Part 4, Chapter 3 (Second Half)

Updating this blog-book has been a nightmare as of late. For that, I can only apologise, as I have done at the start of the past three or four updates.

Here's the second half of Part 4, Chapter 3, as way of redemption.

Enjoy!

Dave.

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3 (Continued)

“Get your things, Martin,” I say. “We’re leaving.”

The boy still lies on the ground. Blood covers his head, but he appears to be more worried about me than for his own health.

Saul coughs and rolls onto his side. Blood comes out of his mouth in a thick red river and drips to the ground.

“Get your things, Martin!” I shout this time, and martin struggles to his feet. Uneasy on his legs, he hobbles to the front entrance where our bags stand. He stops when he sees the blood on his palm, and his mouth opens in shock. “Don’t worry,” I say. “It looks worse than it is.” He nods through the tears.

I walk over to him, looking back at Saul on the ground as I pull my jacket on and tug a hat over my head. “I'm sorry,” I say with all sincerity to the boy and he nods again in dumb reply.

Saul is rocking on his side, coughing, as Martin and I carry our bags outside.

*

Quickly, we throw our bags into the truck. It’s cold outside and we can see our own breath. Our bodies are still running on adrenaline; my own body feels like it doesn’t even belong to me, as if I’m watching these events from afar, utterly disconnected from the situation. The sensation of autopilot is so intense.

We climb into the cab of the truck, without exchanging a word. I fumble for the keys, stick them in the ignition, and attempt to get the vehicle started. The engine keeps growling and spluttering, but nothing more. The truck faces Saul’s home, so Martin stares alternately at me and then at the home’s open door.

Back and forth, as the engine growls and growls and finally roars.

As the truck kicks into life, Saul emerges from his home, bloodied and limping. He is too far away for me to read his expression, but close enough for me to notice he is carrying his rifle again. He raises the gun to shoulder height and points at the car. My stomach drops.

Martin yelps and I yell at him, “GET DOWN!” Saul stares into my eyes and I stare back into his own, and I see nothing. An eternity passes, I turn to look behind me, and kick the vehicle into reverse. I can feel Saul’s eyes drilling into the back of my skull, and with them, the barrel of the rifle he holds. I continue to reverse the truck down Saul’s long sloping driveway, as fast as I can handle, and towards the main road. I turn my head forward again and Saul is walking down the driveway to follow us out, still holding the rifle at shoulder height, still pointed at the truck. Martin fidgets and I warn him again through tight set teeth, “Stay down!”; just to stay down a little while longer.

And then I roll onto the road, as simple as that, and swivel the car to face south. Martin pulls himself up over the dashboard, timid and curious. I don’t reprimand him. We can both see Saul watching us and as we pull away, he drops his rifle back to his side, his chin falling, sorrowful, into his chest.

“Are you ok, Martin?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply.

A long time passes.

“I’m sorry, Martin.”

“I know.”

Silence fills the air between us as we stare out of the windscreen and at the curving road ahead.