Dennis opened his eyes. His body ached. Deflated airbags protruded from the dashboard like giant washed-up jellyfish. Marcel sat limp in the driver's seat, eyes staring blankly ahead, looking at a highway that was no longer there. A high, choking wheeze came from the hole through his throat. He would die in a matter of minutes.
"Sorry, buddy." Dennis muttered. He undid his seatbelt and got out. His footing was unsteady at first, as though drunk or at sea. The Jeep was tilted nose down in the tall grass, hood crumpled like a discarded aluminum can against the bank of the ditch. Cursing under his breath, Dennis knelt down and rummaged through the brush for his rifle. Must have dropped it when they crashed. There it was. Shining black under the dead brown weeds. He lifted it and strapped it to his back before climbing up to the shoulder of the road. There, he sat down and waited, listening to the faint, straining breaths that came from behind him.
It didn't take long. Within two minutes, Marcel went silent. Dennis whispered a short prayer for him. Five more minutes after that, a motorcycle came buzzing around the curve of the highway. Dennis straightened up and stretched. Just as cool and easy as if he were crossing the living room of his own apartment, he walked out to the middle of the highway. He took his rifle from his back and pointed it straight ahead. The motorcycle slowed and stopped about ten feet in front of him. Its rider held up his hands. A muffled voice came from inside the helmet.
"Look, I don't want any trouble."
"Me neither," Dennis said, baring his teeth in something that was not a smile, "just your ride. Get off." The man put down the kickstand and stepped back, watching him through the helmet's dark visor. Slinging the gun back onto his shoulder, Dennis swung his leg over the bike. The motor rumbled beneath him and it carried him away. The white Honda was far over the horizon and out of sight, but he was confident it wouldn't be too hard to find again. Ma'am had people everywhere.
About a month back, a former colleague had confided that Ma'am's name was actually Laura, but that she once had an employee tossed out a sixth-story window for referring to her as such. Dennis took this with a grain of salt. He figured it was just a matter of respect. That and safety. Nobody could ever rat on you if they didn't know your name. Not that anyone was dumb enough to try and rat on her anyway.
Once he'd put a decent distance between himself and the guy he took the motorcycle from, Dennis wheeled into a dingy little filling station. It was a low, flat-roofed cinderblock building that looked more like a bunker than anything else. He stepped around the side and plugged a dime into the payphone. He dialed, waited for the tone, and spoke softly.
"Marcel has left us. It's not done yet, but it will be soon."
