24.
We walked, and we walked, and we walked until the pain in my leg had receded into a dull numbness, requiring me to shift it forward step by step using both my arms. It must have been hours before I grew so tired and weak that I collapsed onto the ground.
"Get up, dick," Grod said, "We're almost to the highway."
"You said that forty minutes ago," I complained.
"And now we're forty minutes closer. Now let's go," he said.
I made a feeble attempt to get up, then collapsed again. "You let them shoot me in the leg!"
Grod stomped down on the wound with his foot. "Dammit Paul, we're in the middle of the desert. You can walk, or you can stay here and fight the vultures." We were silent a moment, glaring at each other across the heat waves rising up from the desert. Finally I had to sigh and haul myself to my feet again. Grod didn't help me up. The pain in my leg had receded, probably lost in the increasing pain in the rest of my body, but getting up and putting weight on it again was definitely unpleasant. Grod marched on, and I trudged miserably after him.
I wanted to ask him what the fuck had just happened, or where we were really going. But more than that, I didn't want to talk to him at all until we got to some kind of city where I could tell him I quit.
It didn't make me feel any better, but soon after our little quarrel we reached the empty highway. Grod glared at me, and then walked out into the middle of the road to stand. After a minute or so of waiting a buzzing sound came from the horizon and an old, beat-up pickup truck appeared in the distance. Grod shouldered his shotgun toward the vehicle. As it rattled closer, taking on form through the atmospheric haze, he tightened his grip and fired. The report of the shotgun was echoed by a sharp popping noise as one of the truck's tires exploded into long strips of rubber. The vehicle swerved, then began to slow and move to the side of the road. Grod lowered his gun and stood motionless as the truck rolled to a stop a dozen feet away in the soft gravel shoulder. He stayed that way for a second, as I looked back and forth at the truck and him, not sure what was going on or maybe not sure I believed what was going on. Then Grod broke his stiff pose, put on a large smile and walked over to the driver's side of the truck. I followed out of habit.
When I reached the pickup truck, the driver had leaned out the window to take a look at the man in the bathrobe who had disabled his vehicle.
"Looks like you've got a tire out," Grod said helpfully to him.
The Mexican scratched his head and watched nonchalantly as Grod approached. He just stared as Grod waltzed up to him grinning. Grod looked into the vehicle and his smirk turned to surprise. Grod dove to the side as shards of metal and glass blew out from the driver's door. The driver shifted more of his body out of the window, now revealing his own shotgun.
Grod looked toward me desperately for a moment as the man sighted him in. I hesitated; did I really want to help Grod, now? Grod was reaching for his shotgun, but the Mexican man's finger was already on the trigger. "Stop!" I yelled. The trigger was released, slowly, and the shotgun lowered. For a moment I thought I had succeeded. But suddenly the shotgun was pointed at me. I waited for the Mexican to say something, then realized how stupid that was and dove onto the blacktop as the man fired. The cloud of pellets whistled past and I rolled over to see him break open his gun and reach somewhere out of view inside the truck.
Before the driver reappeared, a blur of white accompanied by a roaring engine came down the road faster than lightning and tried to occupy the same space as the pickup truck. The truck responded by accelerating forward, ejecting the driver twenty feet in the air, then flipping several times. The driver hit the ground with a satisfying thump.
After the truck stopped rolling, Grod and I tore our gazes from it to look at the new arrival. Its front end was visibly damaged, but it had somehow survived the impact mostly in one piece. It was some kind of old American sedan, with rust lining the wheel arches. It also had possibly the dirtiest white paint job I had ever seen, with most of the bottom half of the car indistinguishable under layers of mud and dust. On the doors, painted in large black lettering apparently done freehand, was "policía".
Grod was reaching for the door handle when the door sprung open by itself and allowed a fat man dressed in a ragged police uniform to roll out of the driver's seat onto the roadway. I stepped back involuntarily, then drew in again to examine the sprawling body.
"Is he dead?" I asked Grod tentatively. Grod grabbed the man under his shoulders and tried to lift him up.
