Horror Business by Ryan Craig Bradford

afternoon is hot and Hilborn is dressed in his underclothes and knee-garters that hold up his black socks. From where we are standing, we can’t hear what he’s telling the officer, but his arms wave above his head.
    “I don’t know,” Steve finally responds, transfixed on the spectacle. “Oh wait.”
    “What’s up?”
    “I overheard some girls in the hall, maybe it was Shelly English? But yeah, anyway”—he licks his lips—“I think she was saying something about Hilborn saying something to her about her being pretty or something.”
    “What?”
    “I don’t know, but you know how it is. Especially now.”
    I do know how it is. I think of the neon flyers.
    Shelly English. Hilborn makes some comment at her. She tells her parents. They call the sheriff. This is how I imagine what happened.
    Steve and I stare from across the street as Hilborn flails his arms and calls the officers “assholes.” The deputies grab him by the arms and shove him against his door. We hear the old man’s pained groan from where we stand. The sheriff leans in close and jabs his finger into Hilborn’s chest, accentuating each whispered word. Bullies , I think, and then imagine Colt in a police uniform.
    The trio eases off Hilborn, who slumps against his door, relieved from the pressure. The sheriff whistles and motions for the others to follow. They obey and leave the scene. Hilborn sends them off with his middle finger. He sees us looking at him from across the street. He shakes his head. One of his garters comes loose and the sock falls down. We continue on our way home.

The Cemetery
     
     
    My dad never drinks when my mom’s around, but now he’s buying beer and whiskey. There’s already one empty bottle of rye in the recycle bin. He doesn’t even keep the booze out of reach—just puts it right next to the cereal. So easy to steal.
    My original plan was to pour the alcohol into a water bottle, but there is already a noticeable amount missing. Instead, I shove the entire bottle into my backpack. Dad snores from the living room, and I write him a small note, even though I doubt he’ll even see it before I get back.
    Sleeping over at Steve’s house. Be back in the morning.
    I meet Steve an hour earlier than the girls are supposed to arrive. We help ourselves to the booze. A couple shots in and Steve can’t stop talking about boobs.
    Ally and Megan arrive on time. The alcohol makes us flirtatious, which even Megan seems to find charming. I think she likes Steve by the way she laughs harder at his jokes.
    I don’t offer the girls any of our whiskey, still unsure of how that will play out. I put on my backpack, loaded with the alcohol, chips, chocolate bars, and trail mix that Steve added. We travel by bike. We leave our anxious town behind.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    Our cemetery rests high in the mountains that surround Silver Creek. I don’t know too much about the history, but most of the headstones are old; the most-recent deaths being in the 1960s.
    From our town to the cemetery, it’s about thirty minutes by car. Because the road is so windy it never gets steep, making it easy for us to bike. It usually takes me an hour and a half to ride it, but I figure having the girls with us adds an extra hour. The inappropriate amount of effort Megan has put into her outfit—heavy make-up and revealing shirt—gives me the impression that she’s not much of an athlete, and Steve keeps getting distracted by her cleavage.
    The sun dwindles. I want to get up the mountain before nightfall. The road up to the cemetery is unlit and could be dangerous at night. Dangerous and frightening.
    We travel fast like witches, our bikes kicking up dead leaves. The dying-summer wind rustles Ally’s black hair. None of us wear helmets, and the alcohol makes my steering carefree and sloppy. A fast-moving car honks, nearly knocking me off my bike. I give it the finger. Even Megan laughs. It feels really good not to be scared.
    The end of the main