Refraction | Part 1 | Darwin's Steroids
13) Chuck Hits the Road Part Deuce
I am a fucking mess. I'm super fucking thirsty to begin with. The old hand-er-ooski ain't feelin too good. In fact it feels like it is wrapped in a bag of molten lava. Heavy and terrible. I managed to stop the bleeding a few hours back, and my shoulder wound is superficial so fuck it, it'll heal. I found some pieces of asphalt stuck in my right shin that must have been blown there off the road by Dead-Eye Dick of the newly broken spine, exploded face, and vulture picked guts scattered around back there on the highway. I am wishing I had a cigarette, which is odd because I've never been a smoker, but it somehow seems appropriate to my situation, which I have begun to think of as a cowboy movie. This is not good, because I am not a cowboy, and this sort of thinking might imply the onset of delirium due to a combination of blood loss, dehydration, and getting my goddamn pinky blown off by Mr. My-Glock-fucked-my-wife-then-shot-me-in-my-face. This last thought makes me laugh again, and lifts my spirits a little. It croaks out of my throat, and I can hear my tongue clicking on the roof of my mouth. Smack, smack, smack. It sounds terrible. I am really, really fucking thirsty.
It's cold and I'm wishing I had a jacket, or a blanket, or a poncho like that one cowboy in all those old, flat films from the end of the last century. I still have the Glock, but no holster, and I think about trying to rig one with my belt, because it would look pretty good. A holster and a cigarette. And a fucking bad ass poncho. I think the sun is starting to come up behind me, which throws me off because I am walking east. The sound of an ancient gasoline engine drifts toward me and the light on the horizon lifts and splits into two headlights. Someone is driving at me. After me? I have no way of knowing. No time to rig a holster, fuck. I spin on my heel and begin running up the road. I make it about ten steps and I trip. I just go down. I am a bigger fucking mess than I thought I was. I am thinking maybe my spurs got tangled in something when I hit the road. With my face. I feel and hear the ridge of my nose crush against the pavement. I groan and it comes out sounding worse than my laugh. I try to lift myself up off the ground but I can't, the combo shoulder wound on one side and missing finger on the other make for lousy push up technique. I sort of roll over and my shoulder wound opens up and starts bleeding again. I lay on the road and wait for the headlights to approach.
I've un-holstered my six shooter, but I've kept it hidden under my poncho. I'm enjoying a smoke as the horses clatter up next to me, the lanterns swaying from their tack. A man as big and old as the hills dismounts his rust colored beast and walks over to me. I can just make out the sparks in the center of his deep set eyes. His skin is as wrinkled and brown as old leather. I take him to be injun. He drags me around to the back of his cart and heaves me in a bit at a time. I lay there next to an old dog with one eye. It seems content so I guess I am too. Goddamn but I'm thirsty.
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