Man, I wish Stuart was here right now. He’d be a sight for sore eyes.
“What you looking at, scrounge?” the main biker asks.
This question confuses me. I’m not looking at anything , because both of my eyes are swollen shut. You know, the beatings and all.
“Move along,” the biker orders , “this ain’t your concern. Be glad about that. We’re letting you live. Unless you want this to be your concern? Then we co-”
I don’t hear the rest of his words. I do hear gagging and choking. Very wet. Then the hands on my right side let go. I’m able to get my eyes open a slit and see the bikers spinning about, pulling out pistols and unslinging rifles. Then one by one, they drop. Blood pours from their throats. The shafts of crossbow bolts bounce and wiggle as the bikers take their last struggling breaths.
So, if they are dead on the ground , then who is holding me up?
I turn my head and see a beautiful, yet extremely dirty, young woman next to me. Her hand is on my upper arm and is surprisingly strong.
“How are you doing that?” I ask. The look on her face tells me that my words actually sound like, “Hew uh ya duh det?”
She cocks her head a little and smiles, as she looks me up and down. I try to smile back at her. Then I realize she isn’t holding me up. It’s the hand on my other arm that’s really holding my weight. I turn my head and see the opposite of the young woman. Sure, this person is just as dirty, but not a beautiful young woman. More of a grizzled, old man. With one eye, no hair, and half of the right side of his face flayed open and healed in a horrifying tangle of skin and tendons.
“I can see your tongue,” I say. He just nods. I don’t think he understands me, but oh well.
Then he smiles and I really wish he hadn’t. Smiling with only one intact cheek and half your face gone, is not flattering. Not in the least. I get over my shock at the grin and then wonder what he’s smiling at. I’m not really given the opportunity to find out, as the next thing I see, is his fist up close and personal.
Then it’s goodnight, Jace, sleep tight.
I dream of tacos.
I can smell the crispy corn tortillas. I hear the sizzle of the taco meat in the pain.
“Better stir that or it will scorch,” I say to the nothing of my dreamscape. The taco meat is stirred.
Onions, cilantro, garlic, and then tomatoes. All it needs is some salt and it’ll be an amazing salsa. Fresh and refreshing. Yum!
Oh, but there’s guacamole too! Creamy avocados with just a hint of cumin. I am so ready to make some tacos. I want to fill those shells until they are ready to crack. Fill them with all the stuff that makes for great tacos. I don’t care if they do split and crumble all over my plate. That’s what forks and tortilla chips are for! To catch the droppings!
God, I miss tacos.
I don’t miss pain, though. And that’s what waits for me as my taco dreams turn to wakefulness. Slowly, excruciatingly, I am brought back to consciousness. And know what? I still smell tacos. Not beef though. No. More like pork. Mmmm, carne asada.
“ He’s coming around, Pa,” a woman says. “Should I knock him back out?”
“Nah,” a man replies. “He’s roped tight. May be good to talk to him for a spell and see what he knows.”
“Hey,” the young woman says. Then she slaps me. “Hey, you awake? Pa wants to do some talking with ya.”
“I’m…awake,” I croak. “Can…I…have some…water?”
“Can he have some water, Pa?”
“No, don’t waste it on him.”
“No, you can’t have no water,” the young woman says.
I get my eyes open and see her sitting in front of me. Damn, she is beautiful. You know, once you get past the layers of dirt and post-apocalyptic disarray. And the smell. She isn’t pleasant smelling. I can smell shit and piss plus something tangier that I’d rather not identify. Her mouth is a bellows of yuck and just her short breaths are almost enough to send me back into
“What you looking at, scrounge?” the main biker asks.
This question confuses me. I’m not looking at anything , because both of my eyes are swollen shut. You know, the beatings and all.
“Move along,” the biker orders , “this ain’t your concern. Be glad about that. We’re letting you live. Unless you want this to be your concern? Then we co-”
I don’t hear the rest of his words. I do hear gagging and choking. Very wet. Then the hands on my right side let go. I’m able to get my eyes open a slit and see the bikers spinning about, pulling out pistols and unslinging rifles. Then one by one, they drop. Blood pours from their throats. The shafts of crossbow bolts bounce and wiggle as the bikers take their last struggling breaths.
So, if they are dead on the ground , then who is holding me up?
I turn my head and see a beautiful, yet extremely dirty, young woman next to me. Her hand is on my upper arm and is surprisingly strong.
“How are you doing that?” I ask. The look on her face tells me that my words actually sound like, “Hew uh ya duh det?”
She cocks her head a little and smiles, as she looks me up and down. I try to smile back at her. Then I realize she isn’t holding me up. It’s the hand on my other arm that’s really holding my weight. I turn my head and see the opposite of the young woman. Sure, this person is just as dirty, but not a beautiful young woman. More of a grizzled, old man. With one eye, no hair, and half of the right side of his face flayed open and healed in a horrifying tangle of skin and tendons.
“I can see your tongue,” I say. He just nods. I don’t think he understands me, but oh well.
Then he smiles and I really wish he hadn’t. Smiling with only one intact cheek and half your face gone, is not flattering. Not in the least. I get over my shock at the grin and then wonder what he’s smiling at. I’m not really given the opportunity to find out, as the next thing I see, is his fist up close and personal.
Then it’s goodnight, Jace, sleep tight.
I dream of tacos.
I can smell the crispy corn tortillas. I hear the sizzle of the taco meat in the pain.
“Better stir that or it will scorch,” I say to the nothing of my dreamscape. The taco meat is stirred.
Onions, cilantro, garlic, and then tomatoes. All it needs is some salt and it’ll be an amazing salsa. Fresh and refreshing. Yum!
Oh, but there’s guacamole too! Creamy avocados with just a hint of cumin. I am so ready to make some tacos. I want to fill those shells until they are ready to crack. Fill them with all the stuff that makes for great tacos. I don’t care if they do split and crumble all over my plate. That’s what forks and tortilla chips are for! To catch the droppings!
God, I miss tacos.
I don’t miss pain, though. And that’s what waits for me as my taco dreams turn to wakefulness. Slowly, excruciatingly, I am brought back to consciousness. And know what? I still smell tacos. Not beef though. No. More like pork. Mmmm, carne asada.
“ He’s coming around, Pa,” a woman says. “Should I knock him back out?”
“Nah,” a man replies. “He’s roped tight. May be good to talk to him for a spell and see what he knows.”
“Hey,” the young woman says. Then she slaps me. “Hey, you awake? Pa wants to do some talking with ya.”
“I’m…awake,” I croak. “Can…I…have some…water?”
“Can he have some water, Pa?”
“No, don’t waste it on him.”
“No, you can’t have no water,” the young woman says.
I get my eyes open and see her sitting in front of me. Damn, she is beautiful. You know, once you get past the layers of dirt and post-apocalyptic disarray. And the smell. She isn’t pleasant smelling. I can smell shit and piss plus something tangier that I’d rather not identify. Her mouth is a bellows of yuck and just her short breaths are almost enough to send me back into
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