The Dead Run by Adam Mansbach

boss.”
    â€œRight there.” Galvan pointed. “You guys don’t see that?”
    â€œIt’s not smoke,” said Britannica, at Galvan’s side. “You’re watching his spirit leave. And no, we can’t see it.” He nodded meaningfully at the box affixed to Galvan’s back. “The . . . message has many effects on the Messenger.”
    Galvan couldn’t tear his eyes off the smoke. It was gathering into a ball now, some fifteen feet above the ground, like yarn gathered by an invisible hand. “That so,” he muttered.
    â€œReality may grow blurred. You’re straddling several planes at once. The physical. The ephemeral. And the demonic.”
    â€œI got something right here you can straddle, Padre,” Payaso called, grabbing his crotch. “Hey, gringo, we gonna move or stand here waiting for the vultures?”
    Galvan forced himself to look away. “Payaso’s right. Let’s get going. Two rules. Don’t drink too much, and don’t drink too little. We’re gonna be out here a long time. And another thing.”
    He walked over to Payaso. “Cut the gringo shit. I’m half Mexican and another quarter Ecuadorian, okay, homes? Just happened to be born on the other side of the border. Me entiendes?”
    â€œYeah, sure, whatever.” Payaso raised a fist. “La Raza unida, homes. Aztlán forever.”
    Despite everything, Galvan had to laugh.
    The baling wire extracted a stiff price for that. He winced, the mirth evaporating.
    Gutierrez caught ahold of the joke, grinning through his busted lips. “Want me to break his jaw?” he asked, throwing Payaso in a headlock.
    â€œAsk me again in half an hour.”
    They trudged in silence for at least that long, the high sun crisping their skin and casting midget shadows on the sand.
    Too hot to talk. Too hot to think.
    That was probably for the best.
    Galvan and Britannica fell into the lead. Payaso labored behind them, and Gutierrez brought up the rear—not because he was the slowest, Galvan knew, but because he wanted to keep an eye on everything and everybody. Picking him was starting to feel like the best decision Galvan had ever made. Not that there was a whole lotta competition in that field.
    Suddenly, a chill ran through Galvan, and he pulled up short.
    Britannica stopped on a dime. “What is it?”
    â€œNothing. I don’t know. I just felt . . . cold, for a second.”
    The others were beside him now, too, Payaso hipping his hands at the holdup and Gutierrez turning in a slow circle, eyes peeled for signs of danger.
    Britannica didn’t look surprised. “Something probably happened here, in the past. Or the future. A death, most likely.”
    â€œIf you say so, Padre. Gutierrez, kill Payaso.”
    The big man’s face darkened. “Boss?”
    â€œI’m joking.”
    Payaso launched a bullet of spit through the gap in his front teeth. “Look who’s a fuckin’ comedian.”
    A flurry of motion at the corner of his eye caught Galvan’s attention. He whirled toward it and found himself facing a high bluff with a scraggly beard of scrub brush clinging to the ridge.
    â€œTell me you guys saw that.”
    â€œHere we go again,” from Payaso. “Whatchu see this time, man? Obi-Wan fuckin’ Kenobi?”
    â€œI thought I saw a kid, up there. A little boy. Watching us.” Galvan shaded his eyes. “That make any sense to you, Padre?”
    Britannica stared up at the bluff. “Anything’s possible.”
    â€œYeah,” said Payaso, “if you’re hallucinating. Most guys in the desert, they think they see water. You must really like little boys, huh, Galvan? That what got you locked up?”
    Galvan ignored him. Kept on staring at the spot.
    â€œThere!” They all saw him this time: a Mexican kid, maybe ten years old, shaggy-haired, with ragged clothes. He peered