by Brian Hodge
Jason sighed, lowering his weapon until it pointed into the floor. At least one thing was working in his favor: He wasn’t particularly trigger-happy, and neither were they. Cool heads were prevailing.
“Tomahawk,” said the leader, nudging the man beside him, who nodded.
The second man stepped forward into better light. He too wore jeans, as did nearly all of these nomads, and a threadbare excuse for a denim work shirt, faded as if it had seen ten thousand suns. He was darkly ruddy and his glossy black hair hung longer than Jason’s. Tomahawk? It fit; he looked to be a full-blooded Indian. Only then did Jason see the man’s namesake, dangling from his belt in a leather sheath.
His chiseled face never flickered, his dark eyes never once left Jason’s as he neared the box of food. One hand still holding the idle shotgun, Jason rested his other arm on the tabletop, absently toying with the empty stew can. Remembering Caleb’s trick with the Southern Comfort out on that liquor store lot so long ago.
Closer…
Stop.
“Don’t forget this one,” Jason said, and tossed the can into the air, where it spun a whirling path inches from Tomahawk’s nose. All it bought was a second of surprise, but if you’re lucky, that’s all you need.
Jason was out of the booth and on his feet before the can reached its apex. And by the time it started on the trip back down, he had Tomahawk’s throat in the crook of his arm, spinning him around so he faced his group, with the shotgun against his skull. None too lightly either.
“Now who’s got the drop, huh?” Jason said. “Huh?”
“I don’t believe this guy.” A new voice, a woman’s, muttering in the background. Then she raised her voice. “You see this rifle? It makes a godawful big mess. It’s aimed at the right side of your head, and at this range, I can’t miss.”
Jason wished he could fold in on himself and disappear. He shifted positions, trying to gain a little more cover.
“Not good enough. Both elbows are clear. And your wrist.”
“She was in the army,” Tomahawk said. “This close to her, your elbow might as well be as big as the side of a barn.”
Their leader took a diplomatic step forward, spread his hands. “That’s a piss-poor stash of food to die for, son.”
“One,” counted the trigger woman in the back.
I can’t back down I can’t just can’t.
“Two.”
Jason’s mind blanked, as if he found himself tottering on the edge of a precipice, staring into a black chasm.
“Ain’t gonna be no two-and-a-half, son.”
“I want this guy,” Tomahawk abruptly said.
Jason’s breath locked. He wants me? Reprieve. But just what did he have in mind?
“You sure?” asked the leader, and behind him, a number of others were grinning and nodding. Like they were relishing the prospect of a surprise sideshow at a carnival.
“Yeah,” Tomahawk said, giving a tiny nod within the clamp of Jason’s arm.
The leader scuffed at the floor with his dusty boot again, hands on hips. “Got a deal for you, son. Looks like a Mexican standoff otherwise.”
Jason simply stared, waiting.
“You and Tomahawk go at it outside, fair and square. He wins, we keep the food. You win, it’s yours, and we ride off our own separate ways. Simple as that.”
“What’s to keep you from blowing me out of my socks either way?” Jason asked.
“My word. That’s all I got, but I keep it. That’s the best you’re gonna do.”
They stood for a second, frozen, and a hot wind buffeted the windows. I don’t know why I should, Jason thought, but I believe him. Gut instincts had been serving him well as of late. They could still betray you, but this time it beat the certainty of G.I. Jill and her assault rifle.
Jason nodded and released Tomahawk, tightening every muscle for a second as he half anticipated a sudden hailstorm of bullets that never came. He followed the group outside and onto the lot, sidewinders of dust looping across the asphalt. Somebody made a crack about using Jason for a fuel filter afterward, and it brought a scattering of chuckles.
Go ahead and laugh, assholes. I don’t really give a shit one way or another anymore.
Jason tossed his shotgun into the driver’s seat through his open window, set the box of cans atop his hood. Turned back to face the opposition, flexing his arms and shoulders beneath the sleeveless muscle shirt he wore. Stiff. Too many miles cramped behind the wheel. He slammed a fist against his thigh as he viewed them all, as he watched Tomahawk undoing the belt holding his stone ax.
