Twitch and Die!

Ch.11: Cemetery Hill

“Looks empty, doesn’t it?” Chloe sidled up against Chancho and fished beneath the serape for his arm.

Her hands were cold, but the touch sparked his resolve. “Si, vacie pero viviendo.”

“Hmmm?” She raised her eyes.

“Empty but living.” He gestured toward the homes of New York Hill behind them. “Not like these.”

Thurber stretched out below them, a wood and mud version of a modern city. Power lines stretched from side to side, crisscrossing the major intersections. The homes each claimed their own assigned space, giving way to the neighboring homes with grace. None of the calamitous collisions between meandering shotgun shacks, or tent towns sprouting like mushrooms after a rain, typical of boomtowns. None of the disorderly derricks littering every open space like pyres of matchsticks.

Thurber had once been a proud community, given to a singular purpose. But its fidelity had been lost—exchanged for a more basic one. Buildings had been burned. Barriers of debris and shattered shells of automobiles clogged roadways. Power poles had toppled. Smoke billowed from mine shafts that still harbored smoldering coal seams. Thurber had gone to war from within and without. And war was always ultimately about survival.

After a long pause, Chloe nodded. “I think I know what you mean, about the hill. It’s too clean. There’s not even a story of the people left behind.”

Chancho pointed with his chin. “The story is down there, I’m afraid.”

Angelo stooped to pick something up on his way to join them. “It looks like somebody left a piece of the story up a here after all.” He held a shiny casing out to Chancho without taking his eyes off the ground. “There are more over here.”

All three of them lowered their gaze. Soon they’d gathered a few dozen casings, all in various stages of weathering. Countless others dotted the face of the overlook in each direction.

Chancho shook his head. “Only one reason for shooting so many times from one spot.”

“Target practice. Son of a bitch.” Angelo scattered the casings in disgust. “Vezzoni has been thinning de ranks.”

“So people are still living in Thurber.” Chloe gasped.

“People trained not to show themselves during the day, especially not with strangers standing on the bluff.” Chancho turned and headed for the donkeys.

“One question.” Angelo grabbed his arm. “Are those people infected? Or no?”

“Mi amigo, show us the way past the fence. Then if you’re still interested, we will look for the answer together.”

Thirty minutes later, the three of them left the cover of brush and crept toward the least formidable section of Thurber’s perimeter fence—three strands of barbed wire strung across the top of a decaying picket fence. An old cemetery, surviving from before the large scale mining operation, perched on a bluff northeast of town. Cemetery Hill.

During more recent years, the graveyard had spilled gradually and in spurts down a gentle slope facing away from town. Rather than replace the older fence, they’d strung barbed wire across the top. And due to the sacred nature of the plot, the long standing hardwoods had been left unmolested.

Under gray skies and massive branches creaking in the breeze, Chancho momentarily felt the peace of the dead. The final blessing granted to those who’d run the race. Though he didn’t always have the strength, he worried less about his own termination than that of those around him—friend, foe, stranger alike. It’s not time yet to rest.