Page 64 of Together We Rot

My late grandfather plunges a hand in his son’s chest, ripping a seed right out of my uncle’s rib cage. It’s a small brown husk with a body the size of a wood tick. He brandishes it between his fingers before turning to me.

My parents hold their infant still as he carves a crescent in the skin. Blood trickles from the cut, but as soon as the seed is buried in my chest, the wound smooths over.

My fingers brush the same scar on my chest.

“Rejoice,” my grandfather calls out to my parents and the rest of the curious woods. Last time I saw him, I was six and he was dead. Cold in the casket; my father’s knuckles the same unearthly white as he dropped the first handful of dirt. “The next cycle has begun. We are seeds in the wind.”

The scene flashes out of being, my consciousness violently thrown back into my body, head slamming onto the hard dirt wall. Fuzzy spots swim in my vision, white flickers of light as my skull pounds.

I look down at the scar on my chest, my breath hissing in my lungs. The skin’s grown translucent and a seed is wedged in place of my heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

WIL

“I don’t think we need a crossbow.”

“Are you sure?” Kevin asks, and I’m secretly relieved to have both him and Ronnie here. The fifteen minutes spent waiting for them to show up didn’t result in a screaming match or anything, but it was... awkward. Lucas and I spent the time walking on eggshells and making small talk, neither one wanting to ruin the shaky alliance we have with one another. Thank God for Kevin and Ronnie diffusing some of that tension.

Lucas’s living room is spacious enough, but none of us are here to get comfortable. We skip the La-Z-Boy and the plush couch in favor of the cold, hard floor. With all three of us here, Lucas doesn’t waste time dragging out all of his dad’s hunting gear. It’s like a miniature Cabela’s.

Kevin digs his hands out from his coat pockets and I see he’s wearing useless fingerless gloves. Beneath his jacket, he’s got a tie-dyed St. Ignace Mystery Spot shirt tucked into his jeans. He continues with a slight smirk, “We don’t want to be the only ones there without one. You don’t bring a knife to a crossbow fight.”

I stare into the case. “Can’t say I’ve ever been in a crossbow fight.”

“Well, I can tell you there weren’t any knives there.”

I always found his humor annoying in class, but it’s growing on me now. My coping strategy might be screaming into a pillow or punching a mattress, but his—no matter how obvious of a strategy it is—is strangely soothing after staring into the Morguewood alone.

“We can’t point something like that at my mom.” Meanwhile, Ronnie doesn’t know what coping means.

She’s been steadily losing her mind with every passing second, and I can’t say I blame her.

Lucas tries to place a soothing palm over her shoulder, but she lurches away from him. He tucks the offensive hand in the depths of his pocket. “We don’t know if she’s all talk. Your mom might try to seriously hurt us. It’s better to be prepared in case she comes swinging. You can always use it as a bat or a shield, too. She’s sturdy. Dad’s had her in the family for a while.”

“The crossbow? Is that the elusive woman you’re referring to?” Kevin asks. Lucas flashes his TV-anchor-white teeth. “Yeah, Bessie.”

Ronnie huffs but relents. She can never stay upset with him. He’s got his Crest Whitestrips spell on her. Magic or not, though, she’s insistent on one thing, “You can bring it, but I don’t want to see it in my mom’s face. Got it? At your hip only.” Her eyes dart to the notification on her phone. “Wil, your dad is desperate. He’s messaging me now.”

“Later. Ignore it.”

In an effort to actually be useful for once, I turn toward the TV stand behind me and riffle through one of its junk drawers in hopes of a pen and paper. After some deep rummaging, I salvage an old takeout menu from Iron Mountain and a half-dried-out Bic. The edges of the paper are creased, and it’s been stained yellow from God knows what, but the back is clear, and that’s good enough for me.

I smooth it out as best I can, and once it’s primarily wrinkle-free, I begin to sketch. Some hazy pen strokes later and I push the paper forward with a sheepish flick of my wrist.

It’s crudely hand-drawn but a map nonetheless. Trees circle the town on all sides and I’ve made inkblot imitations of the family motel, the police station, and every little nook and cranny in Pine Point.

“The church is my best guess.” I shrug, letting the pen roll out of my hand onto the linoleum floor. I’ve scribbled in a large splotch to represent it. Imposing and dark and nearly stolen by the woods. “Though he could be in Clarke’s basement for all I know.”

Kevin squints at my doodle. “Would it be that easy? They know we were at the church already. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know it might be a trap.”

“I doubt they’re having the sacrifice at Earl’s,” I quip, if only because I don’t want to outwardly admit I didn’t think things through. I’m more of a “plunge ahead, consequences be damned” sort of girl.

Of course, saying that gives me a horrific new visual. One where the monthly meat raffle at Earl’s takes a much darker turn. The roulette wheel won’t be staring down a table’s worth of steaks and pork chops but Elwood tied to a spit and everyone vying for a piece of him.

“Well.” I cough. “Where do you think he’d be?”

“Aren’t you the one who stalked them twenty-four seven? You should know their haunts.”

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