And like the guitar string he’d told Erika about, he felt the internal tuning peg turn and tighten, stretching him closer to the breaking point. He wanted to cry for some vague reason, and felt himself nearly vibrating with tension.
Jason sprang forward, surprising even himself with his speed, and he swung a wild fist that clouted across the Indian’s jaw. Tomahawk’s head rolled and his knee came up, crashing into Jason’s stomach. Jason nearly flipped over forward, but righted himself and staggered off to one side. The other truckers hooted and hollered as if they were in Madison Square Garden.
I’ll probably get stomped, Jason thought, directing it upward, but let me get in a few good ones. Don’t let them think I’m a total wuss.
Tomahawk’s leg flashed up toward him, and he barely dodged in time. He grabbed the leg and held tight, the muscles beneath his hands flexing like cables. He drove back to unbalance the Indian, and succeeded in buckling the other leg. Tomahawk went down hard and Jason dove for him, but caught one foot in the chest. Tomahawk heaved with one leg and sent Jason flying backward. Jason felt his shoulders scrape across asphalt, felt the sting of dirt and grit rubbing into the raw skin. He refused to let himself yell.
The roles were reversed, and now it was the Indian diving for him. Jason rolled and watched Tomahawk land where he’d been a second before, then jabbed down with one bleeding elbow into Tomahawk’s ribs. It brought a grunt of pain from both of them, and Jason did it again.
Jason was up on his feet to back off a moment and catch his breath, but a foot sliced across his path and tripped along his ankle. He went flying back to the lot, and Tomahawk was on him again. They tussled and rolled and grunted and punched when they could, and only when they wedged themselves up against the massive tire of a Peterbilt truck did they break.
Jason vaulted unsteadily to his feet, scrambling a couple yards away, and the hooting circle of truckers broke to allow him room. His head thudding with pain and adrenaline, he tried to take stock of them both, who could last longer.
His biggest problem was the patches of skin flayed onto the asphalt, leaving raw and bleeding scrapes behind. He could almost feel the infection setting in and taking root.
Tomahawk’s threadbare shirt was ripped in five or six places, and stained with blood that drizzled from one nostril. His long black hair swung freely in front of his face as he lurched to his feet, favoring his left side, where Jay’s elbow had connected.
The Indian circled warily, putting Jason between himself and the Peterbilt, then charged. Jason grabbed the rearview mirror frame on the cab’s door and, with one foot on the step, launched himself up with every ounce of strength left. Tomahawk rushed beneath him, through suddenly empty space, and hit the truck like a linebacker. Jason swung back down into him, landing gracelessly, and they both staggered.
He heard it then, the truckers cheering in appreciation of what he thought of as a pretty impressive move, even if the landing was rough. Admiration? It did him more good than an injection of adrenaline. He gave a bloody grin and rushed back in.
Tomahawk looked up at him coming, his eyes widening. He reached up to the bottom of the truck’s door, level with his nose, and yanked the handle. The door sprang open and thudded into the side of Jason’s head.
Jason flopped backwar
d like he’d been poleaxed. The sickening crunch still echoed in his skull, and remnants of the white-hot sledgehammer of pain danced before his eyes. He was beyond thought, and felt blood flowing down his cheek from the open cut beside his eye.
He did the best he could to counter, grabbing the edge of the door with one hand and aiming an ineffectual kick that grazed Tomahawk’s shoulder and ripped part of his shirt away, but little else. It killed what remained of his balance, and he went down again.
His head swimming, Jason rolled in the direction of the truck and saw a blur of multiple Tomahawks moving toward him, Tomahawk and his three brothers. They say when you see three of something, aim for the middle one, but they never said what to do when you see four. He blinked away blood as the cluster of Tomahawks came in for the kill, moving in perfect unison and raising four fists.
