Highways to Hell Read Free Page B

something.”
    Danny cursed as he stumbled over a rock. The dead woman’s limp wrists slithered free of his sweaty palms and the back of her head thumped on the forest floor. He cursed again, knelt over the body, and cringed as he again was forced to touch the dead flesh. He stood up, lifting her by the wrists again.
    He looked at Rick. “What were you saying?”
    Rick smiled, a strange expression for a man gripping the thin ankles of a dead stripper in the middle of a dark and unfamiliar landscape. “I’m not covered in blood. Neither are you.”
    Danny squinted at him, his expression conveying non-comprehension for a space of several seconds. Then his eyes slowly widened. “Motherfucker.” The quiet epithet was invested with an odd combination of disbelief and dawning awe. He let go of the stripper’s wrists again and looked down at himself. The dead woman’s head cracked against a rock, but Danny was too busy patting his clothes to be disturbed by the grisly sound. He finished his self-inspection and lit up the forest with a radiant grin. “By God, you’re right.” He shook a clenched fist at the sky and let out an exultant cry. “YEAH! FUCK YEAH!” Then he laughed and, still grinning, looked at Rick again. “We didn’t do it, man! We really didn’t.”
    Rick was grinning, too, but now there were tears in his eyes. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much doubt some secret compartment in his psyche had harbored regarding his potential guilt. But now that was gone, as was the potentially permanent stain on his soul. He still had no idea what had really happened to the dead bitch. Maybe their original theory was closer to the truth than they knew. But it didn’t really matter. All he cared about was this incontrovertible proof that he and his friend weren’t mad dog killers.
    He let go of the dead stripper’s ankles and did a wild dance of unrestrained jubilation. Danny performed a similar dance. They whooped and thrust their fists toward the sky. Their behavior was much like that of very devoted sports fan who have just watched their favorite team score the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. They had bucked the odds and come out on top, snagging victory from the jaws of defeat just when things looked their darkest. They were going to fucking Disneyworld!
    The mood didn’t sour until Danny tripped over an unseen vine and fell at an awkward angle. His left ankle came down with too much momentum behind it and too much weight coming down on top of it. There was an audible snap of bone and Danny hit the ground hard, his mouth tasting leaves and dirt before he rolled onto his back and howled in agony. He sat up and clutched at his left leg, looked at Rick, and howled again.
    Rick’s stomach did a slow roll. Bile touched the back of his throat. The joy consuming him only a moment ago died, displaced by a sick fear that left him shaking and on the verge of expelling the contents of his upset stomach. It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t right. How could something so fucked up have happened so quickly and so unexpectedly? They’d been so close to being free of this inexplicable nightmare situation, and here suddenly was this fresh layer of hell, a fucking mundane injury.
    Danny managed to speak between quick, panting gasps. “Aw...fuck...dude. I broke...the fuck out of...my ankle. It looks...” Here he let out a whimper and grimaced. “Oh fuck. It looks like...like my foot’s hanging by a fucking hinge. Oh, sweet Jesus.” Another whimper as he rocked and clutched at his leg. “Oh. It hurts, Rick. Oh fuck, it hurts. Please...help me...”
    Rick mentally berated himself.
    Get your shit together! Help the man!
    Rick nodded silent agreement with the inner voice, which sounded more than a little like the growling voice of his dead father. He took a few steps toward his friend, cringing as he eyed the injured limb. His stomach rolled again. Sweat broke on his brow. His throat bulged and he had to swallow bile