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Mike Donnelly held the gun rock steady. He pointed
it at Benny head, at just above the left eye and squeezed the trigger.
“No. Oh, lord, Agent Donnelly, don't you do
it.”
Jamison burst onto the path. Mike snapped a shot at
Jamison, and Benny kicked the gun from Mike's hands. A spatter of bullets
exploded from the gun and ripped through the trees. The gun tipped down and
rattled into a small slide of rocks ten yards away. A small shower of bark and
twigs followed in the dim silence.
“Jesus Christ,” Mike whispered, “My arm.”
Donnelly grunted with pain and hunched over his arm. Reddish bone splintered
through the pallid skin near the wrist.
Shaking his head, Benny rumbled a groan. “Man, but
I cannot even die right.”
“My . . . my gun.”
“Down the hill.” A shocked Jamison pointed.
“In those rocks, Mr. Donnelly.”
Benny stared at the man, disgust bitter in his guts.
Donnelly was in a bad way. Shock was evident in the waxen face and the
shivers. Mike blinked. He stumbled toward Benny and would have fallen if not
for Benny and Jamison.
He clutched at Benny tee shirt with his left hand.
“Need my gun. For T-Terry Marie. Please?” He
stared into Benny's face, his eyes huge, frightened.
“Forget it. Anybody who goes in those rocks is an
idiot. The snakes, they'll have you before you have it.
Benny scowled at Jamison. Between them they lowered
Mike to the ground.
“You hear much?”
“Hear what?” From Mike’s side, Jamison frowned
at Benny and shrugged. “Just voices.”
Benny grinned in relief.
“And something about his sister having your
baby.” Jamison's frown became censorious, then alarmed as the sunny grin
turned into a threatening scowl.
“Kill him, Benny,” Mike gasped. “Kill him
before he can tell.”
Benny nodded and reached for the old man.
His arms fell, and he turned on Mike.
Mike's agonized voice rose to a shriek. “Do it.
I'm commanding you to do it.”
The scar itched like fifty mosquito bites all in the
same place. Benny squirmed, waiting for the punishment. None came. Benny
hocked and spat into the bushes.
On the verge of running, Jamison paused.
Benny tried again, breath running in and out of his
chest, sweat blinding his eye. He shook his head.
“Can't.” Benny slumped and eyed Jamison's skinny
unshaven neck in a way that made Jamison swallow hard. “He's sacred.”
“What? I thought you loved her. He'll tell Ms
VanTur, Greylov. Kill him.”
“Up yours, Donnelly. I don't do old folks.”
“Shit. You killed the Longs-”
Benny shouted, “I didn't.” He cocked a fist.
“Your people offed them. Old lady Long was family, a cousin to my Grampa
Waya. I'm Wy:O:Ming, you asshole. We do not harm old folks or kids.” Benny
snarled at Mike. "We ain't like you. Why can't you friggin caus get that
through your heads? The ani are different.”
“Fuck that redskin shit. I told you to kill
him.” Mike fumbled for the remote. “Do it,” he said thorough teeth set
against the flaring pain, “Or I'll burn your brains out with this. And then
he gets it anyway, first chance I get.”
At the sight of the remote, Benny stiffened. Mouth
dry with a cringing dog fear, Benny licked his lips and said in a hoarse
mutter, “No matter what, Donnelley, I'll get your ass. I'll come back from
the grave and eat your pus-rotted liver.”
Bitter, Mike laughed. “Just so my kid sister's
safe, Greylov, I don't give a flying fuck.”
“Holy sweet Jesus.” Jamison stared from Benny to
the remote and back to the boy. Sweat poured off the tanned face, ran into the
eye, and the boy just stood there, hate and fear on his scarred and
frightening features.
Benny sagged. “I'm sorry, old man.”
Jamison shrugged. He was too old to run anyway, too
dignified to try. “O:Tsi:Yu, boy. It is a good day to die.” Jamison
squared his shoulders and waited, knowing he would rather face death than be
struck down like a rabbit.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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