PART EIGHTEEN
(Published in 1999)
The Indian never knew what hit him. I put two in his chest so fast that he only had time to fall down. Then I roll out the door and come up around to the back of the Cad. Warpaint is off and running towards the Charger with my money sack clutched under his arm like the Christmas turkey. I steady the gun with both hands, squeeze away and put some lead in his back, about halfway up. He jerks and falls forward and the bag flies up in the air, bills scattering everywhere, flapping in the wind.
I’m in the ditch, frantically stuffing bills back in the sack when I hear the other two coming out of the woods, shouting and arguing. I run over and crouch behind the derelict Charger.
“Did you hit him, fucker?” shouts one voice.
“Don’t call me fucker, you little asshole,” yells the other. “Of course I got him. Even though you were the one let him get away.”
“He slipped out of my hands like he wasn’t there anymore. And then I couldn’t see for a second. Fucking weird. If you hit him, why isn’t he on the ground in there?”
They stop dead in their tracks as they come upon the two bodies and the occasional snowbound Treasury note. I jump up and cut loose. I hit the one with the rifle and he goes down screaming and writhing; crawling and dragging himself toward the ditch. He doesn’t make it; bullets travel faster than flesh. The other prick is moving fast down the road. I do the same, in the opposite direction.
It’s the name game.
A little later, I notice how cold I am. Terrible cold. Terrible wet. Teeth chattering. Heavy duty shivers. Toes stinging.
Got to keep moving and thumping. My eyes sting so bad I can’t look into the wind anymore so I have to walk backwards. It’s hard to breath there’s so much snow in the air. Where’s Roy? No one drives by. I know this is a good thing—given the carnage on the road behind me—but still I crave for the sight of headlights or maybe someone on a snowmobile. Those things must be all over up here….
I don’t have a clue how long I’ve been out here. I am crawling on my hands and knees, now, head bent down to the ground in the slushy, heavy snow. My knees sting terribly and my toes are numb. Am thankful for the wool socks I bought at Holiday station. Sometimes I try and stand up, but the weight of it all pushes me back down. The only money left is what I could stuff in my jacket and pants, the bag long since jettisoned. I think the cash keeps me warmer, but it seems so heavy. I realize I can’t go any farther without a rest, so I sit down and wrap myself up in a ball on the side of the road, my back turned to the wind. I’m so sleepy… maybe if I close my eyes for a while…. Where’s Roy?
I jerk back awake to a fierce growling that’s coming from another world. But then it’s the same world and there’s a great big wolf standing about six feet in front of me. Blood and bits of blue cloth are stuck to the sides of his toothy snout. A beautiful creature, coat full and gray, almost white.
“Go away or I’ll kill you,” I say weakly, reaching for the pistol. Something in the animals posture makes me stop. He growls some more, showing his impressive teeth.
“FUCK YOUUUUUGHHH!!!!” I scream, fear stoking the last bits of adrenaline I have left.
Seems like it almost laughs at me, then trots on by. Up the side of the road and gone into the forest.
Something gets me up and moving and it isn’t too long before I’m walking downhill and I can actually see a few yards ahead through the blow. I’m getting near the lake, on the final downgrade. I’m feeling giddy, home free, almost warm. But there’s ice on the legs of my jeans and my ears are on fire and I haven’t felt my feet in a while, now.
The closer I get to the lake, the number I become. I keep on moving. No sign of an automobile anywhere. I’m walking upright now, my hands over my face, pinching and twisting the flesh in an attempt to get the blood flowing. The road is just as impassible down here, but the snow is slushier and the pelting from the black sky is wetter. Every inch of me is soaked, except under the leather jacket. It’s funny, because I’m getting hot underneath there. My thin leather gloves have soaked through long ago. I’m praying to whatever god or spirit or deity that might listen. And what about Roy? He’ll probably be right along, in the Cadillac, all warm and dry, some good tunes pumping out of the radio; not that fucking “Name Game” shit. Shiver, Shiver, bo pivver, banana pana fo fivver… ah, Jesus. I regret the day I ever met that crazy fucker. He’ll be the death of me yet. Ha Ha. You like that? Be the death of me yet. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha.
(To be continued)
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