Rifle hopped out of the side and wobbled. The vibrations had affected the dog too. Rifle then lifted a leg and peed on the bushes next to him.
Misha lifted his own leg up and over the seat. He could feel a creak in his hips. He tried to stand, but immediately fell over. He could feel his feet, but not his legs. Rifle walked over to him on rubbery legs and snuffled his face and hair.
“I’m all right,” Misha muttered, his throat dry. “Just got the wobbly legs is all. Just like you.”
He slowly pushed himself upright and sat in a tuft of weedy grass. He rubbed his legs, trying to get the life back into them. Rifle waited patiently. Once he thought he had the strength, Misha stood up. He swayed a little, but he managed to keep upright this time.
“Let’s go check out the car, bratishka.” Misha had taken to calling the dog ‘brother’ in Russian every so often. He had really bonded with his furry companion.
Before heading to the car, Misha leaned into the sidecar and located the revolver. He held it loosely in his hand as they headed toward the crashed vehicle, Rifle trotting ahead. It was a Mazda 3, a strange car to find in the backwoods. Even though the front end was smooshed, the battery must still be working because the overhead dome light was on. Rifle went up to the open driver’s door and sniffed around. He didn’t seem to find anything he didn’t like and sat next to it, looking at Misha. Misha went up to the car and peered inside through the windows. He checked out both the back seat and the front, even though he didn’t think there were any crazies in the car. If there had been, they would have burst out by now, thanks to the sound of the bike. Also, Rifle would have reacted.
Misha stuck the revolver into the back of his shorts and climbed into the car. He searched the whole thing for anything useful Anything at all. In the glove box, there were only insurance papers, a tissue box, an old pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. He pocketed the lighter, which had a little bit of fuel left. He looked under the front seats and under one of them, he found three ultra dried out and shrivelled fries. He dusted them off and ate them. They tasted awful and crunched terribly. He found no other food and nothing to drink. He did find a first aid kit though, which he opened up to look through the contents. He climbed out of the car and opened all the power locks. Going to the trunk next, he searched through it. There wasn’t anything useful in there either, just some bungie cables, windshield wiper fluid, jumper cables, and a spare tire with a jack under the carpet.
Misha sat on the bumper of the Mazda, in the light of the bike’s headlamp, and opened the first aid kit again. He lifted up a leg and looked at the bottom of his foot. It was similar to raw meat. He took out the iodine first and began washing his foot with it. It stung something fierce and Misha drew in a lot of sharp breaths between his teeth. Rifle watched, ears down and whining occasionally. The dog probably didn’t understand why Misha was hurting himself.
Once the foot was washed, he picked up the tweezers and went over every inch of his foot. He plucked out any splinters and sand-sized pebbles he came across. This was also extremely painful at times. After the tweezers, he finally picked up the bandages and the gauze. He placed a generous helping of gauze all along the bottom of his foot and wrapped the bandage around it. He then used the medical scissors to cut off some medical tape, which he also wrapped around his foot to keep the bandage on. Misha gingerly placed that foot back on the ground, and picked up the other one to start the process again.
It was at this point that Rifle trotted back over to the motorbike. He stuck his muzzle into the sidecar and started rooting around. He pulled his head back out and in his muzzle was his skunk toy. He carried it over to Misha and dropped it in his lap while he was trying to tweezer out a splinter.
“Thanks, bratishka, but this isn’t going to help me right now, okay?” Misha rubbed the dog’s head.
Rifle responded by placing his head in Misha’s lap. He sat like that while Misha worked around him.
Once Misha’s second foot was wrapped up and placed on the ground, he continued to sit there. He ran his fingers methodically through the fur on Rifle’s head, playing with the dog’s ears. He entered a dream-like state, not focused on anything.
* * *
Misha didn’t know how long he sat like that, totally spaced out, but Rifle eventually brought him out of it. The dog pricked his ears suddenly and raised his head. He picked up his skunk toy and walked to the edge of the woods. He stopped there and looked back at Misha.
“What is it, Rifle?” Misha got to his feet, worried it was something bad.
Rifle’s tail swooshed back and forth a few times. He took a few steps into the woods and looked back at Misha. It was pretty clear he wanted him to follow.
Misha retrieved his gun and trailed after the German shepherd. It was hard to follow the dog through the brush without any light. He had to track him via sound and what little movement he could see ahead. He had to take it slowly too, being very precise about where he placed his freshly-wrapped feet.
“Rifle?” Misha whispered. He could no longer hear the dog ahead of him. “Bratishka, where did you go?”
He pushed through some particularly tall bushes and then, suddenly, there was Rifle standing in front of him. He wagged his tail and chomped on his skunk a few times. Then he placed the skunk at Misha’s feet and hurried off across a clearing.
Misha left the ratty toy where it was and started to follow him. The long grass brushed against his bare legs, some of the blades feeling almost razor sharp, but a very familiar noise kept drawing him forward. He realized that the clearing wasn’t just some random clearing; there was water flowing through the middle of it. Some sort of stream or river. Misha wanted to rush at it but managed to hold himself back. Rifle was sniffing around at something large next to the water. Misha approached with caution until he could see what it was that Rifle had found. It was a dead body.
