Blaze

5. Praying For Rain

Now that my head's settled, I can see what Austin points toward: an explosion of beige air. Nearly opaque, it rests over the road like a fallen-over cloud.

My chest tightens.

That dust cloud isn't attributable to the breeze—I know it. The air is still this time of day.

No wind.

"Let me go," I tell Jackie. Her too-warm arms and hands clutch at my face, and droplets of her sweat land on my cheeks with soundless patters, rolling down softly. "I'm not going anywhere," I say, and wipe them off, "so let me go."

Jackie does, and the sweat-rain ceases—thankfully. Exhausted, she collapses, breathing fast and deep. Looking where Austin's gaze is aimed. "We need to... We need to..."

We need to...

There's no point in trying to escape on our scooters and bikes. Even less of a point in running.

Actually, no point at all.

They don't seem to understand yet. Austin hisses another "Run!" and nearly trips over the deer's broken-up legs. Nearly slides on the slippery ground. Jackie doesn't move, but her eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open in a seeking manner, like the kids who dug, on the road, earlier. The ones who prayed for rain.

We need to...

One look at the statue that is Tim raises questions with dangerous answers. What if they're here for him? To take back the knife he stole?

No, no, no. As stupid as he knows how to be, he can also be careful—he wouldn't last long otherwise. He'd know better than to lead us into that kind of mess. He'd cover his tracks.

I think.

And besides, if they're really after the knife, can't we just give it back?

I tell my thoughts to shut up.

Tim's face blanches and sweats. Finally reacting, he removes his shirt, exposing his thin torso and the ripples of his rib-cage. It lands heavily when he tosses it over the deer (I probably imagine the thump), sprouting pink blotches and smears.

"Company." His voice is flat. Detached. More like a mechanical arrangement of sounds than the natural vibration of vocal cords.

There's a silence no one seems to want to break. And a near-silent roar, off in the distance.

I speak quickly, hoping to muffle it. "They may be Bandits or not. Austin, park the bikes and scooters beside the road. Tim, Jackie, help me push this thing." I like that I sound like I know what I'm doing.

"They may be Bandits or not."

That's what I said. As if there's a chance we might escape unscathed. A chance Tim and I misread the situation.

A chance.

But I know that we didn't.

I know we have no chance.

---

Tim and I grab a hoof while Jackie steadies the head, flies swirling around us all the while. They buzz close enough to our ears to seem much larger than they are.