Текст книги "The Flood"

Автор книги: David Sachs

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning author DAVID SACHS lives in Chelsea, Quebec (Canada), in the woods of Parc du la Gatineau. He is a long time feature writer for magazines and major metro newspapers, writing on politics, culture, society and the outdoors, covering everything from anti-globalization riots to Amazonian shamanism, and from homelessness to hitchhiking. His feature film, The Last Party, is in development with Bunk 11 Pictures.

He is a father, an avid outdoorsman and rugby old boy, and a former physicist and Canadian Forces reserves officer. David is heavily involved in political and social causes, and a deadly boogie woogie piano player.

http://www.davidsachs.com

[email protected]

How This Story Came To Be

On my honeymoon in Greece, my wife and I were on an overcrowded ferry. We hadn’t paid for seats, and I was, let’s say, a bit hungover, so I went to nap on the open deck as the isles passed by. The entire story came to me in a dream. It was a far darker thing than I was used to, but I felt I shouldn’t waste something which had been given to me like that.

The rest was just writing.

(There was one scene from my dream I couldn’t fit in: scuba diving around Manhattan’s sunken skyscrapers. I just couldn’t make it work.)

Thanks

I would like to thank, first, my wife, for more than I could ever explain, but especially for her patience living with me while I lived with a story about horrible things.

I’d like to thank Peter Whelpton, former EVP at Royal Caribbean Cruise Line, as well as Daniel Capella, cruise industry journalist and consultant, for their guidance on technical and logistical issues. They were a great help in creating the world of the Festival, and Daniel even created the ship’s layout at my website, www.davidsachs.com/theflood/. Any inaccuracies in this book are my own fault (either for story reasons or simply out of ignorance).

I’d like to thank my beta readers (Victoria, Mary, Joe, Maureen, Jennifer, Diana, Jay, Samantha, Suzanne, Dan, Tia and CV), my brothers and many friends who helped me shape this story, and to Theresa Munanga for helping me spell it correctly.

To my agent, Melissa McComas for believing in The Flood.

Lastly, to Matt Mather, a great writer and better friend, for his guidance and occasional drink through the process of bringing this to readers.

Book Description

When the Flood hit, America’s East Coast was evacuated by every means possible. Now, a luxury cruise ship overloaded with refugees lies dead in the water: no power, no communications, no sign of rescue… and a dwindling buffet.

For those that escaped the Flood, the real nightmare is just beginning.

Travis Cooke was desperate to reunite his family. But not like this.

Trapped on the disabled ship, Travis and the unforgettable cast aboard find themselves alone in a big ocean. As the panic rises like the water, Travis finds behind each door an unexpected new side to the ship, but no way out. How far will a good man go to save the people he loves and has lost once before?

A gripping thriller, family drama, and mythic tragedy from a master storyteller. You’ve never read a story like The Flood.

Welcome aboard.

Copyright © David Sachs, 2015

ISBN 978-0-9940102-0-9

Cover image by Martin Gomez

Published by benChaim

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without written permission of the author. All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Op. 4

“Blue Skies” by Irving Berlin

© Copyright 1926, 1927 by Irving Berlin   © Copyright Renewed

International Copyright Secured   All Rights Reserved   Reprinted by Permission

E-book extra Locked In the Trunk of a Car

A Short Story Based on Themes from the Music of the Tragically Hip

 

 

 

 

 

This story is part of a series of Short Fiction Based on Themes from the Music of the Tragically Hip. Their music always seems to put stories in my imagination, even when the lyrics don’t tell one directly. I’ve tried to take the feelings and contours of the songs from one medium to another. Look for other stories in this series at my author’s page on Amazon.

 

 

The stories stand on their own – you don't need to know the music .. But for a unique experience to mirror my writing of it, I recommend listening to the song, LOCKED IN THE TRUNK OF A CAR (available here ), on repeat, while reading. Or don’t. It’s a free country.

I’ve woken up before in strange places, on couches perhaps, or with a girl in a strange bed, sometimes even in different cities. It’s usually after a night of heavy drinking. There’s that moment where you don’t know where you are. It’s disconcerting to wake into a completely new environment. It’s like you’ve woken to a new world, an Alice-in-Wonderland type experience. It only lasts an instant usually, wondering where you are, but it seems much longer as your brain tries to make sense of your surroundings. I like that moment of uncertainty, between worlds.