Jason tried to lift himself off his back, and couldn’t do much more than flounder.
“That’s enough.” A familiar voice out there somewhere…the tall, rangy leader. “He’s done, he’s had it.”
Jason blinked again, spat blood and dirt. This time he only saw three Tomahawks, and they showed signs of converging further. Aim for the middle one.
“Bullshit,” Jason croaked.
Tomahawk raised one eyebrow.
Jason kicked up into the notch between his legs, and it bought enough time to struggle to his feet once more, vowing to never get taken back down. In a few moments everything came back into painful focus, and by this time the Indian had decided he could live with the pain in his balls.
They clashed, slugging it out and body punching, tossing each other back and forth until Jason extended the third knuckle of one hand and rammed his fist into the inverted V of Tomahawk’s ribcage. Breath and spit exploded into his face, and Tomahawk stumbled away gasping to collapse against the dusty, bug-coated front of the Peterbilt.
Jason lurched forward, cocking back one skinned fist. He paused to watch the silent eye contact between Tomahawk and the still-nameless man in the mesh cap and shades. He watched Tomahawk grimace and vainly suck for air and, clutching his sides, shake his head. It was pride alone that held him there, Jason knew. Nothing more. Because when you can’t breathe, you can’t do much of anything else.
Jason didn’t want to end it, for deep inside he knew how utterly stupid this was, beating each other to pulps over…what? A dozen small cans of food? And deep inside he also knew that Tomahawk was probably just as hungry as he himself was. He didn’t want to end it the way it had to end.
But the choice wasn’t his.
Jason moved forward in shuffling steps, regretfully watching the helpless expression grow in the dark eyes of the Indian cramped against the truck. Until the world swam gray and he made an unwanted drop to his knees when his lower legs refused to hold him. So much for his vow of a couple minutes before.
He cursed himself and kept going down.
* *
Daylight was still bright when he awoke, so he knew he hadn’t been out too long. But it was muted somehow.
It took several moments of reorientation and getting newly used to a body that ached all over again, but he finally surmised that he was back inside the truck stop. A thick, metallic taste coated the inside of his mouth. It took another few seconds before he realized he was reclining in one of the cracked vinyl booths, with someone working on his left hand as his arm lay across the table like some grimy entree.
Tomahawk.
Jason watched as the Indian wound gauze back and forth between the fingers, circled it around his palm, taped it into one tight mass. The knuckles underneath, now rendered invisible, still stung, but this time from antiseptic.
“I’m too tired to figure out why,” Jason said.
The Indian smiled, and Jason didn’t think that expression came easily. The left side of his lower lip was swelled up like a weak spot in an inner tube. But at least he was cleaned up, with a new shirt, and appeared less battered than he’d looked outside.
“How’s that feel?” Tomahawk asked.
Jason slowly curled his fingers inward, flexed them. To be honest, it hurt like a bastard. But he’d live. He nodded. Then he reached toward his face, felt another bandage on the side of his head where it had met the truck door.
I take it we don’t have to fight anymore. I really don’t care who ended up with the food. And? And I just want someone to talk to.
“How come?” Jason finally asked.
“Orenda.”
Jason was about to ask him to repeat, but he’d heard it clearly the first time. “Indian word, huh?”
Tomahawk nodded, and placed the roll of white tape back into a blue and white plastic case, the lid bearing a red cross. “Iroquois. The Cayuga Nation.”
A file of long-neglected information gleaned from his American history courses flipped through his head. Iroquois? The word triggered the phrase Confederacy of the Five Nations, but the only one he could specifically remember as belonging were the Mohawks. Screw it. That was a long time ago, in a land far, far away.
“Orenda,” Tomahawk repeated, holding a clenched fist to his chest. “It’s your individual spirit, the part of you that fights harm, and evil. Like you thought I was evil. Like I had to pretend you were.”
Jason mused this over. “Orenda. I like that.”
Tomahawk nodded. “And I say it’s worth saving in you.”
