“If we survived this night, we can survive anything.”
She looked at him. “Together?”
“Together.”
Fran closed her eyes, rested her head against Josh’s shoulder, and, for the first time since her husband died, allowed herself to hope.
Taylor opened his eyes. He was still in the tube, and his head was killing him. The last thing he remembered was that bitch, Fran, dropping a rock on his face. Taylor reached up to feel the damage.
Except his arm didn’t work.
He tried his other arm and had identical results. He tried to turn around, but his legs, his toes, his ass: everything below his neck refused to move.
She’d paralyzed him. The bitch had paralyzed him.
Rage came first. Then panic. Then rage again. Then depression.
Minutes passed. Hours. The sun came up.
Taylor stared up at the sky, tears streaking down his face, and waited for those military assholes to find him. They’d help. After all, they were all on the same side. Maybe this wasn’t a permanent injury. Maybe something was just out of place. They could fix him. They could fix him and he’d track down that bitch and—
The coyote stopped a few yards away. Lean and gray, eyes intent. It stared at Taylor and sniffed the air.
“Get the fuck away from me!” he yelled.
The animal stayed where it was. Watching. Waiting.
A moment later, another one joined it.
Taylor shook his head and snarled. He shouted. He swore.
The two became three. Then four. The one who arrived first, the original one, came closer. So close that Taylor could smell his musky fur, his meaty breath. The coyote paused, then licked Taylor’s bloody cheek.
“Get away!”
It bit his shirt and began to pull. Two others joined in, jerking and tugging him out of the tube, dragging him to the dry creek bed.
They started on his fingers.
Taylor screamed and screamed and screamed for help. He screamed until his throat bled.
No help came.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jack Kilborn prefers not to share personal details about his life. He could be living anywhere. Possibly near you. Visit him at www.JackKilborn.com.
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JACK KILBORN
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Available Winter 2010
Sara Randhurst felt her stomach roll starboard as the boat yawed port, and she put both hands on the railing and took a big gulp of fresh, lake air. She wasn’t anywhere near Cindy’s level of discomfort— that poor girl had been heaving nonstop since they left land—but she was a long way from feeling her best.
Sara closed her eyes, bending her knees slightly to absorb some of the pitch and roll. The nausea reminded Sara of her honeymoon. She and Martin had booked a Caribbean cruise, and their first full day as a married couple found both of them vomiting veal piccata and wedding cake into the Pacific. Lake Huron was smaller than the ocean, the wave crests not as high and troughs not as low. But they came faster and choppier, which made it almost as bad.
Sara opened her eyes, searching for Martin. The only one on deck was Cindy Welp, still perched over the railing. Sara approached the teen on wobbly footing, then rubbed her back. Cindy’s blond hair looked perpetually greasy, and her eyes were sunken and her skin colorless; more a trait of her addiction to meth than the seasickness.
“How are you doing?” Sara asked.
Cindy wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Better. I don’t think there’s anything left in me.”
Cindy proved herself a liar a moment later, pulling away and retching once again. Sara gave her one last reassuring pat, then padded her way carefully up to the bow. The charter boat looked deceptively smaller before they’d gotten on. But there was a lot of space onboard; both a foredeck and an aft deck, a raised bow, plus two levels below boasting six rooms. Though they’d been sailing for more than two hours, Sara had only run into four of their eight-person party. Martin wasn’t one of them. It was almost like he was hiding.
Which, she supposed, he had reason to do.
A swell slapped the boat sideways, spritzing Sara with water. It tasted clean, just like the air. A gull cried out overhead, a wide white M against the shocking blue of sky. Sara squinted west, toward the sun. It was getting low over the lake, turning the clouds pink and orange, hinting at a spectacular sunset to come. A month ago, when she and Martin had planned this trip, staring at such a sun would have made her feel alive and loved. Watching it now made Sara sad. A final bow before the curtain closes for good.
Sara continued to move forward, her gym shoes slippery, and the warm summer breeze already drying the spray on her face. At the prow, Sara saw Tom Gransee, bending down like he was trying to touch the water rushing beneath them.
“Tom! Back in the boat, please.”
Tom spun around, saw Sara, and grinned. Then he took three quick steps and skidded across the wet deck like a skateboarder. Tom’s medication didn’t quite control his ADHD, and the teenager was constantly in motion. He even twitched when he slept.
“No running!” Sara called after him, but he was already on the other side of the cabin, heading below.
Sara peeked at the sun once more, retied the flapping floral print shirttails across her flat belly, and headed after Tom.
As she descended the tight staircase, the mechanical roar of the engine overtook the calm sound of the waves. The captain was the ninth person on the boat, and Sara hadn’t seen him lately either. Her only meeting with him was during their brief but intense negotiation when they arrived at the dock. He was a short, grizzled old man, tanned and wrinkled, and he fought with Martin about their destination, insisting on taking them someplace closer than Rock Island. He only relented after they agreed to bring a radio along, in case of emergencies.
Sara wondered where the captain was now. She assumed he was on the bridge, but didn’t know where to find it. Maybe Martin was with him. Sara wasn’t sure if her desire to speak with Martin was to console him or persuade him. Perhaps both. Or maybe they could simply spend a few moments together without talking. Sara could remember when silence between them was a healthy thing.
A skinny door flew open, and Meadowlark Purcell burst out. Meadow had a pink scar across the bridge of his flattened nose, a disfigurement from when he was
“Hey, Sara. I be you, I wouldn’t go in there for a while.” He fanned his palm in front of his nose.
“I’m looking for Martin. Seen him?”
Meadow shook his head. “I be hangin’ with Laneesha and Tyrone, playin’ cards. We gonna be there soon?”
“Captain said two and a half hours, and we’re getting near that point.”
“True dat?”
“Yes.”
“Cool.”