This is different.

Waking in complete darkness like this, it lasts longer. It feels less like waking and more like you’ve just begun dreaming – the type where you know it’s a dream and you can control your thoughts within the dream. That’s what this feels like at first. Then, it slowly drips into the realization that I’m wrong, this is no dream. I feel my body, the tape, the pain. I kick my bound legs out and shake myself around. I can feel the duct tape across my mouth now, the throbbing in my head. I’ve been hit on the head. I know where I am. I’m locked in the trunk of a car. I don’t know why. I don’t remember – I know I was at dinner, then I was walking home. That’s it, as far as I can remember. I don’t know even if there IS anything more to remember – if I was hit suddenly, or if there was more to the story but the concussion erased it. That’s the funny thing about not remembering.

I assume I’m going to die. I’ve done things in my life that have made people mad. I know there are people who want me dead. I don’t know who’s taken it upon themselves. So I’m waiting; there’s nothing else to do.

I had a friend who knew he was going to die. The doctor gave him six months and the sonofabitch was right on the money. So my friend had this period in his life where he knew his own end. He lived, boy; he enjoyed that time. He spent it the right way, doing all the things people would figure they would do in that situation: fulfilling some of his dreams, spending time with the people he cared about, letting them know everything he wanted to tell them, all those things. I think we all have an instinctive desire, before we die, to say everything there is to say, everything we think or know. He had that chance. When you’re dying, nobody makes fun of you for talking about the things that matter. It wasn’t all Hallmark. He got laid. He did it right. This is different.

For a few minutes I argue with myself, trying to bring hope into the equation. I mean, I don’t know who did this, I don’t know what this is about. Maybe they’re not going to kill me. But they are. I know it. Like my friend, I know my own end. But what good is that knowledge to me? Should I be living my life differently now that I know my time is measured? Should I be squeezing the juice out of every last second of life, making the most of this precious gift? Bound and gagged in the trunk of a car? My options are limited. My life, what remains of it, is playing out in my mind, in the dark. My body might as well be dead already.

I hear a door close, and feet shuffling; somebody’s walking closer. I try to move to make noise, to get his attention, but I’m so confined I can just limply tap the side wall with my feet. It feels so impotent. Then the car door opens and I know that whoever it is doesn’t care. He knows I’m here already. He’s here to kill me probably. At least something is happening now, at least there’s more than my brain to listen to. The car is started, we’re going somewhere. Heh-heh. I wonder what my ultimate destination is. I’m scared now.

*

Car. Body. Me. My work is simple. I laugh about it as I start the car. I don’t think about the body specifically. It’s simple work if you don’t think about it. Anyways, it needs doing right now. The garage is dark and ugly and it always makes me feel kind of spooked, but pulling out, the sun is up, and we are on our way into a beautiful day. Me, car and body. The Unholy Trinity, rolling down the street, on the way to our day job just like everyone else this morning. Rush hour traffic in Toronto I can do without. Everyone’s got a place to go, though. I find this amusing. I know what I’ve got in my car. Hey buddy, what have you got in yours? What’s in your trunk? Ha. Who knows? Who knows how many sick bastards are running around in this city with bodies in their trunks? Look at my car, green Chevy Caprice. Old and rusted. In Toronto rush hour it looks different from the Audis and Civics and SUVs, but nothing too peculiar about it. Maybe every car has a story as interesting as this. Every window has something behind it. I have a long drive; I don’t think too much about the body specifically, just let my mind wander.

The traffic is murder. The Don Valley Parkway in summertime construction. I’ve got all day, though. It’s nice when I’m not in a rush. I feel like I get paid to just sit in traffic and do nothing. I wish that was all there was to my job. I guess I shouldn’t complain about the traffic then. It always ends eventually, and then there’s that other part.

North of Toronto, I pull in at a truck stop for breakfast. I’ve been here enough times before, but nobody knows me. The regulars seem to talk to each other, to the waitresses, so easily. I eat in anonymity. It makes me uncomfortable. Everywhere is like this now. You cultivate anonymity in this job, you don’t want to be noticed, right? But you feel like a ghost.

