Sloughing Off the Rot (20 page)

“We need to move, too,” said John, grabbing at Alf the Sacred Burro’s rope and tugging him into action. Alf rose from his sitting position and nudged his scarred, patchy muzzle against John’s leg, giving him a donkey hug. “Those long black clouds coming down over us are the work of Lovethorn. And I suspect things are going to get rough.”

Two-Dogs-Fucking plopped down in the middle of the road. “I don’t feel like going on,” he said. “I’ve lost my motivation again and I don’t expect it to return. Perhaps I’ll just sit here and let the rains wash me away.”

The palm of Santiago’s hand smacked hard at a sensitive place on the back of Two-Dogs-Fucking’s neck. And the force of the smack stung Santiago’s palm. He pulled it back and rubbed his hands together nervously. “Did you not hear the man?” shouted Santiago. “He said it’s time to go. If we sit around here waiting for you to get your shit together, we’ll be here a thousand years more.”

Two-Dogs-Fucking held a hand to the back of his neck and looked up at Santiago stomping around on the ground in front of him.

“Perhaps,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking, “if you just give me a minute to gather myself, I will find the desire to move along with you. Maybe it would help if you just give me a moment.”

“Maybe I find spirit of caveman and thump your ass with a club if you don’t start moving,” yelped Santiago, and he leapt at Two-Dogs-Fucking with a clear intent to inflict damage. Before Santiago landed on the sluggish Melungeon, the large, thick hand of Joad redirected his flight, setting him on the ground several feet to the side of Two-Dogs-Fucking.

Santiago spat at the ground, tugged at his beard, and said, “You big dumb oaf. Let me at him. I’ll give him the sting of the scorpion and the bite of the wolf. He’ll get moving before I’m done with him.”

But Santiago stayed feet away from Two-Dogs-Fucking, only because Joad’s mammoth hand held him back. And with his other hand, Joad grabbed the front of Two-Dogs-Fucking’s bath towel and lifted the plump Melungeon off of the ground, dangling him at the giant’s side. “John asked us to move,” said Joad, his voice low and clear and determined, “and he meant all of us. Understood?”

Two-Dogs-Fucking nodded his plump head, his bearded jowls jiggling in concurrence. Joad set him on his feet and pulled his other hand away from Santiago, who no longer looked ready to attack. “Now I think we all should move,” said Joad. And the men listened. They followed John and Alf the Sacred Burro at a rapid pace, fleeing on the red brick road in a direction away from the oncoming storm. And the crack of thunder and rumble of the churning sky dogged them in the distance, approaching nearer by the minute.

And though they moved rapidly, the storm proved to be faster. When it caught up, plum-sized hail pelted them, knocking them to the ground. Lighting struck the land on both sides of the path. Wind threatened to lift the men from their feet and carry them off to their deaths. They tried to shield their heads and faces from the icy pain of the hail storm. They narrowed their eyes to slits to avoid the sting of the whipping wind.

When it became apparent that the storm would not relent, and that they would eventually be pummeled to death by the enormous hailstones, John stopped. He raised his arms and eyes to the sky and shouted, “Stop! What is this that the sky opens and dumps on us like this? Be done with us, storm. Let us pass in peace.” He spread his arms and the hail stopped pounding his face and head. The storm continued but was divided by a clearing that rose from the red brick road and up to the river of clouds mirroring it. On both sides of the road the storm raged, and the hail and lightning pounded the ground, beating down barrel cacti, bloodwoods, and pinyon pines. A small tornado headed straight for John and the men. But, as it neared, the twister turned and tore up the ground all along the side of the red brick road. All that they felt from the tornado was a light breeze that dried them and speckled their skin with gooseflesh. John and the others were spared the storm’s assault. The light of the sun, diffused by the river of clouds, shone through and tinted the road and everything on it with a rose hue.

And though the storm raged, they were safe from it as long as they kept to the road. So they walked along with the sky venting its spleen to both their left and right. And they did not talk, for the storm roared loudly enough that they could hear nothing else. As the rosy tint of the sun through the river of clouds dimmed, and the river above the road turned to fire, the storm continued to churn and tear up the desert as if it were waiting for them to set foot off of the road. There was no need to set up a protective perimeter; any lunkheads would have been ground into a fine paste by the relentless hailstone assault. So they slept on the road, all but Joad who stood guard the first half of the night, and then John, who took the second shift.

And the next two days and nights were the same – walking all day without talking, and sleeping on the road at night. And the storm continued, even increasing in intensity. But it did not touch John, nor did it deter him, as Lovethorn had hoped. Instead, it strengthened John’s resolve to follow the trail and seek out the Man in Black.

On the fourth morning of the atmospheric onslaught, the storm intensified in one last-ditch fit. Ball lightning dropped from the sky and tore up trees and ground. Fist-sized hailstones pounded every accessible spot. Flash floods rumbled through the desert and wiped out entire communities and species. And still, the storm left the road and all on it unmolested. As they awoke to the red tint of the sun blazing through the river of clouds, John, Joad, Santiago, and Two-Dogs-Fucking watched as the storm relented, and the hail lessened in both size and intensity, until a drizzle of rain spat in disgust at the desert. And then, finally, nothing. The clouds cleared, except for those drifting above El Camino de la Muerte. And the sun shone down on the desert, quickly drying the battered ground. A haze wafted off of the desert floor as the puddles rapidly evaporated. The morning air – cool and clear and perfect for walking – energized the men. After a quick breakfast of jerky, pinyon nuts, and water, they set out on the road again.

