the church clicked shut.

“
Courtneeeey?” Zach called
from above, his voice muted and indistinct.

Another contraction hit, waves of pain
swallowing her abdomen. Courtney pressed even harder against the
wall, holding her breath.

“
There’s nowhere to go. I
poked a nice gash in all four tires.” Zach’s steps thundered across
the sanctuary above, a line of moaning wood following in his wake.
With each uneven footfall, a sprinkle of dust trickled from the
basement ceiling. Her eyes followed the trail of dust showers
across the basement. He was limping.

“
You got me good. I’m
bleeding, babe. Probably cracked a rib.” The footfalls stopped.
“Downstairs?”

The contraction lessened.
She exhaled. He was at the back of the church.
Downstairs? A second set of stairs?
She glanced behind her, across the near black basement hall.
Two dark doorways stood open.
A second set
of stairs
.

Before she could think her feet carried her
up the stairway to the front landing. She peered into the empty
sanctuary. She looked outside. How far could she go on foot with
the contractions?

“
Courtneeeey.” His voice
rose from the basement.

The choir loft. She scurried up the second
flight of stairs. The old wood groaned and protested under her
weight. In the loft she found two overturned pews, a broken bench,
and remnants of a pipe organ. She needed a weapon, anything. The
bench was too heavy. She grasped one of the remaining pipes—it was
firmly set.

His steps thudded against the entryway
below.

Courtney pressed behind the open door. As
she did, her eyes found something she could use as a club leaning
against the back of one pew: an old crucifix, the cross snapped
with one arm missing. It was at least two feet long.

“
Courtneeeey. C’mon…we can
have other babies.” He was halfway up the stairs. “This one will
feed the earth…we can be together…”

On cue, another contraction captured all her
strength. She pressed a hand into her mouth and bit down, drawing
blood—a warm, metallic taste in her mouth.

He stepped out of the stairwell with his
face turned away from the door. The side of his shirt was dark and
heavy with blood. He favored his right foot—a sprained ankle—as he
moved to the front of the loft.

“
Where are you?” he
growled, surveying the sanctuary from above.

The contraction evaporated. Courtney
swallowed her breath and summoned all her remaining strength. She
crept a few steps from her hiding place, snatched the crucifix,
held it aloft like a bat, and rushed toward Zach before he could
turn around. His head cocked slightly, but jerked downward as the
wooden artifact splintered across the back of his skull. With a
howl of pain, he lurched forward, nearly tumbling from the railing.
The knife fell from his hand and clattered to the floor below.
Blinded with the ache in her womb and sheer terror of the moment,
Courtney charged again with the remnants of her weapon, using it as
a lance. The wood caught him in the small of the back, and he
toppled over, landing in the sanctuary below with a wet thud.

She tossed the broken crucifix to the floor
and caught herself on the railing. Another contraction rose from
her belly. They were coming quicker now. She peeked over the edge
at Zach’s body, broken against the scattered pews, arms splayed at
awkward angles. She swallowed her breath and slid to the floor with
her back pressed against the railing.

Footfalls sounded from the stairs. Her eyes
flickered as Weedeman and Olson pressed close to her. The last
thing she heard was Olson’s voice as he said, “my god, the baby. We
have to get her to a hospital.”

When Courtney opened her
eyes again, she was alone in a hospital bed. She shivered her body
suddenly cold. The room was quiet, dim, the shade of twilight lying
across everything like a thin shroud. Her stomach was dead—she
touched the bulge in her belly, but the baby was gone.
Gone
. With trembling
effort, she rolled off the side of the mattress and staggered
toward the door.

“
Honey, you should be in
bed.” A plump nurse caught Courtney’s arms.

Courtney studied the woman’s hands—pink and
healthy looking. She was safe. “My baby?”

“
Yes…I suppose a little
visit wouldn’t hurt.” The nurse smiled. “We have him in the
nursery—while you were out, we were keeping an eye on him. The
doctor was a little worried about his color...”

“
Color?” Courtney
shook.

“
Just a little pale, but
he’s fine.” The nurse helped Courtney to her bed and returned with
a wheeled basinet. She lifted the swaddled infant into Courtney’s
arms. “Here you are sweetie. I’ll check on you in a minute.” She
stopped at the door. “Oh, and you have a visitor.”

Courtney nodded without thinking. He was
hers, she knew. But the skin—his skin was grey, almost
translucent—like all of them, the cursed in Broughton’s Hollow. Her
arms shook. “No…no…no…”

“
Yes. I’m afraid
so.”

Courtney bristled at the voice. Mr. Weedeman
stood in the doorway, looking even more ashen than usual in the
artificial light.

“
He belongs to us. We
buried his father in the hollow field.”

“
No,” Courtney began to
sob.

“
Zach’s blood made a pact
with the land. A little sacrifice. The baby belongs to us. The baby
will stay with us.”

3: Tesoro’s Magic Bullet

Tesoro comes home with a bullet on a chain
around his neck. Not just any bullet, but the bullet, the one that
the doctors pried from his ribcage, the one that should have killed
him, only it didn’t. It didn’t even look like a bullet anymore.
Now, it is a lump of lead, a misshapen mass of grey metal in a
small bag dangling above the Marine Corps tattoo on his chest.

“
It’s a magic bullet,” he
tells his little brother the first night. As he does, his breath
reeks of stale blood like the stains on their father’s work clothes
after a shift at the meatpacking plant. Saul turns away.

Despite the smell, the ashen hue in Tesoro’s
cheek, they are brothers. Saul basks in Tesoro’s machismo and wants
to be a Marine one day.

On the mornings after Tesoro’s late nights,
Saul sleeps late and skips school. In Garden City, a place of pork
and beef processors surrounded by Kansas plains, no one notices, no
one wonders about another Latino kid missing school. The teachers
lose count of their shifting student body, and Saul becomes less
than a number. He sleeps late those mornings. He sleeps easier
because the sun is up, warming his bed through the open window. Bad
dreams hide during the daylight, so Saul sleeps a black sleep with
no dreams.

It happened like this:

Tesoro was on foot patrol in Baghdad. A car
exploded, bright flames pushing the sky. The other Marines tensed,
took cover. Tesoro didn’t move, watching a woman stream from the
flames with a tail of smoke. She screamed louder than the bellow of
the burning wreck, and the sound solidified his flesh just long
enough. Too long. When the bullet broke through his chest, tearing
cloth and skin and bone, his ears lost everything: the screaming
woman, his sergeant’s barking voice, the fire, and the crunch of
his body on the rocky dust. His ears lost everything except the
snap of that bullet, the sound coming after it cut into his
body.

A moment later, return fire from the Marines
sounded distant, like firecrackers under metal cans. The blue sky
lay across his dying eyes like a shroud.

In the evenings, after all but Tesoro dine
together at the table, their father listens to an AM radio station
that broadcasts the news in Spanish. He sits in his chair, worn and
tired; lines like wrinkled leather punctuate his face. His finger
taps against his lips as he listens.