“’Scuse me, I’m heading up to ditch a body! Whereabouts are you from fella? Can I buy you a beer?” I want to shout.

I eat enough to fill my belly, know I’m alive. Too early for a beer anyway. I tip small, feeling angry at being unnoticed, then feel guilty after I’ve walked back out into the parking lot and the sun is back on my face and my belly is warm and full. It’s not the waitress’s fault things are like they are.

The car seat is nice and warm when I sit down. I need gas, put ten bucks in just to top off. Doesn’t take too much gas. Not like these truckers, with their heavy loads, eating their weight in fuel to get where they’re going. My load isn’t so heavy in that respect. I use my bankcard at the pump. No need to talk to anyone.

I wonder how four million people can live in the city and all pass through each other like ghosts. Or am I the only one? I guess it’s all a matter of degrees.

*

It hurts, bouncing along the highway like this. Been in this position, all my weight on these few points, for a while. If you’ve ever passed out on a hard floor and slept the night in one position, you can begin to understand what I’m talking about. The pain gets so bad in your shoulders and hips, but you kind of get used to it after a while. After a while, anything can become background noise. Then the funny thing is I can think about other things, forgetting the pain, but remembering again when we stop.

When the bouncing stops and I’m suddenly still, it feels like the pain is leaking from my body. I can’t think about anything else but my shoulder, all swollen up and leaking pain. After that pain passes, I finally process the fact that we’ve stopped. The car is quiet. And there are others out there moving slowly. I can hear cars. A parking lot, or a gas station or something. I try to bang on the side of the trunk but I just can’t get any force, I can’t do anything more than tap. I try to bang my head against the side, but I can’t get any traction; my shoulder slips a little on me. My god, I can actually hear people talk. How can they not hear me? My heart sounds so loud, my nose-breathing is so heavy, for God’s sake, how do they not hear me? The duct tape muffles my voice as I try to scream, but they should be able to still hear something. Why can’t I tap any harder than this? This could be my only chance and I’m so impotent. How can they not sense that there is a human being here, feet away from them, with just this thin sheet of metal separating us? I’m here!

I recognize his footfalls, his feet shuffling back over the gravel of the parking lot. His key is in the door. We’re going to move again. We’re going to leave here and he’s going to kill me, and these people are standing here close enough to fucking smell me. Oh God, I’m RIGHT HERE. Why can’t I tap any harder than this? The car is started. Please, there’s so little time left, and this is my whole life. We’re moving again. No. Stopped again. What… he’s getting gas. I can’t keep tapping, it hurts too much, my calves feel like they’re burning. Let him gas up in peace. He knows I’m here.

Back onto the highway. I wonder if there is any good way to run out a life without a body? I wonder if there is any good way to run out life at all? Maybe the whole point of life is not thinking about when you’re gonna’ die. Maybe, once you know you’re dying, the game is over. Maybe it wasn’t all so satisfying for my friend, all those things he did in his final months. Maybe he was really dead already, he was just going through the motions. Maybe when you know you’re dying, life is like scoring goals after the other team has pulled the goalie. Is that what it felt like to accomplish those things? In baseball, they don’t let you bat in the bottom of the 9th if you’ve already won the game. Life’s not like this. You keep going, scoring meaningless runs. Maybe I’m lucky, my body’s been put on the injured reserve, I get to watch the clock run out from the bench, don’t have to bother with meaningless exertions and Kabuki dancing. We’re off the highway now, onto a smaller road.

Going slower, the vibrations change, become, like, deeper, hurts more. It’s ironic. My body is so useless to me, all I’ve got left to live with is inside my mind, but I can’t think straight with this FUCKING PAIN IN MY SHOULDER. Why can’t I stop caring about the pain? I’m dying, why should pain be a concern for me?

We’ve made several turns. There’s less noise now. We must be out of traffic, maybe in the country now, we’ve been gone so long, and we’re going so much slower now. Turn again. This is a dirt road. This is it.

*

It’s nice here. If it weren’t what it is, this would be a place I would like to come to. I’m probably the only one who knows about it. I could show it to people. It would be my spot, where I could take friends or girlfriends, or anybody, for camping or swimming, or picnicking. But it is what it is. And what it is is where I dump the bodies. It’s simple. Time to work.