As the sun squatted directly over them at midday, the flora of the desert began to look healthier and less battered. And more animals began to appear. Dirt-rats poked their heads out of holes in the ground and chattered at one another. Turkey buzzards roosted in bloodwood trees and the cracks and crags of high cliff walls. Munkle flies flitted about Alf’s face but he ignored them and tore fresh green grickle grass from a spot where he stopped beside the road. Atop a ridge, John saw a silhouette of Three Tooth sitting atop Morticia, hand shading his eyes and staring in John’s direction. Though John could not see his face, he suspected that a tear may be dribbling from Three Tooth’s weepy eye.

Santiago stopped them at one point. “There’s a muffugin’ colony of dirt-rats grooving over there. They wasn’t washed out by the big bath,” said Santiago. He skipped off the side of the path and ran for the holey ground of the dirt-rat colony. Before long, the entire rat colony gathered around Santiago. And he sat still, a beatific look on his face, occasionally scruffing a rat and using the ground to knock the life out of it.

“He’s right,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking. “This area was not hit as bad. Over yon is a bloodwood tree whose roots remain in the ground. And the shade that it’s casting makes my eyelids heavy.” Without further consultation, Two-Dogs-Fucking waddled to the tree and plunked himself down in the shade for what he considered to be a much needed siesta. The tree’s branches and leaves drooped as if exhausted from the storm, but the ripe fruit was not ripped from the limbs and the branches were unmarred by lightning.

And John felt like moving. He felt like plodding on down the trail, working his way to Lovethorn. But even Joad and Alf seemed disinclined to movement for the time. Joad flopped back into a deep, cool puddle on the side of the road and basked in the sunlight that he had not seen for days. “Puddles are nice,” he said. “I like puddles.” He slapped his hands in the water like a toddler enjoying a bath and grinned a dopey, big-toothed grin. He lay back in the water and sat up, shaking the beads of moisture from his thick Afro and returning it to a dry look before dipping his head back into the water. The phrase
happy as a pig in shit
occurred to John as he watched Joad.

Alf plopped his backside in the water beside the giant and bent down to lap up hydration. And the donkey drank with such gusto that he inhaled puddle water and choked, gagging himself and coughing up a bloody bezoar. Joad fished the donkey vomit from the water and flung it to the side. Alf, thankful for the lack of judgment from Joad, rubbed his patchy muzzle against the giant. Without thinking about it, Joad scritched Alf’s head. And the two relaxed in the water with no apparent intent to get back up.

And the realization hit John that his crew needed rest. As bad as he wanted to move on, John realized that he needed Joad and Santiago and maybe even Two-Dogs-Fucking. So he found a level spot of ground beneath the bloodwood tree and lay back, head on his hands, and allowed his mind to drift. And without expecting it, a nap came to John. As he drifted off, the voice of the burning man whispered to him, “The path begot one. One begot two. Two begot three. And the three begot the ten thousand things.”

Two-Dogs-Fucking woke first from the siesta. A weight pressed down on his thick belly. Hands slapped at his plump man-boobs. At first he thought that a gang of libidinous lunkheads were once again dragging him from sleep. Still half asleep, he immediately sprouted an erection under his dirty bath towel and thrust his hips upward toward the warm weight on his belly. His puffy hands reached out to latch on to whomever was atop him.

And then Santiago’s ranting woke the others as he jumped off of Two-Dogs-Fucking. “Don’t thrust that dirty rod at me, brother,” Santiago shouted at the sluggish Melungeon. He stomped around, kicking dirt, and threw a dead dirt-rat at Two-Dogs-Fucking. “I was merely trying to wake you, not arouse your passions, dig? Up now, sluggard, and waste not life. In your grave there will be sleeping enough.”

“You frightened me,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking. He rose to his feet and adjusted the slight protrusion at the front of his bath towel. “I thought I was going to be ravished by lunkheads again.” But instead of fear, disappointment smudged his face.

John and Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro all rose to the sound of Santiago raving. And they saw Two-Dogs-Fucking standing before them and sporting a pathetic erection under his towel. Beside him stood Santiago. Around Santiago’s neck hung a string of dirt-rat skins that he had stripped from rats while the others slept. The meat from the rats, skewered on pointed sticks, cooked over a small fire that Santiago built. So they ate the dirt-rats. With their bellies full and heads rested, the men were ready to walk.

And then they were on the road again. The trail twisted and rose and dipped. Pinyon pines spread their twisted limbs to the sky. Bloodfruit trees stood, strong and healthy, unmarred by any storm. They left the storm-ravaged land behind them and all looked right. Twisting and squirming above, in concert with the red brick road, the river of clouds traced a white zigzag across the otherwise blue sky.

The men, well rested from the siesta, marched with determination. Santiago sang songs about dirt-rats and bigheaded giants, clapping his hands but never keeping good time. And though his voice never quite hit the right notes and his rhythm was off, his songs rang out with the passion of old time spirituals, and put a bounce in the other men’s steps.

Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro pulled up the rear. Joad tried to step in time with Santiago’s songs but the fluctuating beat threw off his already awkward stride. He hummed along with Santiago when he could glean the melody, his deep voice providing a complex bass tone for Santiago to work with and against.

Even Two-Dogs-Fucking kept pace with the others, never once complaining about a lack of motivation or need of a nap. He kept to the road and stayed with the group.

John led the pack, feeling as if he were being drawn forward by some unseen source. He kept his head high and his eyes scanning the land before him. To the sides of the road, natural arches opened in cliff walls and hinted at strange lands to both sides of the road. While he felt curiosity about what lay through those arches and beyond, John stayed true to the path and continued slapping his feet down on the red brick road. Besides curiosity, a rumble in John’s stomach demanded his attention. A hunger for food came on him, but he also felt a hunger lower than his stomach, a need in his loins that had not visited him since he loosed a hoard of jizz-critters outside of the Chelloveck mesa. And John walked faster, trying to ignore the growing desire.