Page 22 of Scythe & Sparrow
Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we take a right turn onto a side road. Then another turn onto an uneven surface, as though the road is rarely used and difficult to traverse. Eric hums along to a song on the radio, seemingly unbothered by the terrain, or his shitty-as-fuck attitude, or anything at all, really. At least, until a phone rings.
Myphone.
Van Halen. “Somebody Get Me a Doctor.” I know Fionn’s name and face will be lighting up the screen. I scramble to silence the phone, but it slips from my pocket and drops between the rungs of my crutches, hitting the footwell with a damning thump.
“What thefuck,” Eric screeches as the vehicle swerves on the uneven road.
It’s now or never.
I toss the blanket aside as I burst from my hiding place, my shining new blade clutched tight in my fist.
“Ta-da, motherfucker.”
PUSH TO SHOVE
Rose
Eric screeches an octave higher than I thought possible, his eyes wide as they connect with mine in the rearview mirror. The truck careens off the road and into a field, and before he can figure out what to tackle first, I take my chance. I punch the point of my blade into the side of his neck andpush. The sharpened steel slides into his flesh to the sound of his startled, liquid cry, and then I whip it back out in a rush of blood.
A garbled, choking cough fills the truck as blood sprays from the wound in pulsing bursts, coatingeverything. The windows. The seats. The hand he holds to the gaping wound.Me.
My stomach heaves and I puke on the smelly old blanket.
“Holy shit, that is so fucking gross,” I hiss as I shove the blanket aside. Eric is squirming in his seat but growing weaker with every moment that passes, his gurgling breaths shallow and labored. The truck rolls on through the field but it’s slowing down, bumping along through the prairie grass at a pace that’s not much faster thana walk. Eric is still gulping for air as I look through the blood-spattered windshield to get my bearings.
In the distance, there are more fields of long grasses, their tips bleached by the summer sun. Just beyond the front bumper is a shallow, washed-out thread of dry sand that must form a little creek in heavy rains. And in between?
A steep drop into a river.
Fuck.
“Gotta run,” I say as I sheathe my blade and open the rear driver’s side door, tossing one of my crutches into the grass. Eric gurgles and I struggle to swallow another wave of nausea when our eyes meet in the rearview. His face is smeared with blood, his skin pale. His half-lidded eyes are pleading. “Don’t look at me like that,” I snarl. “You know you’re a piece of shit.”
Eric slumps forward against the steering wheel and the truck keeps bumbling along. I toss my knife and my other crutch out the door, pocket my now silent phone, and jump out, landing in the grass with an aching thud. I roll over to watch as the truck nears the drop-off, veering into the sandy trail of the dried creek bed.
The vehicle slows. And it slows some more.No no no, get in the river.But the front wheels slide to the side, mere feet from the drop-off. The truck sinks into the sand. And then stops moving forward altogether.
The engine still runs and country music drones from the open door, the man in the driver’s seat motionless.
“Fuck.”
I grab my knife first, because one can never be too careful, of course, and more important, I just paid a shit ton of money forthis thing and it’s already proved itself worth every penny. It takes a minute to figure out the position of the straps, but I manage to harness it against my back. Then I gather my crutches and hobble to the truck to figure out what to do.
When I open the door, the scent of hot blood and piss and shit smacks me in the face. I undo Eric’s seat belt and shove him toward the center console until his bloodied torso and floppy arms drop toward the passenger seat.
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for this,” I admit as I haul myself onto the rail and use my crutch to press down on the accelerator. The wheels spin and drop deeper into the sand. I try shifting the truck into reverse, but that doesn’t get me anywhere either. My phone rings on my seventh attempt to free the vehicle, when the realization has crept in that I am well and trulyfucked. I cut the engine and brace myself in the hope that my gut feeling is right about the good doctor being not-so-good, even though I have nothing to go on lately that my instincts are in any way reliable. “Hi, Dr. Kane.”
A warm chuckle flows through the line. “You’ve been living at my house for a week. Fionn is fine.”
“Right. Fionn …”
“What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”
I squint out across the ravine that’s just a few short feet away, yet feels unreachable. “I’m in a bit of a quandary. I got the jump on a fleabag townie and it kind of … backfired.”
There’s a pause. “You … what …?”
“Got the jump. On a townie. He was a fleabag.”
