along the ditch to my right, or up on the motorway bridge to my left? I look up at the road barrier, expecting to see a head and gun peering over at any minute. There's no way they would miss from up there. I could run, I suppose, and trust that their inexperience would not let them hit a moving target. But it's not a scenario that offers much comfort. I don't want to die with my brains splattered across warm tarmac. I don't want the others to see me shot down, and leave me as they drive in the opposite direction. I don't want to be just another fading memory in their tired minds.
"Hello in the bus!" I shout again, trying to inject some urgency into my voice. My only answer is a metallic clatter and a curse. The only blessing is that it sounded as though it had come from the road block, and not closer.
I look up and see a flock of birds making patterns against the blue sky. It's a big flock, and I'm not sure I've ever seen so many birds together before. Swifts, I think. Picking flies from the air, or maybe communicating in some way I cannot imagine.
"See the birds?" I shout. "I'm as harmless as them. We're not here for trouble, and we don't want to hurt you."
The gun cracks in again, and a dozen bullets rip into the car or ricochet from its flaking shell. I roll into a ball and pray I'm hiding in the best place. The shooting fades away to stunned silence once more, and I find no holes in my body. Holy shit , I think, I'm being shot at! My jacket is grubby, and the white shirt beneath has picked up a heavy smear of oil from somewhere. I think of Bruce Willis and begin to giggle. That's not good. Giggling to myself when someone's trying to blow my guts across South Wales . . . that's not good.
I glance downhill and Cordell is there, peering up at me and waiting for me to move. I raise a hand again and he nods and disappears. He'd been carrying the shotgun that time.
"Fuck's sake!" I shout, and it's a sudden sense of panic more than an attempt at communication.
"Stand up!" a voice shouts.
"And have you blow my head off?"
"I can't hit the side of a barn, old man."
"I'm forty-five! I'm not old."
"You're bald!"
"I was bald when I was eighteen!" My face is pressed close to the tarmac and I can see ants marching in a line. Some of them carry pine needles, others carry dead ants. They're larger than any wood ants I have ever seen, and I wonder where their nest may be.
"So stand up!"
"Are you going to shoot?"
"Are you going to eat us?"
Eat? I frown, shake my head. Did he really say that? " Eat you?"
Silence, and then some muffled voices. I hear a clang of metal on metal again, and then a motor starts uphill from me.
I freeze. Listen. It sounds like a big diesel engine, perhaps the bus. If they choose to drive down and ram the car I'm hiding behind I'll be squashed flat. The ants march on before my nose, and I know that they'll survive.
I look down the gently sloping road. I could run, but it's a long couple of hundred meters. Plenty of time for a bad shot to get lucky.
The engine rattles as it's revved. Cordell looks around the bridge footing again, shakes his head, raises his hands palm-up, and I have no idea what he's trying to say.
I risk a look around the end of the overturned car and don't get my head blown off. It's difficult to see which vehicle has been started, but there's activity on the bus. The sun is glaring from its windscreen, so I can't see whether or not there's anyone in the driver's seat.
I'm starting to sweat. The sun is hitting the car and melting onto me, and the coat I wore to ride the bike is suddenly too hot. For the first time I turn and try to see inside the car, but its roof is crushed down on my side, and a slick of broken glass and ripped interior shields my view. It doesn't smell of anything too bad. I hope it's empty.
Either side of me are several places where bullets have blasted through its metal shell. My blood runs cold.
I stand up. There's really nothing else I can do. Run
"Hello in the bus!" I shout again, trying to inject some urgency into my voice. My only answer is a metallic clatter and a curse. The only blessing is that it sounded as though it had come from the road block, and not closer.
I look up and see a flock of birds making patterns against the blue sky. It's a big flock, and I'm not sure I've ever seen so many birds together before. Swifts, I think. Picking flies from the air, or maybe communicating in some way I cannot imagine.
"See the birds?" I shout. "I'm as harmless as them. We're not here for trouble, and we don't want to hurt you."
The gun cracks in again, and a dozen bullets rip into the car or ricochet from its flaking shell. I roll into a ball and pray I'm hiding in the best place. The shooting fades away to stunned silence once more, and I find no holes in my body. Holy shit , I think, I'm being shot at! My jacket is grubby, and the white shirt beneath has picked up a heavy smear of oil from somewhere. I think of Bruce Willis and begin to giggle. That's not good. Giggling to myself when someone's trying to blow my guts across South Wales . . . that's not good.
I glance downhill and Cordell is there, peering up at me and waiting for me to move. I raise a hand again and he nods and disappears. He'd been carrying the shotgun that time.
"Fuck's sake!" I shout, and it's a sudden sense of panic more than an attempt at communication.
"Stand up!" a voice shouts.
"And have you blow my head off?"
"I can't hit the side of a barn, old man."
"I'm forty-five! I'm not old."
"You're bald!"
"I was bald when I was eighteen!" My face is pressed close to the tarmac and I can see ants marching in a line. Some of them carry pine needles, others carry dead ants. They're larger than any wood ants I have ever seen, and I wonder where their nest may be.
"So stand up!"
"Are you going to shoot?"
"Are you going to eat us?"
Eat? I frown, shake my head. Did he really say that? " Eat you?"
Silence, and then some muffled voices. I hear a clang of metal on metal again, and then a motor starts uphill from me.
I freeze. Listen. It sounds like a big diesel engine, perhaps the bus. If they choose to drive down and ram the car I'm hiding behind I'll be squashed flat. The ants march on before my nose, and I know that they'll survive.
I look down the gently sloping road. I could run, but it's a long couple of hundred meters. Plenty of time for a bad shot to get lucky.
The engine rattles as it's revved. Cordell looks around the bridge footing again, shakes his head, raises his hands palm-up, and I have no idea what he's trying to say.
I risk a look around the end of the overturned car and don't get my head blown off. It's difficult to see which vehicle has been started, but there's activity on the bus. The sun is glaring from its windscreen, so I can't see whether or not there's anyone in the driver's seat.
I'm starting to sweat. The sun is hitting the car and melting onto me, and the coat I wore to ride the bike is suddenly too hot. For the first time I turn and try to see inside the car, but its roof is crushed down on my side, and a slick of broken glass and ripped interior shields my view. It doesn't smell of anything too bad. I hope it's empty.
Either side of me are several places where bullets have blasted through its metal shell. My blood runs cold.
I stand up. There's really nothing else I can do. Run
Similar Books
