The Gospel of the Knife | Page 2

kill them.
The woods close around you. Branches slash and snag at your jeans. A truck door slams. Someone shouts, "Run like a nigger, boy! Ain't nothing gonna save you!"
You're pedaling your fastest. The track's too bumpy and twisty to get up real speed. When you roll up against a fallen tree, you shoot a look back.
Leaves rattle and branches break. Someone falls loudly and yells "Shit!" Someone else screams, "I see the little piss-ant!" A pale crew cut bobs up over a clump of bushes.
You grab your bike, yank it over the fallen tree, and jump back on. You think, Keep going. Wear 'em out. They're looking for fun. Once they know you're not it, they'll give up. Just keep go-
The track ends at a pond. You brake hard.
The pond is about ten feet across and twenty feet long. You can't guess its depth. It's covered with green scum and stinks of rotting plants. Or worse. There could be bodies in it. Who would know?
You glance both ways: Bushes and trees, too thick for anything larger than a possum. If you take the brush, you'll have to leave your bike. You won't make any speed. You'll have to break your own path. Making one for the rednecks, too.
You could hide. Burrow into a palmetto grove and hope no rattlers or coral snakes are nesting there. Scramble up a pine tree and force yourself into its branches. Lie on your back in the water and breathe through a straw if you can find or make one in time.
You study the pond. You've heard of kids diving into dark water to be caught in barbwire, poisoned by industrial waste dumped by cheap-ass businesses, bitten by cottonmouths, eaten by alligators.
And part of you expects monsters in murky waters, shark-faced mermen and giant octopi who grab your ankle and yank you under. You aren't about to hide in that pond.
Someone shouts, "We got 'im now!"
You look back. The trio comes walking easily, grinning as you whip your head from side to side, looking for any sign of salvation.
You can't guess what they'll do with you. You doubt they know yet. You wish you'd stayed by the highway. They would've gotten in a few punches and kicks, then sped off. Now they can have all the time they want with you.
Someone laughs across the water. You look. So do the boys. You think you have help. It's only a crow high in a tree.
The boy with Brylcreemed hair laces his fingers and cracks his knuckles. He tells you, "Best say your prayers, boy."
You stomp on the pedals and plunge into the pond. You don't have a plan. All you have is panic, so you're panicking.
Your wheels drop into the pond so fast your fear doubles. Not because of what might be under you. If you can't get far enough from shore, the rednecks will pluck you out like cats at a goldfish bowl.
Your wheels hit something that bounces a little. Maybe that's just the air in your tires. You shoot across the pond, hit the far bank with your front wheel, and fall forward into a tangle of grass and weeds.
You scramble to your feet. You're no worse for the fall, but you're scared worse. The woods are too thick for you to press on, even if you leave your bike.
The Brylcreemed boy reaches the pond first. He stops, looking for the best place to splash through. The others come charging behind him. At the rear, the biggest of the bunch wears a green John Deere T-shirt stretched tight across his belly. The third boy, with black square glasses like Clark Kent, charges past Brylcreem and leaps. Brylcreem sees him pass and leans forward to follow, with John Deere maybe six steps behind.
You step back. Branches scrape your back, butt, and thighs. You lift your hands in front of your face, maybe to block their blows, maybe to beg them not to hurt you, maybe to keep from seeing what's coming.
The boy in black glasses splashes into the pond.
And keeps dropping.
He has enough time to open his mouth, but not enough time to scream. Dark water and green scum slap over his head, then settles.
Brylcreem brakes at the bank of the pond, throwing his arms back and windmilling, his mouth and eyes wide. John Deere comes up behind him, saying, "What happened?"
If you were drawing this, John Deere would bump Brylcreem, they both would fall in after Black Glasses, and your long-haired hero, the Kid, would laugh and pedal into the sunset while the wet rednecks waved their fists at him. But Brylcreem and John Deere don't fall in, you don't laugh, and Black Glasses stays underwater.
You don't feel a thing as you watch Brylcreem catch his balance and John Deere look from him to