Minutes to Burn

Chapter 17

Ramon stirred in the night, feeling oddly uneasy. It had been hard adjusting to living on a deserted island, just he and Floreana. He had caught himself talking to one of his cows again today, and though he had laughed it off, it was increasingly difficult to deny that it was very lonely on Sangre de Dios.

He rolled over on the mattress, resting his hand on his wife's rounded belly. The bloque de hormigon walls of the small house were slightly aglow with the embers from the fireplace. He lay on his back, staring at the soft orange tint of the ceiling for a few minutes, counting the cracks and trying to wipe the feeling of discomfort from his mind. The cut on his index finger had healed, leaving a smooth strip of a scar.

Floreana murmured something in her sleep, her hand moving to rest atop his, though she didn't wake. He leaned over and kissed her softly on her temple, damp with sweat. It used to be cooler up in the highlands, but ever since the large hurricanes that damaged the skies, it had grown hotter, even in the night. He still made fires, but only for cooking and light.

Ramon stood and crossed to the sink, his feet bare on the dirt floor. The door rattled slightly in the wind, loose against the frame. He doused a towel under the spigot and returned to his wife's side, lying beside her and gently wiping her forehead. The feeling of unease returned, and finally he sat up in bed, staring around the small room. The fire was dwindling now, but a few stubborn coals persisted, staring out at him like demon eyes.

He looked at the small stack of firewood in the corner, the ax leaning on its side, the humble wooden table, the black hole of the window. Something caught his eye in the window-a tiny glowing point, one of the embers reflected back into the house.

His breath caught in his throat, but he let it out evenly, not wanting to make a sound. He felt blood go to his face in a rush. There should have been nothing outside that window, only an open field.

Beside him, Floreana nuzzled into her pillow, and the pinpoint reflection shifted slightly, as if whatever was out there had tracked her move-ment. Ramon's mind ran back through the countless stories he'd heard over the past few months, and he pictured the tall, thin creature he'd seen that night in the garua.

He fought the darkness, straining his eyes to distinguish the outline of the thing in the window. He'd never believed in monsters, not even as a child, but right now in the night, his beliefs seemed far away.

The last ember died, and Ramon waited for the darkness to ease all through the room. His eyes adjusted, and he saw it just barely-a large triangular head, tilted slightly to one side. The ember had been reflected back in one large, glassy eye, an eye that now seemed riveted on him and his sleeping wife. Ramon held his breath, praying his wife would not stir. He shifted his eyes to the ax in the corner, careful not to turn his head, gauging its distance from the bed. He looked back at the window, losing himself in the liquid black eye.

The thing turned its head slightly, taking in the room in a long, slow sweep, then pulled back, fading into the darkness.

Ramon waited a moment, then let his breath out sharply. He ran a hand across his chest and it came away slick with sweat. Beside him, his wife rolled to her side, facing away from him. He leaned over and kissed her softly between the shoulder blades with trembling lips.

He lay quietly for a few minutes, but every time he almost drifted off, he'd snap to, his eyes on the window. Finally, he rose and retrieved the ax from its recline in the corner.

He fell asleep with the blunt edge of the ax head pressed against his cheek.