Cause and Effect

Chapter 16

l'appel du vide [la-pel-doo-veed-h]

(n). call of the void; the unexplainable deep desire to jump when on the edge of a cliff

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John settled the rifle up to his cheek, staring down the scope. He had been nervously pacing back and forth for the past hour, checking the quiet roads for any sign of the convoy. Finally, he decided to just set up, lying down in the dusty earth, and angling his sights down the dark road. 

If he glanced a little to the right, just a few degrees, he would be able to see the rest of the gang. They were waiting, bikes low in the scrub, waiting for him. He breathed in deep and readjusted his grip on the gun. 

Faintly, he could feel vibrations underneath him, and he lifted his head up from the gun. If he tried hard enough, he could make out the pinpricks of light flying toward him. He looked through the scope. His heart dropped. The angle. It was all wrong. 

He didn't have time to think. He picked up the gun, and ran out into the road, directly in the path of the oncoming traffic. 

You don't owe them this, you don't owe them shit. 

He lay down on the road, still warm even hours after the sun had gone down. 

Leave now, leave now leave nowleavenow.

He tilted his head, gazed down into the scope. He could see the tread of the tires, could see the quick steady revolutions that brought the trucks closer and closer to him. 

They don't even trust you, why are you puttin' your life on the line.

He lined up the crosshairs and squeezed the trigger. Seconds stretched into years, and he waited, heart pounding into the concrete beneath him and hoped that his shot was true. 

He could see the truck wobble through the skewed lenses of his scope, breathed quickly, and took aim again at the veering, squealing tires. He could hear the revving of motors, could hear the men whoop and yell as they raced onto the road. Pushed all that away, as he pulled the trigger again, and again, and again. 

Tires blew, and he still lay flat, heart slamming into his rib cage. The trucks bore down on him, and he found that the distance was too close for the rifle and drew out a borrowed handgun, his own still lost in the desert shrubs, shaking but never stopping the shooting. 

It never occurred to him to get up and run, never occurred to him to save himself. Just to lay there and shoot, and squeeze that trigger, and bring down that trailer. 

And he did. 

The trailer crashed over, fire leapt from the engine, and he could finally peel himself off the road, hands shaking as he watched the metal scream and contort.

He felt like a dead man, walking toward the rest of the group. Lightheaded, noises sounded distant, but his own heart sounded louder than it ought to. Charles grabbed him around the bicep, and he pulled against it. He wanted to watch the fire warp the fallen truck. 

John, John, Charles's voice cut through his too loud heartbeat, and he turned distant eyes on him. It's over John, it's all over.

Nothing is ever over. John wanted to tell him that. Wanted to grab him by the shoulders, shake him until he understood. Maybe the words did leave him, because Charles stood and stared at him, for a few long seconds, before patting him gently on the shoulder and walking back toward the trailer. 

John managed to walk back toward the trailer, eyes catching on the mangled remains of the driver that poked out of the cab. He stood there for a few long seconds. Death wasn't unfamiliar to him, but it seemed strange to him now. John had his own bloodstained hands, but this seemed like a waste.