Page 111 of Silas

A fragment of time is frozen behind my eyes: the man’s head jerking backward, blood spraying out behind him; the heavy thud of his body hitting the floor, instantly lifeless.

I vomit again, but I’ve got nothing left to bring up. I choke, cough, and rock back onto my butt, wiping at my mouth and nose with the back of my wrist. I spit to the side.

Breathe.

Breathe.

I can’t stay here.

Trees line the road, huge old oaks stretching their ancient arms over the road in a curving tunnel of whispering leaves. Their dense trunks are twice the width of two people, with only blackness beyond.

An owl hoots.

The truck motor grumbles steadily.

“Buck. Come in. This is HQ. Come in, Buck.” The voice squawks from the CB in the cab, staticky and distant.

I recognize the voice—it’s my father.

I hem and hawk to clear bile and mucus from my throat, and spit a wet gob off to the side; I’m perversely proud of how crude and unladylike it was. I scramble to my feet, dust off my hands and then my backside, and brush my palms on my thighs.

“I’m okay,” I tell myself out loud. “I am Naomi, and I am no man’s victim.” I repeat my words from before, feeling a bolt of something hot and hard spreading from my spine to my belly: strength, and pride. That spine of steel Silas told me I possessed.

“I am Naomi, and I am no man’s victim,” I repeat it again, louder.

The owl hoots in response.

“Buck. You there? Over. This is Bud. Come in, Buck.”

I climb up into the truck, leaving the door ajar so the overhead lamp stays on, allowing me to see. I find the CB and grab the handset, bring it to my mouth, but hesitate before pressing the button.

What do I say?

I opt for deception, first. “Yeah. What.” I pitch my voice as low as it can go, trying to make it growly and throaty. It sounds stupid and obvious to my ears.

“Is that how you talk to your C-O, Buck? You oughta fuckin’ know better.” His ire is thick across the line. “Now. Report. The fucker is dead and you’ve got my daughter, right?”

“Yes sir.”

Silence.

“Who is this? This ain’t Buck.”

Game’s up already. “Which one was Buck?” I ask, in my voice.

“Naomi? That you?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

Silence again.

“How’d you get the radio, girl?”

“Which one of those men was Buck?” I repeat my question.

“Big one—big belly, big beard.”

“He’s dead,” I say, proud of the cool calm in my own voice. “I shot him in the head.”