Blacktop Wasteland(72)

A sharp embankment rose in front of him, dotted with dying pines and sickly cedars. The sound of his own breathing seemed unbelievably loud, like a bellows in an old steel plant. His .45 was heavy against the small of his back. He pulled it and brought it up in his right hand while holding the flashlight aloft with his left.

He heard a crashing and snapping behind him and to the left. That was Ronnie, Kelvin and Reggie. He eyed the embankment again. Could the driver, who was two cheeseburgers away from cardiac arrest, climb such a steep hill in less than two minutes? Normally Beauregard would have said no but fear gave men wings. He started climbing up the embankment. He pushed himself and reached the top of the ridgeline in less than five minutes. He paused and took a deep breath. It came out ragged.

The first few notes of “Born Under a Bad Sign” echoed through the night. They were harsh and sharp, nearly robotic. Someone liked the blues and had the song as a ringtone. Beauregard’s head snapped to the right.

Too late he realized the forest was playing tricks on him. As he turned the driver slammed into him. They landed in a thunderous heap with Beauregard on the bottom. His right wrist cracked against a root or a rock. Pain sprinted up his right arm and he felt his gun slip away. The driver’s bulk crushed him into the ground. Every inhalation was agony. As he grasped blindly for his gun he felt warm metal biting into his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Calmly, almost abstractly, he realized the driver was using his handcuffs to garrote him. Beauregard let go of the flashlight, stopped reaching for the gun and pushed himself and the driver up off the ground. The two of them pitched onto their sides but the driver still held on. Beauregard’s hands scrambled across the driver’s face like a pair of tarantulas. His thumbs found the man’s eyes as his chest began to burn and black spots began to dance in front of his face.

Beauregard jammed both thumbs in the man’s sockets. The driver cried out like a wounded bear. He released his hold on Beau’s neck in an attempt to protect his eyes. Beauregard rolled away from the driver. Taking in huge gulps of air, he scuttled across the forest floor on all fours. He ran his hand over and through the detritus. His gun. He needed his gun.

The beam from his flashlight began to dance across a few trees that were a foot or so in front of him.

Beauregard flipped onto his back just in time to partially block a blow from the driver. He had gripped the flashlight with both hands and was wielding it like a club. Beauregard tucked his legs up to his chest and kicked at the man while using his hands to block his strikes. He had to get to his feet. Forget the gun. On his feet they were literally on a level playing field.

A corona illuminated the man from the back as a volley of shots resounded through the forest. A fine mist of blood and bone chips filled the air between him and the driver. The man started to fall forward. Blood leaked from two wounds in the center of his chest. Beauregard caught the body as it pitched forward, the flashlight falling from his hands. He shoved the driver’s body off to the left and squirmed to the right. His face and neck were dotted with droplets of blood. Ronnie and Kelvin stepped up onto the ridgeline. They were both holding guns. Kelvin was also holding the other flashlight. He stepped over the driver and held out his free hand to Beauregard. Beauregard gripped it and Kelvin pulled him to his feet.

“You alright?” he said.

“Yeah. Most of this is his blood.”

“Man, why did he take off running? Did he think there was a buffet up here?” Kelvin asked. Beauregard shook his head. He felt a smile trying to spread across his face.

“I owe you one,” Beauregard said.

“Nah, we just even now. You owe Ronnie one though. I think he was the one that hit him,” Kelvin said. Beauregard peered over Kelvin’s shoulder. He saw Ronnie looking down at the driver’s body. He was humming a tune that Beauregard didn’t recognize. Beauregard turned his attention back to Kelvin.

“Let’s get back to the van and get loaded up. I want to be back in Virginia by sunup,” Beauregard said. The plan was for him and Kelvin to drive the pickup. Ronnie and Reggie, by virtue of Ronnie getting all of them into this, would have to take the risk of riding in the stolen box truck.

Kelvin was about to respond when his left cheek exploded. Warm fluid splashed across Beauregard’s chest. A sharp pain ripped across his right deltoid as Kelvin crumpled to the ground. Beauregard jumped backwards. It was a move born of instinct more than anything else. He felt himself floating in midair for what seemed like minutes before his body crashed into the western slope of the embankment. He tumbled head over heels as shots rang out from the ridgeline and bullets ricocheted off the desiccated trunks of diseased pine trees. Dirt and twigs and dead leaves found their way down his shirt and into his pants and into his mouth as his body careened down the side of the hill. The world was a swirling kaleidoscope until he flipped one last time. The wide trunk of an old pine tree rushed toward his face then there was just blackness.





TWENTY-SIX



For a moment Beauregard thought he was blind. The world seemed dim and full of shadows. He blinked his eyes and felt something warm and wet running down his face. He sent his left hand on an exploratory mission and touched his face. It was blood. He had blood in his eyes. A wound above his left eye had clotted but his rough fingers opened it again.

He wasn’t blind. It was still dark. Beauregard sat up and immediately regretted it. Vomit raced up his esophagus and out his mouth. He leaned on his left side and let it pour out across the ground. He felt like he was trapped on a merry-go-round.