by JC Gatlin
Rayanne raised her head over the bushes, wishing she could do something for her husband. But there was no stopping him. She watched the dog knock him to the ground, onto his back. It tore into his leg. Rayanne couldn’t stand it. She launched out of the dense shrubs, then stopped. The Winchester lay in the weeds to the side of the dirt path, a good twenty, thirty feet away. Holding her breath, she took off toward it.
As her feet moved, she could see Dru in her peripheral vision. The girl slapped the hindquarters of the dog, calling it off Owen and pointing. Luger released Owen’s leg and looked up. Rayanne saw it and kept running. She was a few feet from the gun when she heard Dru yell out, “Get her!”
The words left a ringing in Rayanne’s ears as she skidded in the dirt, reaching for the gun. Her fingers wrapped around the barrel. She felt the dog approaching. Heard it snarl as it came for her. She picked up the gun, spun around, and ran back toward the trees. The Rottweiler was behind her.
Rayanne ran faster, clutching the shotgun. She felt Luger’s hot breath on the back of her calves. She imagined its snapping jaws on her flesh. She could almost feel its teeth. She didn’t look back. Running through the underbrush, she slowed, her legs ripping through branches and weeds. She reached the oak tree. She bounded onto its trunk, dug the fingernails of her left hand into the tree’s rough bark while her right hand gripped the barrel, and she climbed. Her legs wrapped around the tree, forcing her body upward. She could’ve climbed higher if she wasn’t holding the gun.
Luger snapped at her, just missing her butt. She felt the dog’s teeth grazing her bare thigh, but it couldn’t grab hold. Then it clamped down on the back edge of her shoe. She kicked her foot, and Luger’s head shook violently. She clung tighter to the tree trunk, tried to shift herself higher. Luger was pulling her down.
Her shoe slipped off her foot, along with Luger. The sudden release was like a rubber band breaking and it sent Rayanne upward with a sudden force that surprised her. The gun dropped from her grasp.
Looking down, she watched it fall. It hit the ground beside the angry dog and discharged. The blast echoed loudly, ringing in her ears and sending birds screeching into the air from the trees.
Luger cried out as if he’d been shot, and scrambled into the woods. His yelps of pain faded as he disappeared into the thick trees. Dru screamed for him, and then ran after the dog, plowing into the underbrush. A moment later, she was gone too.
The gunshot brought silence, and Rayanne looked back to the Chevy. The boys had stopped fighting. They were standing now, startled and gaping at the tree line as if momentarily trying to understand what happened. Owen and Darryl stood back to back, both dirty and bloody, as the three teenage boys circled them. Nelson held the baseball bat over his head with his left hand, like a club. He kept his bandaged right arm close to his side. Rude Roddy held the hunting knife in front of him. He pointed it toward Owen.
Owen spit blood and leaned on his right leg, as his left leg was a mangle of skin and muscle where Luger had bitten him.
Scut laughed. “You brought this on yourself.” Scut pointed to Owen’s bloody leg. “Give it back and this will all be over.”
Owen shook his head and wiped his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Scut stared at him a moment. “I think you do.”
“You attacked me and my wife and my buddy. Tell me what you want.” Owen struggled to stand and leaned on Darryl for support. He shook his head and looked at the kid. “You want my truck? Take it. Take it and get outta here.”
Scut let out a frustrated scream and lifted his arms. He turned and walked a couple of steps toward the tree line, then flipped around to rage violently at Owen. “I don’t want your truck, old man. You know that. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Listening to Scut yell at her husband, Rayanne watched from the safety of her tree. Her eyes locked with Owen’s and he raised a hand, motioning for her to stay. Owen took a step away from Darryl, struggling to stand on his own. Darryl placed a hand on Owen’s back, supporting him.
Scut was still yelling. “You got bigger things to worry about than your truck, old man.” He pulled a switchblade from his boot and took another step closer. Roddy and Nelson, surrounding Darryl and Owen, stepped closer too. Scut signaled to them. Nelson poised the baseball bat, ready to swing. Roddy straightened his left arm, gripping the hunting knife.
