Percival Everett - Wounded

“Fuck you,” he said.

I poked him with the tip hard. He cried out and I did it again.

“Hey, fuckwad,” the redhead said. “We could just rush you. You can’t shoot all three of us with that thing.”

“I think I can,” I said. “But if I don’t we’re going to be slipping around fighting in your friend’s blood and brains.” I poked the little guy again. “Take the tape.”

He took it, then stood, rubbing the back of his head. “Tape their hands together behind their backs, wrap some around their arms and strap their feet to the chair legs.”

“I’m going to kill you, you fucking nigger,” he said, as began taping his running buddy instead of the redhead, but I let him continue.

“You’re not much for talking your way out of a mess, are you?” I said.

“What do you want?” the redhead asked.

“I’m looking for a friend,” I said.

“I’ll be your friend,” the little one said. He was finished with the first man and moved to the redhead.

“You know this is going to go on your permanent record,” the redhead said.

I smiled and nodded.

The small man stood up and away from the table. I gestured for him to have a seat.

“Are you going to put your gun down and tie me up now?” he asked.

“I think I’ll just let you sit for a while. So, have you men seen my friend? He’s about twenty, brown hair. A white guy.”

“Haven’t seen him,” red said.

“Are you sure? I ask because I believe this watch on the counter is his.”

“My mother gave me that watch,” the little man said.

“That’s a lie,” I said. “We all know you didn’t have a mother.”

“I think you should put that rifle down and tie me up,” the weasel said.

“Yeah,” said the man I’d met outside.

“Where is my friend?” I asked.

“Fuck you,” from the redhead. “I ain’t telling you shit.”

“Your friend is a fucking pussy,” the weasel said. “He didn’t even fight back. ‘Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me.’ Fucking faggot. At least the other faggot fought.”

I was lost in anger. But I knew now that they had, in fact, taken David. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead and I was sick about it. I didn’t know what to do next, what to say it, how to say it. I’d exhausted my tough-guy act.

Gus entered the cabin.

“Fuck me,” the redhead said. “What is this? Nigger heaven?”

What happened next was and still is a blur. I recall a flash and a loud pop and the red beard expanding and breaking, the chair falling over, the weasel sliding across the floor to the wall and Gus, standing there, a.45 in his hand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the remaining tied-up man kept saying.

“Nephew,” Gus said, “tape that piece of shit to a chair.”

I grabbed the weasel by his hair and pulled him to a chair, started wrapping him up. I was slowly coming to my senses, understanding what had just happened. “You killed him,” I said.

“It would seem so,” Gus said.

The little man still hadn’t said anything while his friend kept saying fuck .

“You killed him, Gus,” I said again.

“I’ve got two left,” the old man said.

At first I thought he was talking about bullets, but I then realized he meant the men. Gus’s face was tired, hard.

Gus pointed his pistol at the weasel’s face. “Where is David?” he asked. “You’ll tell me or I’ll shoot you. Then I’ll point the gun at your buddy. Where is David?”

“He’s up the canyon,” the man said.

“Alive?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Where up the canyon?” I asked, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the dead man, his face flattened in his own blood.

“There’s a trail just after the creek that leads to a hole in a big rock. I think somebody blasted out a place to keep supplies or something. He’s in there.”

“He’d better be,” Gus said. “If my nephew comes back here alone, I’m going to shoot you. Do you understand?”

“That’s where he is.”

I looked at Gus. He blew out a breath, then leaned against the wall. He was sick.

“Go,” he said.

“How far away is the trail?”

“A mile maybe. But he’s probably dead. Jesus, man, don’t shoot me.”

“Was he dead when you left him?” I asked.

“No.”

“He’d better not be dead,” Gus said.

“Where are the keys to that truck?” I asked the weasel.

“In the ignition.”

I ran out to the dually, climbed in and drove up the canyon, looking for the creek. I saw it, stopped, and walked back and forth looking for the trail. When I finally saw it, it was clear to see and I wondered if all of this was making me blind. I couldn’t believe that Gus had shot that man. Then I couldn’t believe that I had put myself in a place where I could have shot him. I didn’t know what was going to happen. How were we going to explain the death of a bound man?

I followed the trail across the frozen creek and, about a hundred yards in, saw the depression in the big rock. It opened like a cave, but was obviously the result of blasting. It got dark pretty quickly, but it wasn’t pitch. I didn’t have a light and so I moved slowly, letting my eyes adjust as I went.

My foot hit something. Not a rock. It was a body. I didn’t think, I just grabbed the legs and dragged the body to the opening and the light. It was David and he was beaten badly. His eyes were closed, his mouth pulp, but he was breathing. He was breathing. I untied his hands and feet. I talked to him, but I couldn’t tell if he could hear me. His arm was badly broken, bending off at a bizarre angle once untied and I tried to straighten it over his chest. He was bruised and bloody everywhere and I just knew he was bleeding inside. I started to cry. I didn’t know whether to leave him and get help or try to carry him to the truck. I couldn’t leave him, I decided. I simply couldn’t. If he was going to die, he wasn’t going to die alone. I dragged him as gently as I could back along the trail and across the ice to the truck. I struggled with his limp body and got him into the bed.

I drove back to the cabin and found Gus nearly asleep as he leaned against the wall. The men were still tied and Gus still held the pistol, but he looked bad.

“Gus, come on, I’ve got David in the truck.”

“You can’t leave us here,” the weasel said.

Neither Gus nor I responded to him or even looked his way. He was still shouting when we were outside.

Gus took control of the situation again. “Drive us back to the truck,” he said. “I’ll ride in the back with David.” He whistled as he observed the man. “They did a number on you, son.”

I drove us back to my truck.

Gus said, “Let’s put David in the cab. He can’t ride in the back. It’s just too cold.”

We gingerly moved David from the bed of the dually and over to the seat of my truck.

“Do you want to get in on this side or through the driver’s door?” I asked Gus and realized I was shaking.

Gus gave me a hard look and I felt the differences in our years and experiences. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Take David to the hospital. Tell the cops you found David anywhere but here or near here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just do it. We don’t have time to argue.”

I got into the truck and looked at David, slumped over, his head almost to my thigh. He looked so bad I couldn’t believe it. I started the truck and made my way out of the canyon, holding him as still as possible with my right hand. I pulled the truck out onto the highway and picked up some speed. The blood matted in David’s hair was dark and angry.

At the emergency room, David was taken away from me and I called home and then the sheriff. I sat in a stiff plastic chair and waited. Bucky arrived within minutes, sat beside me.