I always back the car in. It’s kind of tight down this lane through the brush. Hard enough to walk around the car without getting my arms cut up by these thorns, wouldn’t want to carry the body around. No room to turn the car around after either.

Grab the bag and weights from the back seat and carry it around back. What’s that noise? That’s the trunk. Oh shit.

*

“Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”

I scream so hard my whole body feels like it will pop, but the duct tape mutes it, so that it is loudest in my own head. The light blinds me; I can’t see anything. It takes a moment to calm, I don’t know why; opening the trunk set off this wave of terror inside me, I started screaming, and then that voice.

Nothing more is said. My eyes are squinting straight up above, and slowly a very large handgun forms out of the white light. It’s a foot or so from my face. There is a man holding it, a large man in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

I can’t reply, but I think he gets the gist of what I would say. I’m not.

“Somebody fucked up,” he says, “Fuck. FUCK. I HATE doing this. Why does this shit always happen to me? …Heh. I suppose I must look very selfish complaining. You’re probably having a far worse day. And you’ve still got the killing to go through. This won’t be easy for either of us, I guess.”

He leans back from the car, and tucks the gun back into his pants. Looking around for a moment, he turns and drops so that his butt sits on the edge of the trunk, his back to me. His body partially blocks out the sun from my eyes.

“I’m not a killer,” he says, “I’m sorry to have to do this to you.” But his voice doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“I’m just supposed to take care of the bodies. They know I don’t do this kind of work,” he turns and looks back at me, like he’s angry at me. “Don’t think I can’t do it and I’m not gonna’ do it. Believe me, you’re a dead man. I just mean, I’m not SUPPOSED to do it.”

He turns back. Part of my mind is desperately searching for a way to escape, but I’m taped up in so many places. There’s no way out unless he lets me.

“I’ve been involved before with killing. I just don’t DO it, I mean, as a matter of course. It’s not part of the job description. ‘Course, life is tough all over, isn’t it? Look at you. You’re wrapped up like a Christmas present waiting to be opened. Only, ‘opened’ for you means deaded, know what I mean? Now that’s really a rough job…. Fuck.”

He gets up and begins walking around. Looking up out of the trunk, I can see thick trees around us, spruce and elm mostly, with wiry looking bushes poking around them. It’s humid out, and I have the feeling we’re next to water. Maybe it’s because I know what comes next.

“It makes it hard to go back to the city after you kill someone,” he continues, “That’s the thing I really hate. There’s always a first person you have to talk to. No matter how much you try to avoid people, eventually you gotta’ talk to someone. There’s always a first person you have to talk to after killing somebody. And all you can think is, you poor fucking schmuck, do you ealize I just killed somebody? Would you stand there so calmly and sell me my lotto ticket if you knew? But you actually feel like they do know something. They look at you, like you’ve got a mark on you. I don’t talk to people much anyways… It feels like it’s getting harder all the time. But these days are the worst. Go to a bar. Everybody’s having a good time, guys are picking up girls, they’ve got clever things to say, they do clever things that they can talk about in clever ways – it’s like they’ve got this secret they’re all in on, this club I can’t get into.

“I don’t talk to anybody. I sometimes wonder how human beings can ignore somebody right in front of them, but I sit there in this place where everybody’s talking to everybody, and nobody talks to me. They see me. I’m right fucking there. But nobody talks to me. And I feel like I can’t open my mouth to talk, ‘cause the words are just going to fall out and announce everything before I can stop them. I don’t know why I go to bars at all.”

I am suddenly aware of how wide open my eyes are. I ealize that this is what terror looks like. It’s funny because you don’t even know you’re doing it while you’re doing it. It’s one of those things.

“It doesn’t matter. People have to be killed. It’s no different from dumping the cargo, I just have to handle it properly first, right? My name is Pat, by the way. I’ll be your killer this afternoon. Heh. Wish you could look around a little, buddy; it’s nice here. This is my spot, I never get to share it with anyone but dead people.”

He looks at me suddenly, and then walks back over. Reaching in, he grabs me by the front of the shirt, then his other hand goes over behind my head and pulls. Oh God no! AAAH! Fuck. He puts me somehow leaned back against the open trunk lid. My legs are below me, splayed out a little to the right. It hurts like hell. But I see what he means, it is a nice spot. It’s wooded, dark and shaded, except the little spot where the car is. There’s a little shaded path right down to the water. No sign of anything human as far as I can see. Just us.

