coyote husk

Something shifted between them after that. An unspoken understanding. She offered him more jobs, let him tag along for others. Cyrus became a regular in the Delaney home, eating dinner and sometimes crashing in the guest bedroom when he drank too much. Adrian would always make him eggs and toast for his hangover the next day. 

The sun had long since set, turning the plains into inky black on both sides of the road. Not that Cyrus believed in monsters or anything, but sometimes he wondered if anything was running out there in the golden grass, just along the edge of his headlight. A creature with glistening fangs and foul breath that could run faster than any car for hours. Waiting for his inevitable crash when he took a turn too fast. 

“Haven’t you heard about the Dogman,” Sara had teased one summer when they were driving back home after a long day in town. His parents were quietly bickering up front, both of them probably as drunk as a skunk. Cyrus could still remember the cool breeze of the cracked window next to him, venting out the plumes of smoke from his father’s cigarette. “It’s probably him out there right now, waiting to bite your toes and eat your guts!” She pinched his stomach with a growl. 

He’d been so scared then, only comforted when he crawled into her bed later that night. “When did you become such a scaredy cat? Don’t you know I’ll always protect you?” Cyrus could still remember the softness of her body as he began to drift off.

Sometimes he wondered if he'd still be that terrified little boy, trembling in his boots, if Sara hadn’t been around. If she had decided to leave after graduation like she originally planned. College. Career. She’d probably be alive right now. Married to a nice guy with a little boy and girl. It was nice to think of her as a stay-at-home-ma, but she liked to work. Maybe as a teacher or veterinarian. She’d tuck her kids every night, singing them to sleep with her favorite Reba songs. 

Cyrus rubbed his eyes with a heavy sigh. 

The drive didn’t usually feel this long, but tonight the road seemed to go on forever. The hypnotic, flat stretches occasionally broken up by bends. Eventually dipping and rising over lazy hills like a children’s roller coaster ride. Not enough to make Cyrus’ stomach drop, but enough to make his heart flutter when he hit the acceleration a little too hard. 

And he hadn’t even hit the mountains yet.

He reached for the dial, clicking through several stations of static before finally the rumble of a man’s voice broke through. Cryus paused. He gauged the low baritone and twangy guitar before rolling the knob again. Finally, he settled on a rock station. Nothing like a little Pantera to shake the nerves away. His thumbs tapped at the wheel, desperately trying to keep in tempo with the drums. 

He’d meet someone just outside of Great Falls. Sometimes it was a guy named Shawn. Other times, a Marc. Men from Canada with funny accents, though they probably said the same about him. Cyrus was never sure until he pulled into the truck stop. Always a black semi-truck with no markings. He’d parked a few spots away, waiting for a signal from the driver. Pistol loaded and on his hip, he’d hand off several discreet packages and receive money, though sometimes it was the other way around, before heading back home. 

He usually stopped in Billings for the night on his way back. There was a shabby little motel that only charged him half the rate. No doubt, it was Delaney blood that ran the place. After a quick stop at the liquor store, he’d sprawl out on the motel bed, crack open a beer, and watch some pay-per-view. Eventually, he’d pass out with his hand down his pants and socks still on. 

It was just a pool away from being a mini vacation. 

There was still another good hour before the turn off. Cyrus patted at his breast pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes. Maybe the nicotine would drive away the halo of sleepiness that threatened to take hold of him. He shook one free before dumping the bic lighter in his hand. It took a few clicks before a flame finally sparked to life.

Again his mind drifted. Back to Ryker, sobbing into the dirt. He’d never quite understood why the twins looked so different from Adrian. With their tanned skin that was more than sunkissed and dark wavy hair, they stood out next to everyone else. They didn’t even quite look like their father, except for maybe in the eyes. Stormy eyes that reminded Cyrus of the spring. He had heard his sister whispering about it to one of the other ranch hands before. A rumor that Adrian had an affair. Back then, Cyrus didn’t think much of it. If anything, he probably thought the same thing. But now? He can't imagine her ever doing such a thing. 

What Ryker was up to now? Was he sleeping? Or wide awake—writhing around in the hay? Sobbing endlessly and smelling of iron and sweat? Maybe even waiting for Cyrus’ return.