"No," he said, coughing, apparently at the man's smell. "Just dead drunk."
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"Get up, dick," Grod said, "We're almost to the highway."
"You said that forty minutes ago," I complained.
"And now we're forty minutes closer. Now let's go," he said.
I made a feeble attempt to get up, then collapsed again. "You let them shoot me in the leg!"
Grod stomped down on the wound with his foot. "Dammit Paul, we're in the middle of the desert. You can walk, or you can stay here and fight the vultures." We were silent a moment, glaring at each other across the heat waves rising up from the desert. Finally I had to sigh and haul myself to my feet again. Grod didn't help me up. The pain in my leg had receded, probably lost in the increasing pain in the rest of my body, but getting up and putting weight on it again was definitely unpleasant. Grod marched on, and I trudged miserably after him.
I wanted to ask him what the fuck had just happened, or where we were really going. But more than that, I didn't want to talk to him at all until we got to some kind of city where I could tell him I quit.
It didn't make me feel any better, but soon after our little quarrel we reached the empty highway. Grod glared at me, and then walked out into the middle of the road to stand. After a minute or so of waiting a buzzing sound came from the horizon and an old, beat-up pickup truck appeared in the distance. Grod shouldered his shotgun toward the vehicle. As it rattled closer, taking on form through the atmospheric haze, he tightened his grip and fired. The report of the shotgun was echoed by a sharp popping noise as one of the truck's tires exploded into long strips of rubber. The vehicle swerved, then began to slow and move to the side of the road. Grod lowered his gun and stood motionless as the truck rolled to a stop a dozen feet away in the soft gravel shoulder. He stayed that way for a second, as I looked back and forth at the truck and him, not sure what was going on or maybe not sure I believed what was going on. Then Grod broke his stiff pose, put on a large smile and walked over to the driver's side of the truck. I followed out of habit.
When I reached the pickup truck, the driver had leaned out the window to take a look at the man in the bathrobe who had disabled his vehicle.
"Looks like you've got a tire out," Grod said helpfully to him.
The Mexican scratched his head and watched nonchalantly as Grod approached. He just stared as Grod waltzed up to him grinning. Grod looked into the vehicle and his smirk turned to surprise. Grod dove to the side as shards of metal and glass blew out from the driver's door. The driver shifted more of his body out of the window, now revealing his own shotgun.
Grod looked toward me desperately for a moment as the man sighted him in. I hesitated; did I really want to help Grod, now? Grod was reaching for his shotgun, but the Mexican man's finger was already on the trigger. "Stop!" I yelled. The trigger was released, slowly, and the shotgun lowered. For a moment I thought I had succeeded. But suddenly the shotgun was pointed at me. I waited for the Mexican to say something, then realized how stupid that was and dove onto the blacktop as the man fired. The cloud of pellets whistled past and I rolled over to see him break open his gun and reach somewhere out of view inside the truck.
Before the driver reappeared, a blur of white accompanied by a roaring engine came down the road faster than lightning and tried to occupy the same space as the pickup truck. The truck responded by accelerating forward, ejecting the driver twenty feet in the air, then flipping several times. The driver hit the ground with a satisfying thump.
After the truck stopped rolling, Grod and I tore our gazes from it to look at the new arrival. Its front end was visibly damaged, but it had somehow survived the impact mostly in one piece. It was some kind of old American sedan, with rust lining the wheel arches. It also had possibly the dirtiest white paint job I had ever seen, with most of the bottom half of the car indistinguishable under layers of mud and dust. On the doors, painted in large black lettering apparently done freehand, was "policía".
Grod was reaching for the door handle when the door sprung open by itself and allowed a fat man dressed in a ragged police uniform to roll out of the driver's seat onto the roadway. I stepped back involuntarily, then drew in again to examine the sprawling body.
"Is he dead?" I asked Grod tentatively. Grod grabbed the man under his shoulders and tried to lift him up.
"No," he said, coughing, apparently at the man's smell. "Just dead drunk."
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© 2006 Ian Blake & Marshall Scott
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