Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [95]
I force my eyes open, blinking until I can see past the bright lights that dance over my retinas, the scent of ballpark hot dogs lingering. A sharp pain runs the length of my skull as I lift my head. I run a searching hand over the focal point of the pain and my fingers come away wet. With a groan, I roll onto my side and force myself up to something resembling a sitting position. A light rain has started, and it falls like a cold mist between the tree line and me. Somewhere on the tip of one of my brain’s lobes—the one responsible for handling the fulfillment of immediate needs—is a sense that I should be concerned, that I’m in a situation where urgency is required, and this doesn’t look at all like Fenway.
From behind, I hear a soft moan. And when I turn and find Esperanza lying next to me like a discarded rag doll, the cobwebs vanish. Instantly I remember where I am, and I see the leveled structure in my periphery as I rush to help Espy. The residual smell of hot dogs gives way to that of charred wood as flames engulf the ruins.
I put my hand on Espy’s shoulder and give her as thorough an exam as one can give in the light provided by a structural fire, and in the rain, and when the other person’s lying facedown and wearing a jacket. There are no obvious broken bones, but I have no way of knowing about internal injuries.
“Esperanza, you have to get up.” I give her shoulder a little shake and feel her stir.
After another groan, she pushes herself off the ground on unsteady arms. I slip next to her and let her lean on me, brushing the dark hair from her face. Her eyes are clear, if rimmed by pain, and I can’t see anything to indicate a concussion.
“Can you move?”
“If I have to.”
“You have to.”
While steadying her, I remember the gun. When she can stand upright without my help, I go back to where the blast threw me and start to feel in the grass, making an expanding circle from that spot until I find it nearly ten meters away. I hesitate for only a second before picking it up and, in a crouching run, returning to Espy. Our escape took us out a window on the side of the house away from the front entrance, and though it would seem we’re alone here, I can’t assume anything. While the explosion gutted the house, it remains an obstacle that’s keeping me from seeing the driveway. Another thing I can’t gauge is how long we were unconscious. My gut tells me I was out for less than a minute, but I have no way to know for certain.
I take Esperanza’s hand and, in a move that catches my companion by surprise, start toward the fire. She tugs at me, but I strengthen my grip and pull her along. I take us as close to the burning house as I can, stopping just before the heat causes pain.
“What are you doing?” Espy asks.
With the hand holding the gun, I motion to the empty expanse surrounding us. “Look. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The nearest neighbor is four miles away, and Laverton is almost ten. Neither of us have shoes. I don’t have a coat. We’ll either freeze to death or one of us will get bit by a snake before we can get help.”
That seems to satisfy her. I begin walking toward the right because the fire seems less intense there. When I reach the corner—or what would have been a corner if the bomb hadn’t done its job—I peek around.
“What—”
I cut Espy off with a quick squeeze of her hand. Three vehicles are parked in the driveway. Jim’s Dakota lies under a coat of rubble, broken two-by-fours and roof shingles, and the windshield has a long crack on the driver’s side. It’s probably drivable. Which is more than I can say about the Mustang. Being nearer to the house, the car took more of the brunt of the explosion. The windows are gone and the interior is ablaze. But it’s the third vehicle