Rayanne’s eyes were locked with Owen’s. Then she looked down and saw the shotgun lying on the ground beneath the tree. She began skittering down the trunk.
Owen yelled something to her, but during that moment of inattention Scut struck. The teen leapt toward Owen, aiming the knife at his face. Owen turned, stepping back, and the blade missed him, but even so, the full force of Scut’s body slammed into his shoulder. He tried to push Scut away, but felt a sudden searing pain in his stomach. Scut had plunged the knife deep between Owen’s ribs. Owen doubled over as Scut pulled the knife out. Owen dropped to his knees and Scut stabbed him again, in the left shoulder. Owen cried out in agony. Falling face forward, he caught himself on the rear bumper of the Chevy.
Darryl swung furiously at Scut, hitting him in the temple and knocking him back. Then he stepped in front of Owen, placing his body between Scut and his friend. Scut held up the knife.
As she moved, Rayanne watched in horror. She scrambled down the lower part of the tree, her bare foot hitting the dirt first. She picked up the shotgun. Raising it, she fired in the air. Again the shot echoed in the woods. She aimed the gun at Scut.
Scut dropped the switchblade. Roddy tossed down his hunting knife and raised his hands as Nelson lowered the bat. Blood spatters covered his white sling.
“You stabbed him,” Nelson said, breaking the silence brought on by the gunshot.
Scut swung around to face him. Nelson dropped the bat and repeated, “You stabbed the old man.”
Darryl knelt next to Owen, wrapping an arm around him to help him stand. Blood drenched Owen’s shirt near his stomach and shoulder. Bloody meat dangled like fishing bait between the shreds of his pant leg. Darryl cringed and looked over at Rayanne.
“Owen’s hurt. Bad,” he said.
Still holding the Winchester upright, she rushed past Nelson.
“We were just ’posed to scare ’em.” Nelson raised his good arm and ran a hand over the top of his head, then turned to Scut. “You went too far, man! We were just ’posed to scare ’em!”
Both boys seemed to ignore Rayanne as she came to her husband. She handed the shotgun to Darryl and took Owen into her arms. She held him, pressed his face into the curve of her neck. She had to get him out of there. But how? She looked back at the teenage boys.
Scut, several feet away, was bent forward with his hands on his knees as if trying to catch his breath. Nelson was yelling at him.
“No way we’re gett’n paid now.” Nelson flipped around, facing the woods. He looked down at his right arm, seemed to notice the blood on the sling, and tore it off his shoulder. The sling dropped to the ground. He yelled, “This can’t be happening. You weren’t paid to stab him. This can’t be happening!”
Scut suddenly straightened. He reached for the baseball bat lying on the ground next to Rayanne’s feet. She flinched as he grabbed it. But he wasn’t interested in her. Holding the bat in both hands, he marched over to Nelson and reached for him with his free hand.
Scut flipped Nelson around as he muttered, then raised the bat. He swung and struck Nelson hard in the gut. Nelson grunted and doubled over. Scut readied the bat again and whacked him across the back. Nelson fell to the ground. Scut kicked him, screaming, “You pay me for this, huh? Is this what you paid me for?”
Nelson groaned, and Scut kicked him again. “This is exactly what you paid me for! Do you hear me? Exactly what you paid me for!”
Like a hyena, Rude Roddy ran toward them, laughing. Rayanne watched him approach Scut, who was kicking Nelson on the ground. Darryl touched her shoulder.
“We
gotta go,” he said to her. “I’ll take Owen. You go start the truck.”
Rayanne stared blankly at Darryl a moment, not fully understanding what he’d said. He took Owen’s weight from her, then yelled, “Rayanne, get the truck started.”
Rayanne released her husband, then cast a glance back at Scut and Roddy. They were distracted, still kicking Nelson on the ground and laughing over him. She looked at the black Chevy.
Darryl yelled at her again as he put an arm around Owen. Rayanne ran along the truck bed, over the trailer hitch, to the driver’s side. She looked back at her husband. Owen’s body slumped and his head titled against his right shoulder. His feet were dragging and left grooves in the dirt behind them as Darryl wrangled him closer to the front of the truck. She knew Owen was unconscious. Probably passed out from the pain, or the blood loss, and she prayed it was nothing worse. But what could be worse?