As Rifle sniffed and snuffled around, it suddenly moved. Perhaps not dead after all. It groaned and Misha instinctively took a step back, gripping the butt of the revolver. A hand reached up and pushed Rifle’s head away, but Rifle kept sniffing around him anyway. The dog looked up at Misha, tongue hanging out in a happy grin. He was not afraid of this person. Perhaps the body wasn’t one of the crazies.
Misha approached it once more. As he got closer, he saw it was a man in firefighter’s gear.
“Sir?” Misha called out hesitantly. His eyes kept getting drawn passed the man, to the water. He was so thirsty.
The man raised his head slightly so that Misha could see only his eyes. He then tried to push himself back toward the river, away from Misha. Maybe he thought Misha was one of the crazies.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Misha told him. “I’m not one of them.”
He couldn’t resist the water. He made his way over to it in an arc, giving the man space. Both of them followed the other with their eyes. Once Misha reached the shore, he dropped to his knees. First, he tried cupping his hands to bring the water to his mouth, but he didn’t get nearly enough that way. He decided to bring his mouth to the water and dunked his whole face into it, sucking in as much as he could drink in one breath, half choking himself.
He did this for at least three breaths before finally sitting back. He belched, feeling the water sloshing around in his belly. He turned his attention back to the man.
“I’m Misha.” Misha held up a hand in greeting.
The man just continued to watch him. Something was wrong.
“Are you all right, man?” Misha got worried. Maybe he was one of them.
The man shook his head and rolled onto his side. His eyes squeezed shut with pain as he did so. The moon was bright enough for Misha to see his full face as he did this. His right cheek had been torn open, and was bleeding pretty badly.
Misha went closer.
“Holy shit, what happened?” The wound looked clean, straight, not like the tearing the crazies did. “Do you want some help? I have a first aid kit.”
Misha
pointed back to where he came from. He had left it back at the vehicles. The man shook his head.
“Are you sure?” Misha went a little closer. “I mean, I’m not a doctor or anything, but there are bandages in there, some antibiotics, and I think I even saw a kit for stitching.”
The firefighter tilted his head, drawing Misha’s attention to his stomach. The man had been holding it. When he moved his hands, Misha saw a hole in his shirt. Dark liquid was oozing out of it and onto the rocks beneath him. The facial wound looked awful, but this gut wound appeared to be what was killing him.
“Fuck,” Misha sighed, “what happened?”
The man gestured a stabbing motion with one hand.
“You were stabbed?” Misha hadn’t seen any of the crazies use a weapon yet. Well, not since Dean’s rudimentary bat swinging. It was possible one used a knife.
The man nodded.
“Are you dying?” It was a stupid question to ask. How would the man know? Besides, it should have been obvious by how pale he had become. Misha looked practically tanned by comparison.
The man nodded his head again anyway. He also thought he was dying.
“Fuck.” Misha sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. “Is there anything I can do for you? Make it easier?”
The firefighter held up two fingers and patted them against his lips. He wanted a smoke.
“Cigarette or pot?” Misha asked.
The man held up one finger, he wanted the first one, a cigarette.
“Okay, I found this crusty pack in a car back there. If you hold on, I can get it for you.” Misha started to head back to the woods. “Rifle, you watch over him, okay? Don’t let him die before I get back. That’s Rifle, by the way.” Misha turned his attention back to the man briefly. “He’s a good boy, he’ll watch out for you.”
The man gave him a thumbs up and managed to roll over onto his back.
Misha took off across the field, not running, he was too tired and his feet were too sore for that, but he was moving quicker than he had been earlier. The blades of grass continued to slice across his shins, which were probably getting even more scratches on them. Not only had his escapades through people’s yards left Misha banged up, but so did the bike. Even at slow speeds, flecks of dirt and pebbles got kicked up by the wheels and not all of them missed his exposed flesh.
Not wanting to get lost, Misha made sure he entered the woods at the same place he had left them. He found where Rifle had left his skunk toy and started snapping off branches. He brought the skunk toy with him so that it wouldn’t get lost.
Finding his way back to the car and bike was easier than following Rifle in the first place. He could see a bit of the light from them shining through the trees. To make getting back to the river easier, he broke off branches he passed and flattened the brush when he could.
When he was almost there, the biggest source of light, the headlight from the motorbike, went out.
* * *
Misha stood still, unmoving, barely breathing. He expected to see something pass between the dome light in the car and himself. He expected to hear some howling, screeching thing rush at him. He heard nothing and saw nothing. Eventually he realized that the bike’s headlight must have turned itself off. It must have been set on a timer or something so that if the bike were turned off without switching off the headlight, it would turn itself off after a time. Clever, really.
Misha headed toward the car again. Just in case he was wrong, he moved as silently as he could. Although, he had been snapping branches the whole way, so something would have already heard him if there was something to hear him.
Eventually he reached the car without incident. He searched the glove box, but at first, couldn’t find the package of cigarettes he had come across earlier. Apparently, he had dropped them into the foot-well when he realized they were of no use to him. He scooped up the package and headed back into the woods.
