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But more and more Memphis had begun to ask himself if there had ever been order, or if order was one more myth people repeated so they didn’t have to think too much about the violence lurking just under the surface of every polite exchange, every façade of “civilization.” And just whom did “order” serve?
Dawn was sneaking up over the cotton fields. Those first golden stirrings imbued the land with an ethereal beauty. If there were any restless ghosts out there right now, Memphis couldn’t see them. He was the only restless thing as far as he could tell.
“This country is haunted. Don’t let anybody tell you differently,” Coleman said.
As the porters went back to work, Memphis, Henry, and Bill settled into their beds. Exhaustion had found them at last. Memphis could barely keep his eyes open. Already, Henry was snoring.
“Memphis,” Bill said from his side. “This place in Bountiful. The farm Isaiah talked about. I seen it before.”
“You did?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“When?” Memphis said on a yawn.
Bill looked uncomfortable. “When I was taking from the boy.”
Taking. That was one way of putting it. Memphis knew that Bill was a changed man, but thinking about who he’d been before, someone who weakened his brother by stealing power from him, made Memphis angry all over again. He flopped onto his back so he wouldn’t have to look at Bill. “What about it?”
“I saw into Isaiah’s vision. There was a big tree, and dust coming up so thick on the road you couldn’t see through it. There was something inside that dust, though. Something that made my neck go cold. And Isaiah was hollering out a warning.”
Bill was quiet for so long that Memphis was afraid he’d fallen asleep. “What warning?”
“‘Ghosts on the road,’” Bill said.
“What do you think it means?”
Bill shook his head slowly, like he was losing an internal argument. “Cain’t say. Wherever we’re going, though, don’t feel like we’re heading away from the storm but steering into it.”
Memphis couldn’t sleep. Every time he’d get close, he’d see Isaiah, lost in the crowd of Times Square, and he’d startle awake. He narrowed the gap in the curtains to close out the light and lay back down. To soothe Isaiah to sleep, Memphis would tell him a story about two brothers who couldn’t be separated by anything in this world or the next. Now that story felt like a lie. His eyes were getting heavier, each blink a name—Theta. Isaiah. Theta.
A sound pulled Memphis awake, every muscle taut. Bill and Henry were still sleeping, but the train had stopped. Memphis listened. All quiet. He padded barefoot to the door, slid it back, and peeked out. The corridor was dark and empty. Had they slept through till night again? Were they in New Orleans already? Had Nelson forgotten about them?
Memphis wasn’t supposed to leave the compartment and risk being seen, but it felt so still, so strangely quiet, and he was worried. As silently as possible, he crept to the end of the corridor. He paused at the entrance to the dining car. Places were set. White linens draped the tables. The car was completely deserted. Where is everyone? Memphis wondered. And why has the train stopped? At the end of the dining car was an open door leading outside. Moonlight splashed across the steps leading down to the tracks.
“Nelson?” Memphis called.
The steps were cold against Memphis’s bare feet. He dropped from the last one onto the ground, then walked backward, peering up to see into the windows. Not a soul. All around him were cotton fields, their white bulbs like a dusting of snow. Had there been an accident? Was someone hurt? Were there injured people somewhere out there? Memphis left the road and stepped into the fields. The cotton plants were as tall as he was; the rows between them narrow. As Memphis pushed his way through, the branches pricked and poked at him. The night sound of feeding insects was loud. Something landed on Memphis’s shoulde
r. With a yelp, he brushed it away. A bug landed on its back in the dirt, legs circling, a boll weevil. The beetle-like things were everywhere, Memphis saw. They had infested the cotton and were eating it down to nubs. As if sensing him, the insects scuttled down the ruined crop and wriggled fast through the fields, coming together at the end of the claustrophobic row. They crawled toward Memphis in a black-shine wave. Memphis wanted to run but found his feet were stuck fast in the dirt. He glanced behind him. The train seemed a mile away.
The high wail of a trumpet pierced the night. The bugs scattered into the cotton. Far ahead, the tops of the plants swayed violently, then broke with a sickening snap. Something else was coming. Memphis’s blood thumped frantically in his ears. The cotton bent again. Snap. Snap. Snap. The dead were marching through the fields like soldiers.
Memphis pulled at his legs. They wouldn’t budge. The dead were coming. Snap. The trumpet sounded again, and the dead stopped, as if at attention. Hoofbeats shook the ground. A phantom-gray horse galloped forward, and on its back was Gabe. His eyes were a dull black. Embalmer’s thread hung in broken ends from his bloodied lips.
“Brother,” Gabe rasped, making the thread dance. “Heal me. Let me rest.”
The dead growled deep in their throats, a hellish chorus.
“Go on, Memphis,” Gabe said.
“I… can’t…” Memphis whispered.
“Do it! Heal me. Give me final peace. Please.”
Gabe was one of the rotting dead. Gabe had been his best friend. Memphis put a hand to Gabe’s chest and was answered with a sharp electric shock. He cried out and yanked his smoking fingers away.
Gabe laughed and the dead echoed his laughter. “I don’t need your favors, brother. We are powerful now. You’ll see. Soon enough.” Gabe’s voice deepened and warped, as if someone were dragging a finger across the surface of a record to slow it. “How looong will you be aaable to heeeal, brrroootherrr? Howww much powwwer do you reeeally have?”
