Part I
Damn, I hate it out here. Hot and dry in the daytime; colder than a block of ice at night. But I guess it won't be long before Mitch and I say adios to this lovely hellhole on Earth.
We kneel in the sandy ground and I am watching a sliver of pink-red slash across the horizon; the last dying glow of day. Nine o'clock is the magic hour, or so said the old man up in the mountains when he said we have to go. We killed his old lady and his grown son, so I guess he had the right. We didn't know it was his land; he showed us the paper afterwards. It was deeded to him in 1879, all legal like, by the good old U. S. Government. And we didn't know we were digging up his ancestors; we thought we were just doing survey work for the new rail spur. The old woman and her son attacked us with an axe and an old Army saber. We had to shoot them, or they would have killed us for sure.
A few minutes later the old man came upon us from the rear and stuck a rifle in my back.
Gave us a parting drink, the old fellow did. With hate in his eyes and a knowing grin. The stuff tasted like melted shoe polish, and it did something to us, inside, and in our heads. But we had to drink it. He pointed his rifle at our crotches and said, "Drink all or I take your manhood." We drank. Then he sent us on our way, on foot, telling us what we had to do come sunset, and after. We couldn't help but obey him.
Part II
Now it's cooling off a bit. We've turned the pointed edges of the knives he gave us inward, toward our naked bellies.
"Can you fight off the urge to do this?" I asked Mitch, who knelt facing me.
"Don't think I'm not trying. But no can do."
"Me, either."
"It's the drink he gave us that's making us do this," Mitch said. "That and the old man's curse. I'm scared, Jack. Never thought I'd be afraid of dying when the time came. But I am. Oh God, oh Jesus, I am so afraid I can't stand it."
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The slashing pink-red glow of day winks out, and the darkness falls. We look up at the cold, frozen faces of the stars, and shiver. We can almost hear the old man's voice again:
"When the hawk flies over, you will fall forward onto the knives."
There it is, up against the stars. The hawk is coming; it must be near nine o'clock.
Mitch is crying, sobbing, begging for help, saying his mother's name. So am I. I'm struggling against the damn knife, but my hands, my arms are rigid and refuse to obey. I don't so much fear dying; it's the fear of knowing that I am going to die in the next moment or two that scares hell out of me . . .
The hawk is soaring downward, falling toward the earth. And now Mitch and I are falling too, toward the knives . . .