Dastardly

by Lorraine Ray

Could there be anyone there, miles below on the desert plain, the big fucking flat spot? Nah, not at night, you dip-shit. Crappy, but true. Who would be there and what would they be doing? Communing with nature? But he should try. Holler anyway.

  “Help!”

  “Help!”

  “Fucking help me!”

  I’m wasting my time. And my energy. I only have so much fucking energy. Hobble on. Past the biggest rocks. I’ll find a way out of this place if it kills me. Shit, it might do that. Not if I have anything to do with it and try my fucking heart out. Might be a way out between these rocks. Sure, that could be a way to get back to my car, though I don’t remember passing them on the way, but they could have looked different in the other direction. Sure, things never look the same on a trail going up and coming down. The fall mixed up my brain. There are train tracks down there, too, somewhere. Can I get to them or find my car again? And the evening’s cold isn’t helping me and me with nothing but a shirt on. What a fool. What made me think February would be warm at night? Of course, it isn’t. Especially in the rocks high above a plain. Cold air is whizzing past me. And the fucking gash in my leg is making me feel colder. Loss of blood affecting me. The gash in my thigh aches, but the pain of my broken arm and the scorpion bite is so bad I want to pass out.

  Good I have a walking stick. Sure, I won’t faint with something to support myself with. That way I can take some weight off the leg with the gash. All I’ll have to do is look for a big stick lying on the ground. A big strong stick about my height.

  Wait, I did that already.