“Same river?” Truman asked.
Will turned toward him. Boy that guy could be a downer. How pessimistic could one person be? But Will supposed he had to cut them both some slack. It didn’t look easy, being dead. Both Truman and Lucy always appeared to be in some pain: when they moved or spoke, it seemed like physical discomfort, but even when they sat around, they looked anguished or worn out, like they couldn’t be bothered with doing or feeling any more. Besides that, Will knew Truman worked hard to calm Lucy and get her to behave better. It was terrible to think, but without Truman to keep her in line, Will really didn’t know whether they would’ve had to put her down. Again, it was hard to tell with her.
Will hadn’t considered Truman’s question, but he needed to feel optimistic right now and wasn’t going to let Truman get in the way of that. “Well, I don’t think they can transmit too far,” Will ventured. “It’s got to be this river. We’ll sail until it gets dark, and I bet we’ll have seen them by then! It’ll be fine!”
Will made a move to take the wheel, then reconsidered. He’d run up here so fast, he hadn’t locked the door to Rachel’s cabin. “You keep steering another minute, Truman,” he said. “I’ll be right back. And you keep listening to the radio, Lucy.”
Again, the nod and teeth from her.
Will dropped down the companionway and went to check on Rachel, who was still asleep, snarled up in the sheets. She looked awful, so much so that he paused a moment to make sure he’d seen her breathing, before leaning over her. He untangled her burning, slippery body and draped the sheet more neatly over her. She had to make it now. They were too close for this not to work.
“Just a little longer,” Will whispered as he slipped out of the cabin and locked the hatch.
As he turned to go back up, Lucy was only a few feet away, staring at him. Shit, she could be fast and quiet sometimes. Will reflexively gasped and had the Magnum halfway out of its holster without thinking.
Lucy stopped, and her eye drifted down to the gun, then back up. No teeth this time. Just a stare. Eyebrow arched over that gorgeous blue circle, which looked listless, maybe a bit hurt.
Will was embarrassed and tried to hide the fact that he’d almost drawn a weapon on her, but what the hell did Lucy expect, sneaking around? It wasn’t fair if she felt distrusted and ill-treated, if she wasn’t going to behave, if she almost did her best to frighten everyone. He thought they should put a damn bell on her.
Lucy slid to the side and sat at the table in the middle of the main cabin. She had the radio with her, though it was turned off at the moment. “Send Truman down,” she said slowly, then drew in another rasping breath so she could say more. “We’ll stay inside. Strangers might not like seeing us.”
Will was further embarrassed at how hard it was not to shiver when Lucy said too many “S” sounds in a row. He just couldn’t help it. But then, neither could she, he thought, as he stepped toward the companionway. Lucy turned the radio back on, though she kept it low.
“Oh, okay,” Will said. “I guess that’s a good idea.” He paused. “Um, sorry about that. It was my fault.”
Lucy looked down at the floor. “Thank you,” she said very quietly.
If it had been Truman he’d offended, Will might’ve patted him on the shoulder at this point. But Lucy—well, no.
Will ascended back to the deck and sent Truman down as Lucy had asked, then he stood at the wheel. The wind felt good for the first time in days, lifting his thoughts toward how soon Rachel would recover, how soon he’d hear her laugh again, see her incredible body swimming in the river, smell her, taste her. All that was finally a certainty again, and not a memory slipping away. The increasingly loud thunder didn’t slow such thoughts, either.
Lucy watched as Truman shuffled over and sat across the table from her. The radio sat between them, playing music softly enough that they could just hear it. Truman looked confused, almost annoyed. Not that he ever looked really annoyed. He didn’t have it in him, she thought. That was a nice way for him to be, most of the time, but tonight she feared it might be a problem later on. Being annoyed kept you on your guard, and Truman was seldom on his guard as much as he should be.
“You want me down here?” he said after a moment.
Lucy nodded. Talking still took too much concentration and effort.
“Why?” Truman persisted.
