Distraction - Bruce Sterling [131]
“That’s too bad.” He realized that Greta was utterly terrified. She was babbling. His own fear had vanished completely. He was overwhelmed with protective instinct. He felt elated with it, half-drunk. He would do absolutely anything for the slightest chance to save her.
“But I’m not eleven anymore. Now I know what grown-ups do in this situation. It has nothing to do with big ideas. It really, really makes you want to have sex.”
This was a completely unexpected observation, but it landed on Oscar like a match on oil-soaked rags. It was so utterly and compellingly true that he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He felt dual rushes of fear and arousal strong enough to split his brain. His ears rang and his hands began itching.
“So,” she whispered hotly, “if I weren’t all tied up right now …”
“Actually,” he breathed, “I don’t mind that very much.…”
The speaker crackled into life. “Okay. Just stop that right now. Knock it off with that. That’s really disgusting.”
“Hey!” a second, male voice objected. “Give ’em a break.”
“Are you crazy?” Willis objected.
“Girl, you never been a combat veteran. On the last night before you go out to get killed—hell yeah, you wanna get laid! You’ll hump anything in a skirt.”
“Ha!” Oscar shouted. “So you don’t like it? Come back here and stop us.”
“Don’t try me.”
“What can you do to us? We have nothing left to lose now. You know that we’re lovers. Sure, that’s our big dark secret, but we’ve got nothing to hide from you. You’re just voyeurs. You mean nothing to us. To hell with you. We can do whatever we want.”
Greta laughed. “I never thought of it that way,” she said giddily. “But it’s so true. We’re not making them watch us. They have to watch us.”
“Hell, I wanna watch ’em,” the male kidnapper said. “I like their attitude! I’ll even play ’em some music.” A radio snapped on, playing a lively Cajun two-step.
“Get your hands off that thing!” Willis commanded.
“Shut up! I can drive while I watch.”
“I’m gonna gas both of ’em.”
“What are you, crazy? Don’t do that. Hey!”
The ambulance veered wildly. There was a loud splattering of mud and the overloaded vehicle yawed and half spun. Oscar was flung from Greta’s side, and thrown bruisingly against the bulkhead. The vehicle ground to a halt.
“Now you’ve done it,” Willis said.
“Don’t get in a twist,” the man grumbled. “We’ll make it on time.”
“Not if you just broke the axle, you horny moron.”
“Stop bitching, lemme think. I’ll check.” A door squealed open.
“I broke my arm!” Oscar yelled. “I’m bleeding to death back here!”
“Would you stop being so goddamn clever?” Willis shouted. “Jesus Christ, you’re a pain! Why can’t you make this easy? It doesn’t have to be this hard! Just shut up and go to sleep.” There was an evil hiss of gas.
Oscar woke in darkness to a violent racket of tearing metal. He was lying on his back and there was something very heavy on his chest. He was hot and dizzy and his mouth tasted like powdered aluminum.
There was a vicious screech and a sullen pop. A diamond-sharp wedge of sunlight poured in upon him. He found that he was lying at the bottom of a monster coffin, with Greta sprawling on his chest. He squirmed, and shoved her legs aside with an effort that brought lancing pain behind his eyeballs.
After a few clear breaths, Oscar grasped his situation. The two of them were still lying inside the ambulance. But the vehicle had tumbled onto its side. He was now lying flat on one narrow wall. Greta was dangling above him, still handcuffed to the