~

Chapter Forty-nine

~

“Zig zag,” Jam shouted at me.

I’m pretty certain that wasn’t happenin’ because I was pretty much out of any zig, lucky to be movin’ forward at all.

Suddenly the bull’s fist clamped onto my shoulder and pulled me with him to the left, and after a few steps, to the right. My mind might have begun to catch on, but my feet said nuhuh. I had to stop. I was done, but by the grip he had on me, if I did, he’d take just my shoulder with him. Didn’t think that would feel good, the rest of my body sinkin’ into the rough ground.

“Is that a vehicle?” Jam shouted at me, which was unnecessary.

Great! flashed through my mind an instant after my complaint. Now they were comin’ after us in a truck, but he was lookin’ to the northwest. I was pretty sure the piercin’ pain everywhere in my body excluded any reasonable function of my eyes. They pretty much bounced in my head like rocks in a loose pocket.

“Let me stop here and die,” I begged.

An even tighter grip of my shoulder implied that was a no. If I survived all the other pain, a surgeon would be removin’ my shoulder because it was just a mass of mush.

“Holy dragon pooh,” Jam muttered.

Could it really get worse?

He jerked a free fist forward for a second. “Are they shootin’ at us?”

It was a miracle I was able to focus on the white truck maybe a quarter mile away. A couple men or bulls stood beside it, pointin’ long guns our way. I’d never seen a troll anywhere with a long gun, so any hopes died in my chest.

“Aren’t they too big to be humans?” Jam asked.

The way he shook me as my feet barely touched the ground there wasn’t a lot of visual acuity goin’ on with me. But. I kinda. Thought he was right. I managed a, “Maybe.”

The two got back into their vehicle, which pulled toward us. Maybe the guns behind us had stopped poppin’. Maybe, the new guys convinced the other guys to get lost? Had to be a stupid idea—my brain had to be failin’, as I watched the ground approachin’ my face.

A distinct, painful jolt racked me toes to tiddlywinks, as my Grandma liked to say. A bomb hadn’t gone off. I now stretched over Jam’s shoulder, and the world flipped and flopped as though bein’ blended into a smoothie.

That continued for another ten of Jam’s long strides, I’d guess. My weight shifted off my gut, as Jam rolled me in front of him, promised a possible last breath of air. I still wasn’t dead or unconscious, because I made out the big block letters spellin’ out “Police” across the side of a six-wheel OM truck.

Another strong pair of hands—funny I knew immediately they were troll hands, the way they wrapped around my stick-like arms—led me to an open back door.

“Ya Jam and Kriz?” a voice rattled in my head.

Maybe Jam answered for us.

“We got a call a few minutes ago ya were on the way here. Ya sure chose the worst possible place to be today.”

Those strong hands levitated me into a seat. “Jeez ya look bad. Even for an ogre.”

Bad? That’s rude. I think I’m a rather handsome bull.

“Ya got hit a bunch of times,” I heard, as the door closed me in. “Gonna ruin the seats.”

Hit? Ruin?

The first made sense. They banged me with bats and pipes a hundred times. Could that have made me ugly? Would be disappointin. Ma would mention it often on Friday nights. Since she runs out of positive thin’s to say about me.

Wasn’t sure where Jam made off to. I think I called his name. A deep, calm voice told me that he was gettin’ in the other side.

Other side of what?

Another troll hand pressed against my chest, firmly—maybe Jam—and the OM bounced into motion. Ouch. Ouch. I blinked hard against the blur, struggled to turn my head to the left to find Jam, but the pain was about as bad as I could imagine, and I always thought I had a great imagination.

“That stunk,” dribbled out of my lips. Dribbled was a good word. Pretty sure slobber dribbled down my chin.

“I’ve had better afternoons.” Pretty sure Jam said that.

“They get ya with those bats too?” I managed.

“Weren’t bats. Not all of ’em,” he said.

“Yeah. Pipes. Sticks.”

“Ya look like a pincushion.” Definitely Jam. “It’s my fault. I’m really sorry. Really. Really. Sorry.”

“Pin cushion?”

I think I was coastin’ off for a nap though, because I didn’t catch his explanation. On the positive side, I didn’t even notice my wrist now.

~

Nuel

~

I sat in Papa’s coupe, in the garage, chargin’ my phone when I received Ike’s text. “Kriz and Jam shot more times than the cops could guess, but nothin’ that looks fatal. Safe now. Thought ya’d want to know.”

Tears followed by sobs rocked me forward and back.

Papa found me bawlin’ like that a couple minutes later. Kneelin’ next to the car, he pulled me into his arms. Rocked me as much as he could in our awkward position. Instead of askin’ me, he picked up my phone and read the text.

“Good news,” he said.

Took me a second to manage it, but I hissed, “Did ya read the shot part?”

“I read the not fatal part.” Papa has always had such a gentle voice with me. Even when I was bein’ a witch, spelled with a B. And teenage ogre hens can be that way without workin’ at it.

He used the cuff of his sleeve to wipe my nose with a pinch, then his forearm across my face to dry me up a little. I felt like a two-year-old bein’ cuddled, and it felt good.

I hugged his arm tightly. “He let me know.”

Assumed Papa would know I meant Ike.

“Of course he did. Knew ya cared.”

“Not so much, maybe.” I sniffed.

“Not the time to be beatin’ yarself up. None of us are through this yet.”

“Always the optimist,” I said.