Merritts of Writing 3

Chapter 9

Carter

I had done what I did out of ignorance and weakness. I should have been smarter, stronger.

I knew someday that Emmalee Sky would hate me. For what she’s seen me do. That was okay. I hated me too.

MOMENTS LATER

I clenched my teeth and willed myself to contain the surge of energy the touch of her hand in mine was sending through my entire body. I grimanced and tightened my grip on Em’s hand while yanking her as hard as I could to the left. Her slim body slammed hard into mine. I sucked in a breath. The energy increased and pulsed painfully across my chest and up over my shoulders to the back of my neck and then upward. I shook it off.

A black pickup truck, kicking up gravel and dirt, barely missed skidding into us as it fishtailed to a stop not five feet away. The flatbed of the truck was filled with strangers. Men, women, and children. They were all covered in a coating of dust and blood.

Not crusted blood. No their wounds gushed bright crimson. Free flowing from nasty head gashes and severed limbs. My stomach turned as it did every time I saw someone bleeding or caught a whiff of the scent of blood.

Our little camp had erupted into a war zone. I couldn’t understand what had happened?

I spotted Stevron and Angie. They were too busy to notice me and Em standing in the middle of the sudden chaos. I was pleased to see that the blood covering them both didn’t appear to be their own.

Donahue, almost as tall as Stevron and far leaner, vaulted over the black pickup truck’s side and waved for Dirk. Dirk rushed forward and unhooked the truck’s tailgate.

The husky man picked up a child, and then a woman, before turning to sprint toward the medical tent where Jam was still recovering.

I saw Donahue suddenly jerk and turn around. His face showed annoyance for a moment as his eyes drilled into me. Then the look was gone. He opened his mouth wide and I knew he was shouting at me. Instinctively I snapped my head around and saw two more trucks barrelling down on Em and me.

I jerked Em out of the way. More dust and gravel were hurled from the incoming truck’s tires as it shuddered to a stop. I felt a gust of engine heated air wash over me and the sting of grit as jagged pebbles bounced off my arms.

As the thick film of dust settled, I saw more people. More blood.

My grip tightened again on Em’s hand. I pulled her closer to me as I saw yet another truck roaring off the highway toward our camp. It too came to a shuddering stop and men I didn’t recognize piled out of the truck’s cab.

One man, close to six feet tall with a stocky build, gave me and Em a cursory glance. I felt an odd sensation creep up my spine.

Em shifted beside me. She tugged on my hand.

I turned to look at her.

Her face, as beautiful as I’ve ever seen, was a mask of fear. Her lips were moving at lightning speed.

“Angie! Angie! Stev!”

“They’re fine. They’re fine, Em,” I assured, and intentionally pulled her off to the side so that more bleeding people could be guided by us.

I glanced around and spotted a rock, flat enough for Em to sit on. It was about fifty feet away and off to the side of our camp. I started for it.

Em balked. My arm almost popped out of its socket from her sudden dead weight.

I turned my head and saw the snarl on her face. Her mouth was working again. “Let me go, you bastard. Let me go, you kill-”

I got angry. This wasn’t the time for her to be playing guilt games with me. I switched hands. My right arm was already beginning to ache from her stunt and I didn’t want her stubbornness to injure my wrist. My stitching skills were going to be needed and needed badly.

“I don’t have time for any of your shit,” I spat. Then I jerked her arm, maybe a little too hard.

She moved with me, however, I felt her short fingernails dig painfully into my forearm. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to get me to let go of her hand. Maybe she was desperately trying to hold onto me so that she wouldn’t stumble and fall. I ignored the pain and the growing ache in my heart. I kept on running.

We reached the rock and I shoved Em down onto it. She started to rise the moment I let her go. I growled. “Stay put.”

I expected her to utter a retort so I looked away. Much to my relief she did remain seated.

I began to whistle. “Ragtop! Ragtop! Where are you, boy?”

I searched the chaos. Our sniffer dog was no where in sight. I turned to look at Em. Her teeth were clenched and she was breathing hard.

“I need Ragtop. Em, call for Ragtop.”

She lifted the corner of her lip and I saw her mouth a string of swear words.

I got angrier. “Em, grow up. Call the damned dog. You know the scent of dead bodies will drive him into a frenzy. And from how things look, there’s going to be plenty of those real soon.”

I didn’t bother to wait to see if she did as I asked. I whistled again and again. Calling for Ragtop as I scanned the ground. I got lucky and found a foot long stick. I picked it up and started waving it in the air. “Come on, Ragtop. Fetch, boy, fetch.”

The stick and the opportunity for a game did the trick. I spotted a flash of rusty fur in between two stopped trucks.

I hurled the stick as far as I could, in the opposite direction of the vehicles, and was glad that the dog took my bait. He tore after the stick as it flew through the air. I quickly turned to Em. “Now call him. Get the dog over here.”

Em clapped her hands together and I could see her lips moving. “Come, Ragtop. Come to Barty’s-a-shit.”

What she called me gave me pause. Not for long. So that’s how she thought of me? I wasn’t surprised. It didn’t matter. I’d lost Em and there was no turning back for either of us.

Ragtop came loping across the dirt and grass. When he stopped in front of me I reached out as if to take the stick from his jaws. I instead grabbed a fistful of fur and then Ragtop’s collar. The dog resisted me. I pulled harder. He dug his paws into the dry grass and rocky ground. He sat back on his haunches.

“Sorry, pooch,” I said. I dragged him forward. “I need you to stay here with Em.” I pushed the dog in between Em’s legs. She immediately closed her knees around the dog’s shaggy body and felt for Ragtop’s collar. Our hands brushed as we exchanged positions. “Hold on tight.”

Em gave me another snarl. Before I turned away, I saw her lips moving in a rhythmic sing-song pattern as she stroked Ragtop’s head. “Barty’s-a-shit, Barty’s-a-shit, Barty’s-a-shit.”