“There. Now it’s our spot. It must give you some satisfaction seeing where you’re gonna’, you know, be… I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I have no fucking idea what’s satisfying to you right now or not. Hey, you want a cigarette?”

He turns and – oh God! AAAAAAARGH! The tape is ripped off my mouth in one motion. I can’t stop screaming.

“Well, I don’t blame you. You’ve got a lot to scream about, but there’s no one can hear you anyways, so scream if you need to. Just don’t freak out or anything.”

He pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and sticks one in my mouth. It stops my crying. Like a baby and a pacifier. I blink away some tears and watch him lower the lighter to me. I breathe and the cigarette lights right away. It was so windy last night, I remember, but there’s no wind now, at least not here. Just humidity.

“I figure, what the hell. I never get to talk to anyone in this job, you know, never can enjoy what I’m doing with the cargo, so why not make the best of things, right? I mean, what the hell. If you have to die, and I have to kill you, we may as well make it as, you know, I mean, we might as well just chill and at least relax and just enjoy where we are. Right?”

“Why are you killing me?” I ask out of the side of my mouth, kind of mumbled because of the cigarette.

“That’s the job, buddy. I’m not supposed to, I’m just supposed to get rid of you, but here we are and what are we gonna’ do?”

“No, I mean, why am I here? Who is it that wants to kill me?”

“Look, I don’t get into the business side of things. I just know what I’ve gotta’ do. I’m sure your job, not that I know what you do or want to know, but I’m sure you got things you gotta’ handle that you don’t think about either. Everybody does.”

“If you’re going to kill me anyways, why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about it! Don’t you listen? I don’t fucking know, okay? I’m just a delivery boy, okay? I’m not a boss of anyone… but I’d rather be in my position than yours right now, I’ll tell you that.”

A cigarette smokes fast when you can’t pull it away from your mouth. I don’t smoke actually, or I should say, didn’t, but I guess it won’t kill me at this point. My eyes are tearing up again from the smoke, though; I wish I could take the cigarette from my mouth for a moment to blow the smoke away.

He looks at me, and pulls the cigarette from my mouth. I exhale deeply and cough, closing my eyes to clear them up.

“Want more?”

“One more puff.”

He gives it to me, then throws the butt down into the dirt and steps on it.

“I’ll pay you to let me go,” I say, “I’ll pay you – whatever it takes to make it worth your while, I’ll pay you.”

“Yeah? Enough even to cover my funeral expenses? ‘Cause that’s what it’ll be if I let you go. This isn’t some volunteer job, buddy – you do what they tell you in this job. It’s you or me, and between you and me, I pick me. No offense, I’m sure you’re a hell of a sweet guy, and I’m sure you got a ton of people that’d miss you, but I’d sure as hell miss me, so that ain’t gonna happen.”

“Look, please, I know you don’t wanna’ do this.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want to do. We all gotta’ do stuff we don’t want to do, why should my life be any easier than anyone else’s?

“We don’t all kill people!”

It came out like a sob; I didn’t like the way it sounded.

“Oh, like you’re so fucking perfect! You’re so fucking better than me. You know, I hate people like you, you think you’re so superior. You don’t know what my life is like. It could just as easily be you in this position, and if it were, you’d be doing the same shit as me. Don’t judge me. What gives you the right?”

“Look, I’m not judging you, but –”

“You’re already dead! Don’t you get that? As soon as they put you in the trunk, you were already dead. Abandon all hope ye poor bastard who enters my trunk. They’ve killed you already, so, how about we just assume you’re dead and put that behind us, and get on with our lives, I mean, you know, this conversation. Heh. I know that came out funny. Look, I just wanted to enjoy the fucking few minutes we could here and thought you’d fucking appreciate it, so don’t try and ruin this for both of us, okay?… It’s like, I can never tell anyone I talk to what I do, I always feel like I’m hiding something. I just thought, with you, we could just sit here and I wouldn’t feel that way. You know, if you don’t want to chill, I can just finish this conversation fast if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“No, no, look, it’s cool. We’ll just – we’ll just chill for a minute… …So, umm… you got a girlfriend or anything?”

