Read Online Dig Ten Graves by Heath Lowrance - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Heath Lowrance
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later, he heard the crack of a gunshot, echoing up and down the empty city street. At first, he didn’t feel anything, just a strange, scared confusion. But then he realized that he couldn’t move and his back felt funny and then not so funny at all as the pain exploded and sent little telegrams to his brain and his brain read them, wrote appropriate responses and sent them back. The responses were Feel it now. Feel the buzz saw along your spine, feel the sensation of having your nerve endings ripped right out and twisted by some ugly metal machine. Feel it? Good .
He lay there face-down on the sidewalk at the corner, unable to move or speak, and the rain plummeted out of a dark cloud-shrouded night.
His name was Bridges, and he’d been thinking idly about committing murder when he got shot. Only idly, in the sort of off-hand way one thinks about how much easier it would make life if so-and-so was dead, or how that jackass who cut you off in traffic deserved to have a knife stuck in his eye. Nothing serious or heartfelt. He was simply fantasizing.
And the rain started to come down, and he wished he had an umbrella, and he turned the corner onto his street and someone put a bullet in his back.
Face-down on the sidewalk, rain and blood puddling around his head, he finally realized what had happened. He had no memory stored in his databank that correlated to it and that he could draw upon to work out what had happened to him, but he still knew, in a strange, disconnected way. Someone had shot him in the back.
The pain was already fading, which he was aware enough to realize wasn’t good. As long as he felt pain, he would be okay. As long as he could feel it, he knew he was still alive. But the pain faded, and he clenched his fingers into claws and tried to grip the sidewalk.
“Help,” he said.
He was on the corner, and both streets were silent except for the gentle wash of rain. From where he lay, he could see the intersection, see water gurgling down the grate on the opposite side of the street. The dim glow of the streetlight glimmered a weak hollow yellow, buzzing like a hive of bees in the rain. He tried to lift his head, couldn’t.
“Help,” he said again, knowing there was no one to hear him.
The pain was almost entirely gone now. His whole body felt numb. He couldn’t even feel the rain that pattered down on him. I’m paralyzed, he thought. The bullet tore into my spine and I’m paralyzed and I’ll never walk again.
He started crying, soundlessly. He kept crying until he realized that being paralyzed was probably the least of his concerns. Wheelchair for the rest of his life? Someone else to cook for him and clean for him and wipe his ass for him? That was nothing. He’d been shot and he was alone on the corner and he was going to die.
“Ah,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Ah, Christ please. Someone help me.”
He heard footsteps coming from up the street he’d been about to turn on to. Steady, sure footsteps, and someone whistling cheerfully in the rain.
His heart leapt in his chest, and the pain surged forward like a racehorse. He tried again to lift his head, without success. He gathered what little breath he had and said, “Please. Help.”
The footsteps kept coming, closer to where he lay, and he had an awful thought: what if the person keeps going? What if the person has his head down against the rain, is looking nowhere but straight ahead, and doesn’t see me? Or worse, what if the person sees me and just walks on, like one of those horrible city people you always read about who just doesn’t want to get involved?
Or worse yet, what if it’s the person who shot me?
But no, it wouldn’t be the person who shot him. This person was coming from
He lay there face-down on the sidewalk at the corner, unable to move or speak, and the rain plummeted out of a dark cloud-shrouded night.
His name was Bridges, and he’d been thinking idly about committing murder when he got shot. Only idly, in the sort of off-hand way one thinks about how much easier it would make life if so-and-so was dead, or how that jackass who cut you off in traffic deserved to have a knife stuck in his eye. Nothing serious or heartfelt. He was simply fantasizing.
And the rain started to come down, and he wished he had an umbrella, and he turned the corner onto his street and someone put a bullet in his back.
Face-down on the sidewalk, rain and blood puddling around his head, he finally realized what had happened. He had no memory stored in his databank that correlated to it and that he could draw upon to work out what had happened to him, but he still knew, in a strange, disconnected way. Someone had shot him in the back.
The pain was already fading, which he was aware enough to realize wasn’t good. As long as he felt pain, he would be okay. As long as he could feel it, he knew he was still alive. But the pain faded, and he clenched his fingers into claws and tried to grip the sidewalk.
“Help,” he said.
He was on the corner, and both streets were silent except for the gentle wash of rain. From where he lay, he could see the intersection, see water gurgling down the grate on the opposite side of the street. The dim glow of the streetlight glimmered a weak hollow yellow, buzzing like a hive of bees in the rain. He tried to lift his head, couldn’t.
“Help,” he said again, knowing there was no one to hear him.
The pain was almost entirely gone now. His whole body felt numb. He couldn’t even feel the rain that pattered down on him. I’m paralyzed, he thought. The bullet tore into my spine and I’m paralyzed and I’ll never walk again.
He started crying, soundlessly. He kept crying until he realized that being paralyzed was probably the least of his concerns. Wheelchair for the rest of his life? Someone else to cook for him and clean for him and wipe his ass for him? That was nothing. He’d been shot and he was alone on the corner and he was going to die.
“Ah,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Ah, Christ please. Someone help me.”
He heard footsteps coming from up the street he’d been about to turn on to. Steady, sure footsteps, and someone whistling cheerfully in the rain.
His heart leapt in his chest, and the pain surged forward like a racehorse. He tried again to lift his head, without success. He gathered what little breath he had and said, “Please. Help.”
The footsteps kept coming, closer to where he lay, and he had an awful thought: what if the person keeps going? What if the person has his head down against the rain, is looking nowhere but straight ahead, and doesn’t see me? Or worse, what if the person sees me and just walks on, like one of those horrible city people you always read about who just doesn’t want to get involved?
Or worse yet, what if it’s the person who shot me?
But no, it wouldn’t be the person who shot him. This person was coming from
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