“Get out of the way or I’ll chop you down!” I shouted.
“Like fun.” Suddenly, she dropped her arms and stood up straight, her eyes wide with alarm at something going on behind me. “NO!” she yelled.
I whirled around.
Connie, in mid-stride, launched her spear. Its long, pole shaft soared through the night high above our heads.
I think they call such a throw, in football, a “hail Mary.”
It flew over us and kept on going like a Tomahawk missile homing in on the naked, pale bade of Wesley as he lurched closer and closer to the darkness.
Thelma yelled, “Wesley! Look out!” She bolted after him.
Wesley twisted sideways and looked back. He stumbled. He fell sprawling. A moment later, the spear zipped down and planted itself in the sand—probably ten feet to his right.
Behind me, Connie yelled, “Fuck!”
I glanced back at her. She had quit running—must’ve thought the spear would take care of business. She looked disgusted and punched at the air with her fist.
I spotted Wesley again, just in time to see him vanish into the jungle.
Thelma was chasing him.
“Wait up!” she called out, and waved a thick arm. “Wait! Wesley! I’m coming with you!”
A couple of seconds later, she was gone, too.
Battered Angels
Nobody went in after Thelma and Wesley.
Would’ve been too dangerous, for one thing.
For another, our ambush had turned into a disaster. We were stunned, disappointed, angry, confused—and injured.
Mostly thanks to Thelma.
After the end of the mess, we stood around together on the moonlit beach where it had happened. I had the ax resting on my shoulder. Billie, hands on hips (and breasts back inside her bikini), frowned toward the jungle. Connie was bent over, hands on knees, still trying to catch her breath after racing almost to the edge of the jungle to retrieve the spear she’d thrown at Wesley. Kimberly shook her head and shut the blade of her Swiss Army knife.
We must’ve all been thinking about Thelma.
“How could she do it?” Kimberly said.
Billie made a snorty sound. “She loves the guy.”
“But he killed Dad. My God! Her own father! I can see how she might not turn on him for a little thing like killing my husband, but he murdered Dad.”
“Oh, her dear Wesley wouldn’t do that,” Connie said. “The dumb bitch.”
“She knows he did it,” Billie said. “She might not be a genius, but she’s not that stupid.”
“I think she just went nuts,” I said. “All this stuff the past few days—and then seeing her father get whacked this morning—it unhinged her.”
“You might be right,” Billie said. “This sure wasn’t the behavior of a rational person, tonight.”
“We knew she might cause trouble,” I reminded everyone. “That’s why we didn’t let her in on the plan.”
“Never thought she’d do something like this,” Kimberly muttered. “Jesus H. Christ.” She tucked the knife down inside her bikini pants. “We should’ve tied her up.”
“Thought she was asleep,” I said.
“Well. Nothing we can do about it now.”
“Let’s go on back to the fire,” Billie suggested.
So we turned our backs to the jungle. We walked side by side, me with the ax on my shoulder, all of us battered (me the only one bloody). We must’ve been a sight to see—if anyone was watching.
Charlie’s Angels and the Tin Woodsman.
All messed up and nowhere to go.
Or whatever.
I’m starting to lose it. I’ve been writing for hours, trying to get down all of last night’s events in this journal. My hand is turning into a claw—my mind into mush. Anyway, I’ve got to finish about last night.
Before something else happens.
If I let the journal fall behind, I might have real trouble catching up.
On second thoughts, I’m going to take a break.
Hello, I’m back. Took a nice swim, then sat around with the gals for a while.
Maybe it was a mistake, but I finally admitted that I’m keeping a journal. I’d been telling everyone, before, that I
was working on a series of short stories. But it was finally time to trust them with the truth. I mean, there’s only three of them, now.
I wanted them to know about it. To know I’m not just fooling around while I’m sitting by myself for hours. To know there’s a record of our ordeal being kept. (Maybe it’ll be important for them to know that, at some point. Especially if something happens to me. Yuck. Made me feel squeamish, writing that little line.) We had quite a long talk about the journal. They wanted to know what I’ve written about them (which made me sweat big-time), but I explained that I wouldn’t be able to write truthfully if I had to worry about pleasing an audience. Finally, they promised to respect my privacy and make no attempts to sneak a peek.
They’d better stick to their promises, or there will be some mighty embarrassed and angry people on this beach. (I couldn’t stand to face any of these gals, knowing they’re aware of certain things I’ve written about them.) Shit. They gave their word. If they read this stuff, they deserve what they get.
Maybe I shouldn’t have told them.
Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
Anyway, now that I’ve rested and shot off my mouth to the ladies, I’m ready to knock out the conclusion of last night’s events.
I left off when we were on our way back to the camping area.
Okay.
We got into the firelight, and the gals suddenly noticed my wounds. They seemed pretty concerned—even Connie. In fact, she’s the one who insisted on tending to me. She told her mother and Kimberly that they should try to get some sleep. She would fix me up, then she and I would stand watch for the next few hours.
I urged them to go along with it. I mean, they both seemed worn out and hurting.
While Billie and Kimberly settled into their sleeping places, Connie grabbed a couple of rags. She went to the stream, dipped them in, and came over to where I was sitting by the fire. She made me turn so the firelight would shine on the wounded side of my face—the right. Then she knelt in front of me.
The firelight lit up the swollen left side of her jaw.
Where I’d punched her.
“I’m sorry about that,” I told her. “It wasn’t supposed to connect.”
“Wasn’t, huh?”
“I swear.”
She started dabbing at the raw trench that Thelma’s rock had torn in my face and ear. She was gentle about it, but every touch ignited pain. “I had it coming,” she said. “I got in my shots, you got in yours.”
“It was an accident.”
“Sure.”
“I never would’ve hit you on purpose.”
She smirked. “If you say so.”
“It’s the truth.”
“What’d Thelma get you with, anyway? It sure fucked up your face.”
“A rock.”
“Look at this.” She pulled back the rag and showed it to me. It was red with my blood. The other cloth was still clean. She used it to mop off the blood that had run down my face and neck and right shoulder and arm. Then she wrung out both the rags, squeezing and twisting them. Bloody water spilled onto the sand between us.
She scowled at my lower wound.
Thelma’s broken spear had gouged me just above my belly button. The hole wasn’t deep, but it had bled a lot. The front of my swimming trunks was soaked, and trickles had even made their way down my thighs.
Connie shook her head. “We’d better just go over to the stream.”
She took the rags with her. I carried the ax.
Gaining possession of the ax was the best thing to come out of our disastrous ambush. Next to a gun, you couldn’t ask for a better weapon. Now it was ours, not Wesley’s. I planned to keep it close by.