“Jesus, mister. You don’t look no good.”
That was Jimbo — ever the master of observation.
Fact was, the old man was far worse than “no good”. More like dead on his feet.
Dehydrated, starved, and covered in mosquito welts, looked like some refuge from war-torn Africa, if it wasn’t for that ass-pale skin.
And, God! the smell! It was like every orifice the man had had just opened up at once, expressing all the content, then just left there to bake in the sun for a couple of days. Judging from the saggy state of his torn up jeans, Tripp noted with a suppressed gag, that was exactly what happened.
The old man stood, swaying on his legs like he was just getting used to them. His hand was busted. Key teeth gone. Blood dripping from his head into his eye. If the man wasn’t standing there breathing (if you could call that ragged intake breathing), Tripp would’ve been sure he was dead.
Maybe he was, just didn’t know it.
Tripp pressed a hand to Jimbo’s chest, forcing the bigger man to take a step back.
“Don’t touch him, Jim,” Tripp said, his eyes not leaving the old man swaying on unsteady feet. “Something’s not right. Might be diseased or something.”
“Like rabid?”
“Maybe.”
Jimbo squinted at the old man. “Ain’t foaming though.”
Tripp peered into the old man’s face. Caught his eye. Blue, deep blue. And…and…alive? Was that it? There was something there, that was for sure. Some light, some semblance of…something or other. Consciousness maybe.
“Not dead yet,” Tripp said.
Jimbo looked from the Tripp to the old man.
“No shit. What we gonna do? I sure as hell ain’t strapping him to the hog.”
“Can’t just leave him here.”
“Hell yeah, we can.” Jimbo sauntered back to his rig, keeping a good eye on the old man. Not that there was much to watch - hadn’t moved from that spot. Fucking weird.
“Jim!”
Tripp dashed over to the big man, placed a hand on this bar.
“We can’t just leave him here, man.”
Jim glanced from Tripp to the old man.
“Christ. Maybe you’re right.”
Tripp followed Jimbo’s gaze. The old man was on his knees, gripping the dirt in the road again and again, even with his busted hand. Did he not feel pain?
“Hey…hey, man. Mister?” Tripp approached the man palms out, like he was dealing with a wounded animal. “We’re gonna take you over the Deadhorse, alright? Deadhorse. Get you some meds. That sound good?”
The old man looked up, stared into Tripp’s eyes. There it was again, that light. Quiet and sad with no hope of rescue, a lone lighthouse in an endless sea of storms.
Tripp stared back, tried to understand. There was something there, something to be heard, to be understood. It was just on the tip of his tongue, if only he could find the words.
I’m…I’m…
The old man flung a handful of dirt into Tripp’s wide-open eyes. Tripp screamed in surprise and pain as he fell back on his ass.
God damn it!
He dug his fists into his eyes to wipe out the bits of dirt, but only succeeded in scraping a pebble over his cornea.
“Ahh! Shit! Fuck!”
Heavy footsteps as Jimbo hurried over.
“Tripp! What hap —”
Jimbo gave out an oof! followed by a short, violent shout. There was a thump — the sound of a body hitting the ground. Tripp tried blinking out the dirt and pain in his eye. Vision blurred, tears running down his face, he opened his eyes to see Jimbo laying facedown in the road, his neck twisted an awful obtuse angle.
Tripp opened his mouth, tried to shout, but his arms were caught, pinned to the ground. The old man was on top of him, his hideous face directly above. Tripp twisted and writhed, but the man’s grip was steel on his wrists. Where was all this strength coming from?
Tripp locked eyes with the man, those deep blue eyes. The light was still there, but was quieter now, overwhelmed with storm clouds.
He saw it now. Saw what it all meant. And as the old man opened his mouth, and as the black bile bulged in his wrinkled neck, Tripp heard the word that echoed in those baby blues.
…sorry…