Page 97 of Body Count

The skitter and scrape of stone and loose earth came from nearby, and then the familiarchinkof the shovel.Rory was making wet, gasping noises.Sobs, I thought.He’s crying harder now.

“Stop!”he screamed.“Stop!You can’t do that!”

I picked at the comforter with one trembling hand, trying to find the edge of it.I was getting more and more of that fresh, cool air, and it was so sweet, I wanted to gulp it down, drink it like ice water.

“I said stop!”And then Rory wailed—the sound frustrated, bewildered, and full of a child’s rage at a world that wouldn’t play by his rules.“Stop!”

The first blow from the shovel came as a whistling noise, and then it hit my head, and the world went white.I fell.Another blow landed, low on my back, barely felt through that bright, soundless storm inside my head.And then another.And then one hit the gunshot wound, and everything got scrambled.

Through the static, Rory’s sobs and shouts penetrated thinly.“Why are you doing this?Why won’t you just stop?Stay down!Just stay down!”

He stopped, eventually.The sounds came of his scrambling progress up out of the trench.Metal clanged when he dropped the shovel, and then steps moved away.

I had to get up.It was hard to think, but I knew I had to get up because—

He was going to be so mad.

Something sticky was under me.The floor was a mess.A long way off, someone was crying.

I had to get up because she needed me.

But it wasn’t the kitchen, was it?It was the hospital.I hurt so much, it had to be the hospital.They’d told me.They’d tried to tell me.But I hadn’t understood until I’d seen a mirror.

I had to get up.

The ground was rough.Rocky.A confused part of me recognized it couldn’t be the hospital.I was outside.I could hear a bird.The night came back to me, the asphalt biting into bare skin, the rubber tread of a boot pressed against my neck, the hot piss slashing the air.

I had to get up.

Again.

I had to get up again.

In the academy, they’d called it the winning mind.You had to believe you were going to win.You had to believe it so strongly that you knew it.That belief was why some officers survived impossible odds.It was why they kept fighting, when everyone else would have lain down to die.

But it had been something else before the academy.It didn’t have a name.It wasn’t decision—at least, not a conscious one.It was just this red, screaming part of me that wouldn’t give up.Not when I saw what that psycho bitch had done to me.Not when I’d been a child lying on a dirty kitchen floor.A dazed voice added, Not for some thirsty little twink.

So I got up.Again.

Hands and knees.And then, fumbling blindly because my eyes still weren’t working very well, I ripped my way free of the comforter.The light dazzled me.The fresh air on my skin made my eyes sting.I tried to suck in deep lungfuls, but the pain in my chest made me dizzy, so I had to settle for soft, whispery gasps.The wet hair on my nape.The crumbling dirt between my fingers.That bird was still singing.Get up, I thought.Get up.Get up.

I crawled, slipping and sliding and falling in the loose soil.When I got to the top, I sat on the grass.I was shaking.Blood loss, the cop inside me said.Shock.

Not yet, I told the cop.

Calling it a pit would have been misleading; it was a hole in the ground barely a couple of feet deep.If Rory had gone ahead with his plan of filling it in, the comforter—with me inside it—probably would have stuck out in several places.It was obvious that the kid hadn’t had any idea what he was doing, and he’d given up once he thought he’d dug deep enough.It was also obvious Rory was an idiot, which made my whole situation kind of insulting.

I was about to get on my hands and knees again when I noticed that the earth looked dry.Not wet, like he’d just dug here.Enough time had passed for the dirt to dry out.And when I looked closer, even with my eyes acting funny, I noticed what I’d missed the first time.Light sparked off a bloodstained knife, half-buried near the comforter.Next to it lay a bundle of filthy clothing.

Good God, I thought.How fucking stupid was he?

Although, I guess in Rory’s defense, this place—wherever it was—had worked well enough the first time.

I took a moment to look around.My car was parked about thirty yards away.The trunk was still open, and there was no sign of Rory.When the breeze dropped, though, I thought I heard his voice.

Get to the car.

I started to crawl.Then I noticed the shovel, which still lay where Rory had dropped it.The blade was covered in rust.Either he’d left it here after burying the knife and clothes, or it had been out here to start with—wherever here was.The handle was wood, and old.Not something he’d picked up at a hardware store.I dug the blade into the ground to anchor it, and then I used the shovel to drag myself to my feet, the gunshot wound screaming with every movement.

---