Despite his attempt at trailblazing, he did have to stop and search for his broken stick markers several times. Getting this package of cigarettes was taking much longer than Misha had planned. On the other hand, it wasn’t as if he had much else to do. It was a task, one he could complete and focus on. The focus helped take the edge off his exhaustion and hunger. The water had helped with that too.
Finally, he entered the clearing again and made his way, once more, through the grass. Once he got close enough to see the body, he feared the worst. The firefighter hadn’t moved an inch, and didn’t appear to be moving at all now. It seemed he had slipped away in Misha’s absence.
Then his arm lifted up and scratched Rifle’s ears. He was still alive.
Misha walked over to him, not sure if he preferred the rocky shore under his feet over the sharp grass against his legs. The firefighter though, was on a single, large, and quite flat rock and Misha’s feet appreciated standing on it.
“I found them.” Misha held the pack in front of the firefighter’s face so he could see it.
Rifle stood up from where he had been lying next to the man and sniffed them. Misha then gave the dog his toy, who left with it to frolic in the field.
The man squinted, making out the pack in the frail light. Half his face started to grin, but the ruined half quickly pained him and caused the grin to turn into a grimace.
“Are you sure you can even smoke like that?” Misha wondered. He took the pack away from the man and shook out a cigarette.
The man was so weak, he couldn’t even bring his hand up to smoke. Misha carefully placed the cigarette in front of his lips and the firefighter did the rest. Misha took out the lighter next. It took a few flicks but the flame caught and Misha brought it down to the cigarette. The man inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose. He didn’t cough at all. Clearly it wasn’t his lungs that had been stabbed. Maybe it was his liver, or kidneys. Maybe nothing really vital at all had been stabbed and he had just bled out. Misha had no idea how long he had been there. He guessed he came from the river though due to his position and general sogginess.
“I think you should know, if you pass, I’m taking your jacket and boots,” Misha told the man honestly.
He nodded weakly. He understood.
“If it happens, I can’t bury you, I don’t have the strength, but would you like to be pushed back into the river?” Misha thought he could at least do that.
The man frowned and shook his head. He definitely did not want to end up in the river. He gestured weakly to the field.
“You want me to drag you into the field?” Misha guessed.
The man nodded.
“Coyotes or wolves would probably eat you.”
The man nodded again. He was okay with that.
Although Misha had spoken as if it might not happen, he was certain they both knew it would. Otherwise, the man wouldn’t have refused help, and Misha would have brought the first aid kit. He continued to sit next to the man in silence, watching him smoke his last cigarette. It looked painful for him, especially the occasional times he exhaled out through his mouth around the cigarette. Misha could see the smoke come out through his slashed cheek, sometimes creating a little bubble of blood with it.
Finally the cigarette fell to one side, only two thirds smoked. The firefighter stared up at the stars, his breathing becoming more laborious.
His lips moved as he tried to speak.
“What is it?” Misha leaned a little closer to hear what the dying man had to say.
It clearly took a lot of effort and was extremely painful, but he managed to speak. “Cillian.” It was the first word Misha had heard another speak since he stole the motorbike from that family.
“Cillian?” Misha didn’t understand.
The man weakly patted a hand on his chest.
“Your name? Your name is Cillian?” It seemed right to Misha.
The man, Cillian, nodded.
“It was very nice to meet you, Cillian,” Misha told him. “I’m sorry you have to go so soon.”
Cillian
tried to grin again, and this time succeeded more than before. With the gash, it looked horrific, but at least he was happy.
His breathing became more laboured, and weaker at the same time. His chest barely rose with each breath. As he closed his eyes, Misha again noticed how pale his skin was in the moonlight. It was totally white, as white as the moon in the sky. Cillian’s chest hitched, then hitched again. Finally, it stopped moving altogether.
Misha sat there for several minutes looking down at the body. He kept expecting it to move again. Not because of what happened to Dean, but because it was so strange that he just slipped away. They had only just met, and now he was gone. Not just gone, but dead. Misha thought he would have liked to have gotten to know Cillian. Perhaps in another life.
Once he realized that the firefighter truly had passed, Misha got to work. He took his boots first, pulling them off of the dead man’s feet and putting them on his own. They were big for him, but they would do. He looked at Cillian’s socks, debating, but decided, in the end, that the bandages and tape would be enough. He could also wrap more around his feet if it became necessary. Getting the jacket off him proved to be a lot more difficult. He had to roll Cillian’s body and manipulate his arms out of the sleeves. As he pulled it off, he discovered a firefighter’s glove in one of the pockets. He looked for its match but couldn’t find it. It must have gotten washed away in the river. He put the glove down on the rock.
Finally the coat was free and Misha put it on. Like the boots, the inside was still damp and he shivered slightly. He would have to dry it out, but, for now, he would wear it while he did this last job. Misha surprised himself by not being concerned about any blood that may have fallen into the coat. He was so covered in dirt and grime, anything he wore probably didn’t touch his skin. And a little more wasn’t going to kill him.
Next, he hooked his arms under Cillian’s and started to drag him toward the grass. It was extremely difficult. Misha was so tired already and Cillian was a big guy, but he had said he would do it and so he did.
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