She couldn’t think about that right now, and she stared at the truck, having trouble concentrating. Darryl yelled at her again, and Rayanne opened the Chevy door. She jumped up into the driver’s seat.
Darryl came over to the passenger side. The door had been left hanging open, and he hoisted Owen’s body into the seat. Blood smeared the leather when Owen’s body slipped sideways toward the center console. Darryl slammed the door shut. Rayanne found the keys left in the ignition and she cranked the engine.
She saw Scut and Roddy through the windshield as their heads turned.
Darryl dove in, slammed the back door shut, and yelled, “Drive!”
She threw the gearshift into reverse and stomped on the gas pedal. The engine stalled. Darryl yelled again as she fumbled with the key. She turned it. The engine choked.
Scut, still holding the baseball bat, came closer. He walked to the front grille and slammed the bat on the hood with a loud thud. He aimed the bat again and brought it down with such force it shook the truck. Rayanne screamed.
Through the glass she could hear Scut yelling and she saw Roddy nearby with a rock. He threw it and it cracked the windshield. Scut swung the bat again and she heard glass shatter.
A headlight, she thought. He broke a headlight. She turned the key again and looked up to see Scut through the cracked windshield. She heard more yelling from the two boys as they rocked the truck.
She turned the key. The engine sputtered. Darryl yelled at her as he removed his glasses and used his shirttail to wipe blood from the lenses. He slipped them back on his nose and opened the door. Rayanne started to say something to him as he jumped out of the truck. Maybe he was going after Scut and Roddy, she wasn’t sure. She turned the key again. Darryl slammed the door shut.
She watched him come around the front of the truck and reach for Roddy. Scut stopped beating the hood with the baseball bat.
Darryl’s fist hit Roddy’s face. The teen stumbled and fell against the black bug shield, lessening the impact with his right arm. Pushing off the hood of the truck, he swung his huge fist into Darryl’s neck. Coming beside Roddy, Scut launched a savage kick at Darryl’s groin. Darryl dropped out of sight and Rayanne screamed his name. Scut turned to smile at her, tossed the baseball bat from hand to hand, and let it hover over his head a moment.
Rayanne couldn’t watch. She could hear the thwaaap of Scut’s bat, but nothing from Darryl. She shook her head, pushing the thought away. She turned the key again. The engine started. She pressed down on the pedal, and the truck lunged in reverse. The empty boat trailer turned in the opposite direction, bending back toward her. She slammed on the brakes, lunging them forward, then moved the gear into drive. Her foot mashed the accelerator and the truck rushed forward. The trailer rattled behind them.
Rayanne could think of nothing else but escape. Racing forward on the dirt path, she drove faster, with a reckless disregard for the jutting trailer or the truck’s undercarriage. The Chevy jerked and thumped, smashing through branches and tree limbs. Rayanne didn’t care. She wanted to get to the county road. Get to the road, she told herself. Her foot mashed the gas pedal, thrusting the truck forward, faster, crashing through branches. She turned her head to look behind.
She couldn’t see anything but trees. The kids were no longer in sight. She turned around and saw the black van directly in front of her. It was heading straight for her.
Rayanne screamed and recognized the driver as the van barreled toward them. It was Dru’s face behind the wheel. Dru was driving the black van. Their eyes connected.
Rayanne twisted the wheel. The truck and trailer spun wildly to the right, swerving out of the way of the passing van and into a rush of branches. They violently struck the windshield, scratching at the side doors as she barged through them. Then something hard hit the right tire.
The truck bounced. It swung wildly and hit something else. A tree, maybe? She heard the trailer break away from the truck, its hitch striking the tailgate with a forcible jolt. Rayanne’s foot slammed the brake. The Chevy skidded and fishtailed, smashing through tree limbs and against tree trunks. Bark and leaves sprayed the windshield. Rayanne hung onto the steering wheel, no longer in control, as the truck tore through a wall of thick bushes. She heard foliage rip the undercarriage. Rayanne wrenched the steering wheel to the left. The truck arched into empty air as the ground dropped out from below them.
