The Farther Shore by Matthew Eck (books for students to read TXT) 📕

shooting her out of pity. I remembered something I’d heard once: Never leave the dying alone long enough to remember what they’ll become.

But then I felt the tug of Cooper’s weight as Santiago and Zeller resumed our rush toward the sunlight.

THREE

WE CARRIED COOPER FOR ABOUT AN HOUR BEFORE WE were overcome by exhaustion. We moved south from the stadium, through a maze of alleys, dead ends, and cul-de-sacs, which made it impossible to keep a pace count or to use landmarks for direction.

We stumbled into the first hotel we came across, but the old man working the counter explained with hand gestures that it wasn’t actually a hotel. The doors all had numbers on them, and several were half-opened and full of watchful eyes, but the man insisted that it wasn’t a hotel. In any case, we would never understand him entirely without a conscious Cooper.

Then a woman who appeared to be the man’s wife appeared, and the two of them began to argue about something incomprehensible. We looked over at a young man who appeared to work there lounging in the corner. He stared out at us from a set of mirrored sunglasses, wearing a smile pitted with the pink of gums and the dark of a few missing teeth.

“Not a hotel,” Santiago said to no one in particular. “Fair enough.” There was hate in his voice, real malice, and he was a horrible man when he lost his temper. The world was quickly slipping away from us. We nodded at the man and his wife and moved off in another direction.

The sun was rising and with it the heat. There were people on the streets, nodding at us indifferently as we passed.

We carried Cooper awkwardly. He stared up at the sky and mumbled vaguely every now and then. The sky was a lush blue, almost unbearable, and the scattered clouds were full and thick. Cooper was getting heavier by the minute, as if everything that was draining out of him was being replaced by something weightier.

At the next hotel we pounded loudly on the door, shouting out for the owner. When he appeared it was obvious that we had woke him, although it was a little late and too hot for sleep. At first he looked at us as if we were figments of his imagination, or perhaps scraps of his dreams that could be shouted back into the street or some receptacle of sleep. Armed and wearing our desert BDUs with the American flags sewn on the right shoulder, we must have made quite a picture. But when he spoke it was in excellent English.

He said cheerfully that he’d gone to Berkeley. Then his mood seemed to darken. He wanted to know how we’d pay. We gently set Cooper on the floor.

“Is he okay?” the owner asked.

“He’ll be fine,” I said. “Do you have a phone?”

He shook his head. “Not for years.”

“Just watch the door,” Santiago said.

I trained my M-16 on the front door, irritated by his tone.

Santiago leaned on the counter and stared at the man. The man smiled back without blinking. The whites of his eyes were yellow, his cheeks fat like a child’s.

Still watching the door, I took a knee on the floor next to Cooper’s body. I told him in a low whisper how his girl and his mother would never forgive him if he died. I told him how he’d made it out before and that he’d make it out again.

“A room,” Santiago said to the owner. “We need a room now.”

The man nodded. “All American?” he asked.

“Hell yeah,” Santiago said. He looked tired, horrible and defeated. “You will be reimbursed by the Army.”

The man looked us over. He was looking for something he could use, some way to gain an advantage.

“Cash,” the man said.

Santiago looked at me and Zeller. We both shook our heads.

“We have dog tags and identification cards,” Santiago said. “I’ll be glad to give you either one to hold for reimbursement.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said.

Santiago raised his hand to shut me up.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to me, giving someone all the information they would need to find you in this world: name, rank, and social security number. They’d even know your height, weight, and the color of your eyes. That would surely be enough to follow you home and find you.

“I need cash,” the man said. “Everyone knows about you by now. I’m taking a risk by even talking to you.”

“What do you mean everyone knows about us?” asked Santiago.

“Word travels fast,” he replied.

“If you tell anyone we’re here I’ll kill you,” Santiago said. “I don’t care anymore. I’ll shoot you in the fucking head.”

“I don’t care enough to tell anyone,” the man said. “People kill each other here all the time.”

Santiago stepped around behind Zeller and opened his rucksack. He took out Zeller’s Walkman and a few cassettes to go with it.

“Gift?” the man asked, stretching his hands out eagerly.

“Gift,” said Santiago.

“What kind of music is this?” the man asked.

“All kinds,” Santiago said. He looked down at the tapes. “Country.”

“Country,” the man said, as if he was trying to remember whether he’d ever heard that kind of music before. “I always like jazz. The Beatles. Chicago. We have music here, but it’s hard to find. And it’s too expensive.”

We asked for a room on the top floor and he gave us a key. He didn’t tell us where to go before he disappeared into a back room, smiling down at the Walkman.

The numbers on the doors appeared to have been torn off or stolen. Zeller and I carried Cooper, trailing along behind Santiago as he tried the key in one lock after another. We’d walk a few steps with his heavy body, let him gently down to the floor, then pick him back up and move a few more steps.

People spoke in hushed voices behind the doors, and often just after we had tried a key in their lock