Wesley, whimpering and sobbing, scrambled to his feet.
I still had his ax.
He didn’t come for it, though. He started to run, in a lurching jog, toward the jungle.
Thelma yelled, “Run! Run! Go!”
She followed him tike some sort of rear guard, twisting and turning to keep her eyes on us.
I used the ax handle to push against the sand and keep myself steady as I got to my feet. When I was up, I glanced at the others. Billie lay on her back, holding her face and moaning. Kimberly, curled on her side, made wheezy sounds as she tried to breathe.
Connie was now dashing toward us, a spear in one hand. She must’ve decided to join the fray when she saw Thelma slam her mother in the face.
She was still too far away to do a lot of good.
None of the three gals on my team was in any position to stop Wesley’s escape.
It’d be me or nobody.
I’m not exactly a hero-type, but I sure as hell didn’t like the idea of letting him get away. So I hefted the ax with both hands and went after him.
I would’ve caught him, too.
And hacked him to death, probably.
But Thelma, guarding his rear, turned on me and blocked my way. I should’ve gone through her. That’s just what I would’ve tried, if she’d been a guy. But instead, I cut to the right and tried to dodge past her side. She leaped and got in the way again. Head up, arms out, hunched over at the waist, she looked like some kind of butch sports-fiend determined to stop me from scoring.
“Get out of the way!” I yelled in her face.
I dodged to the left, but she sprang in front of me again. “No no no no no,” she said. “You think you’re getting him? No no no. Think again, shithead.”
Meanwhile, Wesley had almost made it to the jungle.
I’d wanted to nail him while he was still on the beach, but the chance for that was gone.
“Get out of the way or I’ll chop you down!” I shouted.
“Like fun.” Suddenly, she dropped her arms and stood up straight, her eyes wide with alarm at something going on behind me. “NO!” she yelled.
I whirled around.
Connie, in mid-stride, launched her spear. Its long, pole shaft soared through the night high above our heads.
I think they call such a throw, in football, a “hail Mary.”
It flew over us and kept on going like a Tomahawk missile homing in on the naked, pale bade of Wesley as he lurched closer and closer to the darkness.
Thelma yelled, “Wesley! Look out!” She bolted after him.
Wesley twisted sideways and looked back. He stumbled. He fell sprawling. A moment later, the spear zipped down and planted itself in the sand—probably ten feet to his right.
Behind me, Connie yelled, “Fuck!”
I glanced back at her. She had quit running—must’ve thought the spear would take care of business. She looked disgusted and punched at the air with her fist.
I spotted Wesley again, just in time to see him vanish into the jungle.
Thelma was chasing him.
“Wait up!” she called out, and waved a thick arm. “Wait! Wesley! I’m coming with you!”
A couple of seconds later, she was gone, too.
Battered Angels
Nobody went in after Thelma and Wesley.
Would’ve been too dangerous, for one thing.
For another, our ambush had turned into a disaster. We were stunned, disappointed, angry, confused—and injured.
Mostly thanks to Thelma.
After the end of the mess, we stood around together on the moonlit beach where it had happened. I had the ax resting on my shoulder. Billie, hands on hips (and breasts back inside her bikini), frowned toward the jungle. Connie was bent over, hands on knees, still trying to catch her breath after racing almost to the edge of the jungle to retrieve the spear she’d thrown at Wesley. Kimberly shook her head and shut the blade of her Swiss Army knife.
We must’ve all been thinking about Thelma.
“How could she do it?” Kimberly said.
Billie made a snorty sound. “She loves the guy.”
“But he killed Dad. My God! Her own father! I can see how she might not turn on him for a little thing like killing my husband, but he murdered Dad.”
“Oh, her dear Wesley wouldn’t do that,” Connie said. “The dumb bitch.”
“She knows he did it,” Billie said. “She might not be a genius, but she’s not that stupid.”
“I think she just went nuts,” I said. “All this stuff the past few days—and then seeing her father get whacked this morning—it unhinged her.”
“You might be right,” Billie said. “This sure wasn’t the behavior of a rational person, tonight.”
“We knew she might cause trouble,” I reminded everyone. “That’s why we didn’t let her in on the plan.”
“Never thought she’d do something like this,” Kimberly muttered. “Jesus H. Christ.” She tucked the knife down inside her bikini pants. “We should’ve tied her up.”
“Thought she was asleep,” I said.
“Well. Nothing we can do about it now.”
“Let’s go on back to the fire,” Billie suggested.
So we turned our backs to the jungle. We walked side by side, me with the ax on my shoulder, all of us battered (me the only one bloody). We must’ve been a sight to see—if anyone was watching.
Charlie’s Angels and the Tin Woodsman.
All messed up and nowhere to go.
Or whatever.
I’m starting to lose it. I’ve been writing for hours, trying to get down all of last night’s events in this journal. My hand is turning into a claw—my mind into mush. Anyway, I’ve got to finish about last night.
Before something else happens.
If I let the journal fall behind, I might have real trouble catching up.
On second thoughts, I’m going to take a break.
Hello, I’m back. Took a nice swim, then sat around with the gals for a while.
Maybe it was a mistake, but I finally admitted that I’m keeping a journal. I’d been telling everyone, before, that I
was working on a series of short stories. But it was finally time to trust them with the truth. I mean, there’s only three of them, now.
I wanted them to know about it. To know I’m not just fooling around while I’m sitting by myself for hours. To know there’s a record of our ordeal being kept. (Maybe it’ll be important for them to know that, at some point. Especially if something happens to me. Yuck. Made me feel squeamish, writing that little line.) We had quite a long talk about the journal. They wanted to know what I’ve written about them (which made me sweat big-time), but I explained that I wouldn’t be able to write truthfully if I had to worry about pleasing an audience. Finally, they promised to respect my privacy and make no attempts to sneak a peek.
They’d better stick to their promises, or there will be some mighty embarrassed and angry people on this beach. (I couldn’t stand to face any of these gals, knowing they’re aware of certain things I’ve written about them.)