God, what the hell kind of question was that? I’m trying to think of anything to talk about. He doesn’t look at me, just shakes his head. “No. No, you know, it’s hard to meet people in Toronto. And like, I don’t even know what kind of chick would want to be with someone who does what I do.”

“So… your job makes things rough for you,” God, if I can just get him talking like this, maybe he won’t do this, maybe he’ll not be able to kill me if he talks to me, maybe he’ll decide to retire, maybe he’ll die of old age, I don’t know, I just have to keep him talking. At least I’m alive while we talk.

“No, it’s not the job exactly. I mean, there’s a lot worse jobs. But it’s the… it’s society, you know? …It’s like, there’s two sides of society, the clean people and the dirty people. And once you become a dirty person, you can never be with the clean people again. It’s so hypocritical, you know? I mean, nobody wants to be on the dirty side, but people just wind up there. I mean, I made my own choices. But I didn’t start out doing this. I mean, I was a bartender at first. Wrong bar, that’s all. It was a gang bar. Bad guys. It was cool to me, getting to see the underside of the city, of life. I was like a voyeur. It was like, I had a club that I was in on for once. Eventually, if you work with dirty people, you become dirty too. You start as a clean guy who gets to see the dirty side, you don’t know that makes you dirty too, because once you’ve seen it, they’ve got you, they can’t let you go. They’ll pull you in and you can’t say no and you become dirty too. I bet you wondered, how do people get these dirty jobs? Did their guidance counselors give them some bad advice somewhere? Nah, it’s just, you’re in for a dime, you’re in for a dollar. After a little while working there, I started to get scared about the whole thing. I prayed they wouldn’t ever ask me to do more than serve drinks, you know? Because if they did, how do you say no? Then when they ask, they say it’s just one little job. Just do this, and it’s over. But this kind of job is never over. Instant career for life. Because every job connects with another one, and once you’ve done one job, you’re expected to be in all the way, you don’t stop. This job… never… ENDS… and when that’s your job, you can’t ever go back to clean people again. That’s the way society is... How can I have friends outside now? How can I have a girlfriend? Nobody would be with somebody like me. Yeah, I’ll say to her, ‘How was your day at school today, honey?’ ‘Oh, not bad. The kids behaved for once. I had to coach the girls’ soccer team afterwards ‘cause Vickie was sick. How was it for you today? You get the cargo out alright?’ ‘Oh, yeah. Took him up to the spot. Thank God he was dead! Just loaded him up and dropped him down.’ ‘I love you, jellybean.’ ‘I love you too, oky-boots.’… Doesn’t quite sound right, eh?”

“If you hate it so much, why can’t you quit?”

“You can’t quit! I just told you.”

“Look, I know that before, when you still, you know, were clean, they couldn’t let you go ‘cause you might be dangerous, but now that you’re dirty too, why can’t you just walk away? They know that they have no reason to worry about you blabbing or anything.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just it. I’m dirty too, now…it’s too late. What would be the point? Where am I gonna’ get a straight job? How do I explain what I’ve been doing all these years? Big blank space on the CV. Always looks bad. And how could I be with any clean people anyways? I couldn’t tell them what I’ve done. You can’t change what you’ve done, everybody knows that, that there are certain paths that your life takes and you can’t undo it or make it go away.”

“Well, for god’s sake, Pat, learn to lie! It’s not like it would be the worst thing you’ve done. Wouldn’t it be better to live a lie than keep on like this? You can still get out, that’s all that matters.”

“What’s the point?! What’s the point of finding a good woman, and falling in love with her and having her fall in love with you, if it’s a lie? Fuck it! Everyone in Toronto is so fake. I don’t want to be fake. Look at you, with your designer shirt, and your expensive watch. Would you let me marry your sister?”

“Well, it would be kind of awkward, to be quite frank…”

“Oh, that’s very funny wise guy. Wise dead guy.”

“Look, just… maybe I could help. I’ll do anything I can to help you get your life sorted out. If we just calm down, we can figure this out.”

“Shut up!”

His fist shoots out fast, right through my chin, and my body collapses back down into the pit of the trunk.