Lucy paused. How to put it to Truman? It was hard to explain things to him sometimes, things that seemed quite obvious to her. “If he finds people, I don’t want them to see us.”
Truman frowned. “No. We’ll be all right. They’ll understand.”
Lucy leaned across the table and put her forefinger against Truman’s forehead, then gave a little push. “Use your head. You know people. You know how they treat us.” Still pointing at Truman, she shaped her hand into a gun and snapped the thumb down like the hammer of a revolver. “Bang.” The “G” sound at the end hung up at the back of her throat and sounded funny, like she was choking. Fuck, she hated when he made her explain ugly things to him.
“No. They’re not all like that. Some are nice, like Will and Rachel. Please. Trust them.”
Lucy’s anger flared. She’d appreciated Will’s apology, but when Truman said to trust them now, sounding like a beaten, defeated creature eager to placate someone you just couldn’t please, it enraged her all over again. Didn’t he know how hard she tried to trust them? But then they went and did something like Will had just done, nearly killing her just because she didn’t moan like one of those brain-dead hulks out in the wild and let him know where she was all the time. How did it get to be her job to let him know what she was up to? She wasn’t a child. How was that fair? How did that deserve her trust?
“He n—n—n...” She pulled her right hand back and clenched it tightly. God, it almost physically hurt to stammer like such a moron. She longed for the time before, when she’d just point and grunt. The frustration made her shake, and she inhaled slowly to try again, using a word she could pronounce. “He
almost
had his gun out. Just now.”
“Oh.” They paused. “It was a mistake. It happens.”
“Yes. And when it happens—you and me will be dead, not them. That’s what they do. They’re good at it. You know it.”
Truman looked down and fidgeted. “Maybe not.”
Lucy shook her head. “Maybe…” She paused, because she couldn’t think of the word. Damn it. She clenched her left fist this time. “Maybe something will fly out of my ass, Truman. Don’t be stupid.”
He looked up at her. From anyone else, the look of pity would’ve sent her flying into a murderous rage, and she’d be across the table and tearing his throat out. But with him it felt—okay for Lucy to let him show that for her. It meant he wanted her to feel good, to feel hope, so she didn’t get so angry with him over it. But he needed to learn, too, or all his hopefulness would get him hurt. She unclenched her fist as she put her other hand on his.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Just stay here with me. It’s better.”
“Okay,” Truman said. Then, after a second, “Monkeys.”
“Huh?” Lucy said, wishing she had tried for “what?” instead, because it sounded less like a moan.
“You meant to say ‘monkeys’ before.” He smiled that awful smile of his—crooked with lots of cracked and missing teeth.
Real laughter was beyond either of them, but Lucy had taken to making a huffing sound on the rare occasions when she felt like expressing amusement. “Oh,” she said, and gave her sort of laugh. “You’re funny. How do you remember so much?”
His smile was gone as he turned his hand over to grasp hers. “Not so much. Not enough.”
Lucy squeezed his hand. So much more than she could remember, and still not enough? But he was right. That was just how it was with them. “I know,” she said. “Me too.”
She withdrew her hand and they sat. The voice on the radio, when it interrupted the music, came from a different man than before, and he didn’t have any more useful information, as far as Lucy could tell. Just more talk about concerts and where there’d be construction and various stores having sales.
After a while, Truman took up a book from the table and started to read. He had many books, lying in all different places around the boat. Lucy couldn’t read, and even when he’d tell her the titles, they were incomprehensible; truthfully, they seemed a bit worse than just indecipherable, sounding as though they contained something ugly or dangerous. She noticed neither of the living people bothered with Truman’s literature, either, so it wasn’t just her slowness and forgetfulness that made Lucy uninterested in the books, she decided. But they made Truman happy, and that was what mattered.
She tried to think of a better plan than just hiding below deck. She wanted to find a way out of the mess she thought Will was getting them into. Lucy felt bad that Rachel was in pain. As she sat there, several times she heard the girl moan and bang her knee or elbow on the bulkhead, and her heart went out to her. But Lucy wasn’t totally convinced that trying to find a doctor or medicine was the best solution. It certainly wasn’t the only one.