Jason allowed himself a couple moments of smug satisfaction. Funny. A short while ago he was ready to beat this guy into the pavement or die trying. Now? He wouldn’t yet call him a friend, but he had to admit a grudging respect.
“By itself, one person’s orenda is small,” he went on. Then he looked out the windows, through blinds at the rest of his group milling about outside, laughing and generally farting around. “But combined with the rest of a clan, it can be great.”
“Them,” Jason said, pointing. “They’re your clan?”
“Yeah.” He tucked his hair behind his ears to keep it from falling into his face. “You take off your shirt, I’ll clean up your back and shoulders. They’re a mess.”
It took a good thirty seconds of grunting, swearing, and pained faces, but Jason finally slipped the muscle shirt over his head. He sat on the table and turned his back, waiting for the questions the scars were bound to provoke. But the most he got from Tomahawk was a low whistle.
“No wonder you don’t intimidate easy,” was all he said.
Jason would explain later, maybe, when he felt up to it. For now, he just felt like listening. He asked Tomahawk where he had come from, and as Jason listened to the answer, he became a real person instead of some dusty medicine man spouting spiritual philosophy along with the Bactine.
He’d come from rural New York State, moving to the city in his late teens. Tired of poverty, he came after work as a steel jockey on the skeletons of skyscrapers-in-the-works. There he stayed for seven years, until the day a friend stepped off into air in mid-sentence, into a forty-story journey at thirty-two feet per second.
“You can lose some of your nerve after you see that,” he said.
He traded in his hard hat for a set of keys as a cross-country driver. He garnered the nickname “Tomahawk” from his habit of carrying one, which he used to whap his eighteen tires to mentally gauge their air pressure, and he adopted it as his CB handle while in transit between shippers who didn’t want their loads sent until tomorrow and receivers who wanted them yesterday. The road was as unforgiving a home as a steel girder, but he found it more livable.
Then came the day when it looked as if he would outlive just about everybody else around, and the road became his literal home. The months and the miles united him and the others sooner or later, more often than not a direct result of the one they all seemed to know…a tall, rangy, leather-faced driver whose airwave name was the Highway King. His real name was Donnie Stafford, but in a dus
ty new world where you had to be hard as nails to make it from one morning to the next, from one town to the another, his handle seemed more fitting. Or for short, just King.
Jason clenched his jaw against the burn spreading across his shoulders. “So what happens when all the diesel and gasoline dry up? When you can’t drive anymore?”
“We’ve talked about that,” Tomahawk said with a shrug. “And I believe it’ll be our destiny talking when that happens. Because when it does, that’s the place where we’ll stop and settle and live out the rest of our lives.”
“No regrets and no questions, huh?”
“Not for me.”
Be nice to have that kind of faith. Me, I feel like I’ve been chasing phantoms for four months.
Tomahawk finished tending to Jason’s scrapes and let him return to his seat in the booth. Both of them sat quietly brooding over their aches and pains in a comfortable silence, until the door opened from outside and royalty strode up in Levi’s and cowboy boots, carrying a bottle and the box that Jason had almost been stupid enough to die for.
“Well, well.” The Highway King appraised them through his shades and took a slug from his bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “You know that old saying about someone looking like forty miles of bad road?”
“Yeah,” Tomahawk said.
“The two of you are about twenty over the limit.”
Tomahawk grinned ruefully at Jason, then reached for the Jack and took his own pull. “Can’t introduce him proper, King. I haven’t caught his name yet.”
“Jason Hart.”
The King nodded, hefted the box. Six cans rolled inside. He plunked it down on the tabletop. “We been talking outside, son. We’ll call the fight a draw.”
Jason peered inside the box. “All the chili’s gone.”
“Hard old world, huh.” King took another slug of Jack and looked at both of them. “Listen up, we got a pot of chili cooking outside. That is, if the both of you can make it as far as the parking lot to get some.”
“Strong orenda in this room, motherfucker,” Tomahawk said.