Owen’s unconscious body was slipping off the seat beside her. It was the last thing Rayanne saw as she braced for the collision.
14
Rayanne was unconscious, her eyes fluttering. She dreamt of Connor.
She could hear his sobs as she sat against a cold block wall. She couldn’t see him. Yet his cries carried into the small room as if he was just out of sight. She wanted to reach for him, cradle him in her arms and soothe his tears, but she couldn’t move. Her arms were wrapped tight around her core. She was locked in a straightjacket. She was in the hospital again. It was a mistake. She was better now. She was perspiring. Sweat ran down her forehead, dripped from the tip of her nose.
Frustrated, she struggled to free her arms. Fought against the restraints. Connor needed her. His cries grew louder. She had to get to him. Rayanne fought to free herself—then stopped. She looked up. In the narrow window above her, a white dove was tapping on the glass. The bird hit it again. Then again. It smashed its head against the windowpane.
Rayanne opened her eyes and realized she was okay. Her face was pressed tight to the hot airbag. Smoke drifted up from the steering wheel. The windshield had splintered into a thousand cracks, but it held. She could tell the truck had fallen into something and that the cab was facing the ground. It shifted her center of gravity and made her feel as if she were trapped in a roller coaster that had stopped suddenly on the downward slope.
She looked over at Owen. He lay in the passenger seat, beneath the smoky, white airbag. She touched his face.
He opened his eyes. “Babe?” His voice cracked dryly.
Rayanne’s eyes filled with tears. She didn’t care about her own pain. She reached for him and placed a hand firmly on his bloody face. “Owen, I was so scared … I thought I lost you.”
“What happened?” He could barely speak.
“We’ve been in an accident.” She looked around the vehicle. The dashboard was crushed. The steering wheel was cracked. Something had hit it. She reached up and touched her forehead, felt the warm blood running down her face. Her head had hit the steering wheel and broke it. She looked at her husband. “Don’t try to move.”
He groaned, shut his eyes, and asked, “Where are we?”
Rayanne turned. She could barely see through the shattered windshield. Her driver’s side window was only cracked. Outside, she could see weeds, leaves, and the spidery limbs of dozens of thin oak trees. They were at the bottom of a ditch.
She tried to move, and felt excruciating pain in her elbows, her wrists, her knees, her back. She cried out.
“Babe?” Owen lifted his head.
“I’m okay. Just sore,” she said, shifting in the seat. She looked at him. “Don�
��t try to move, okay?”
He changed his position anyway, stretching his upper body over the console toward her. “Babe, I love you.”
“Owen, you’re hurt. Try not to move.”
He reached for her, took her hand in his. “You know I love you and I’m sorry for everything I said. Everything I did.”
For a moment she thought he must be out of his head. Either way, it was nice to hear.
“I love you too, and we’ll get out of this.” She squeezed his hand as tightly as she could. Her joints ached, but she couldn’t think about that right now. Gently, she pushed him back, deeper into the passenger seat. Then she twisted her body across the console to be closer to him. “Help will come. Don’t move till it does.”
She lifted his shirt. Dried blood caked in the hair on his belly, but the cut itself seemed to have clotted, or at least the bleeding had slowed. Next she leaned him forward slightly against her and examined his back. It was red and sticky. The entire back of his shirt was blood-soaked. She stretched his collar to see his bare shoulder. That wound appeared deeper. Fresh blood spewed from the cut. She leaned him carefully against the seat. He groaned.
“I think I’m going to pass out.” Owen put his head to the headrest.
“Try not to move,” she said, looking down the rest of his body. His left pant leg was shredded, and the wound on his calf muscle was dark red and angry. She reached down to touch his knee, and he jerked away from her. He groaned again. She looked at his face. “Can you move your leg?”
“I hurt all over,” he said quietly, then paused. His left leg shook slightly, causing him to groan once more. He shut his eyes. “I can move it a little.”
She noticed his guitar had been thrown from the backseat and was now angled on the floorboard at his feet. She reached for it, wanted to move it out of the way, but he stopped her.