Why not let things go naturally? No one had considered that, and of course, no one had asked her. The pain would end on its own, as it did for everyone. It would start up again in her new existence, Lucy knew that well enough. But as she sat there thinking, she got more disturbed that this wasn’t really about stopping Rachel’s pain—it was about keeping her alive. And what was so important about that, really? Will was going to get Truman and her killed so Rachel could live? More of his terrible, heartless unfairness.
The sound of the radio receded as Lucy’s mind raced over these ideas. So what made life so much better than death? It’d be different if she and Truman were going to sacrifice themselves so the other two wouldn’t be killed completely. That’d still be unfair, since no one had consulted them, but at least it would be a balanced, even trade. But that wasn’t the situation at all. She and Truman were going to be destroyed so that those two could get on with their precious lives, rather than one of them existing the way she and Truman had for years. Why did that chubby little girl have to keep on breathing? Why did people want that so badly, even people who seemed nice and unselfish much of the time?
“Her fault,” Lucy whispered, without really thinking about it. Strangely, the words came out clearer than when she concentrated on them.
She was staring past Truman at the door of Rachel’s cabin, thinking of how this would end so much better for everyone if the girl died before they found more wicked, violent people. It wasn’t even that Lucy thought of killing Rachel, exactly. She knew how awful that would be, what a betrayal, and how disappointed and repulsed Truman would be if he knew she even thought such a thing. She was just trying to work it out in her mind, the true value of Rachel’s warm breath, the heat of her blood, the wetness of all her flesh. How did it add up to more than her and Truman? What could Rachel do that they couldn’t? How would she be so deficient if she were like them? Was it just the screwing? Lucy knew how the parts were supposed to fit together, though she had no specific memory of how it felt—only vague impressions that it was a very pleasant thing, but as brief as it was sweet. No, she didn’t want to die so those two could screw some more.
Truman distracted her by standing up and slamming his book down on the table. Lucy looked up at him. He glared at her—or the closest his gentle features came to a glare. She hoped he knew her well enough to see she hadn’t been thinking of hurting Rachel, but his look said he knew her thoughts had been heading down familiar tracks of frustration, rage, and blame. His look was quite unfamiliar, as though he would not tolerate such thoughts. Lucy rather liked seeing that in his face, as much as it startled her.
“Nothing’s her fault,” Truman said quietly but firmly.
Lucy considered him a moment. “Why do you get so, so…” Again she couldn’t think of the word, so she made a gesture with her hand, lifting it palm up, then lowering it in front of Truman. “Like this? Over her? Why?”
Truman sat back down, still staring at her, though his look was softer. He took her hands in his. “Because she’s our friend. She needs us,” he said.
Lucy nodded. All right. It wasn’t the girl’s greater value, it was her greater need. That made some sense. And it was good to see Truman finally getting worked up. It’d give both of them a better chance, if ever there were trouble.
“I like her, too,” Lucy said. “Both of them. I just don’t always understand them. And I need you too, you know.”
“I know.”
“So if there are bad people out there, promise you’ll do what I say. Promise. What I say, not what Will says. I promise to help her, however I can, but now you promise to listen to me.”
He looked into her eye and didn’t pause for too long. “I promise,” he said.
Lucy got up and walked around the table, holding on to it as she did so, for the ship was rocking more and more. The storm must’ve arrived. She sat next to Truman, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Too much talk,” she said. “I need rest.”
Lucy closed her eyes. She was denied sleep, as always, so she just sat there, thinking, though the thoughts were calmer now. Truman was right not to blame Rachel. Everyone had to hold on to whatever amount of life they had left in them, and they had a right to expect their friends to help them do so. Lucy felt more at peace now that she’d stopped thinking how she and Truman might die, focusing instead on how they might get to kill some bad people who tried to hurt them.