Cyrus shifted in his seat. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Ramming is dick inside that fuckin’ mutt. The noise he made. He’d never fucked a guy before, but it had been—

Well, nothing. It had been nothing. He had been drunk. Desperate, even, to get his rocks off. If he couldn’t have what he wanted, he'd just take it from the first place he could find it. Ryker deserved it, anyway, after all the mouthing off. Lie after lie after lie. He opened his pretty lil lips and nothing but deceit spilled out. At least stuffing a cock in his mouth made him quiet.

Sure, it had felt good, but that didn’t mean nothin’. He had stuck his dick in a lot of things, some more questionable than Ryker Delaney, and that didn’t make nothin’ different. A hole was a hole, his cousin had said once. There was no way Cyrus was a cocksucker because he loved her. 

Acid filled the back of Cyrus’ throat. He turned the music up, desperate to blare out the thoughts. His foot flexed, easing the pedal closer to the floor. He barely even felt the speed as his truck began to ascend a hill. 

Sara.

It always came back to Sara. Sara with the halo around her head. Who’d put bandaids on his scraps and cuts. Who held him when he finally managed to flee from the dark void in the corner of his room that threatened to swallow him whole. Who pulled his ear whenever he got in trouble. Gave him a good scolding before giving him a kiss on the crown of his head. 

Cyrus had loved her.

He loved her, he loved her, he loved her and now she was gone. Her smell. Her clothes. Her makeup. Her jewelry. All the strange little trinkets she’s collected over the years. Chewed up by a fire his mother and father had set. They, too, abandoned Cyrus, most likely running from the very Death that took her. All that he had left to remember her by was the broken necklace that he found in the driveway—a gold cross with tiny copper roses. It had most likely been torn off her the night she died. Cyrus had given it a new home—dangling from the rear view mirror of his truck.  

Sometimes at night, when the thoughts began to creep in, he’d think about that day. Think about how she begged and screamed. Crying for them to stop. The sound would play in a loop, almost like a broken record, in his head. If only he had been stronger or hadn’t been such a royal fuck up, maybe he could have saved her. If he hadn’t fucked around and broke his ankle weeks ago. And then maybe—

Well, maybe it would have been him tearing into her blouse like a feral animal. 

Now Sara was just a rotten corpse. Chewed on by maggots and the like. Feasting away on her flesh in a way Cyrus had only dreamed of. There was probably nothing even left at this point. Just bits of leather skin stretched across old bones. A husk of the beautiful woman she once was.

So Cyrus drank. It didn’t always drown out the thoughts, but at least they’d go quiet for a bit. A case or two of beer could usually do the trick, though sometimes he’d treat himself to a bottle of Jäger. Anything to get him drunk. Get him stupid. The world needed to fade away until the morning light burned its way through his curtains. 

Gravity suddenly began to pull at Cyrus’ gut. He blinked, eyes zeroing in on the neon yellow stuttering down the center of the roads as it tilted down towards the bowels of hell. He hadn’t even realized his foot was lead, crushing the pedal to the floor. Shortly up ahead, a silver railing and reflective arrows glinted at him through the inky void of night. It would only be moments before the inevitable crash. 

“Oh fuck—” 

Cyrus hit the breaks, jerking the wheel. It was almost too much, the back end of his truck fishtailing. He was sure he felt half the truck go into the air, tires squealing on asphalt. His final moments flashed in his mind’s eye as he paralleled the guardrail: truck rolling through the metal barrier and down the grassy hillside. It was a decent drop. At least a good couple yards. He could almost hear the crunching of metal and bone as he became one with the vehicle.

Not such a bad thought if it meant he could be with Sara again. 

The smell of burnt rubber brought Cyrus back to his senses. Nothing moved, not even him. He blinked, staring out into the sudden stillness of the night. Before him laid a straight stretch of road that faded into the black silhouette of the mountains. The engine clicked and glugged, rattled by its brief dance with death. 

Something stung against his right palm. Cyrus pulled his hand away from the wheel, staring down at the cross embedded there. Small beads of blood had bloomed at each point, filling in the little gaps of the rose petals. The chain was broken yet again, digging into one of the lines of his palm. 

When had he even grabbed it? 

The sight shook something in Cyrus—a deep hysterical sob mixed with laughter. He pressed the cross to his lips, the metal still warm from his palm. The taste of iron bled on the tip of his tongue. He could feel her then, hands cupping his temples and kissing his forehead. It almost felt too real to be a memory.