Endings by Linda Richards (e ink manga reader txt) 📕

He makes his purchases but turns again to me before he heads out the door.

“Remember what I said yesterday: call me any time.” He lets his eyes roll back to my purchases, now beginning to be rung in. “I figure you’ve got a story for me.”

I nod and wave while I wish him away.

After that, the sailing is clear. I finish buying my load of crap, then I drag it all out to the RV, pack up, then head on my way.

When I get on the road, it’s a funny adjustment, driving something so big. I’ve never done it before. I underestimate how wide I am and nearly wipe out the pumps when I stop to fill up. But then I kind of get the hang of it. The sheer size of the thing. The sway on the road and the way every little breeze seems telegraphed from outside the vehicle right into my hands on the wheel.

After a while, I settle in. It’s sort of like driving a watermelon. And while it’s kind of exhausting and I wouldn’t want to have to do it for long, I know I’ll manage easily with the relatively short distance ahead of me.

I wonder, briefly, if Atwater will be as I left him. Then I chide myself: it seems to me virtually impossible that he won’t be. Unless some animal has killed him, which I wouldn’t count as a loss at all.

The road ahead. That’s all there is. What else does anyone need?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AT THE PARK, I pull the RV into the spot I’d selected, aware that the sheer bulk of the vehicle will hide the place where I dumped Atwater from any kind of casual view. And the spot is well sheltered from a distance by trees and bushes. And it is dark. It has been more than ten hours since I left him and I have mixed feelings about what I might find. Will he still be breathing? Do I even really care? Sure, I have a plan and I’m fairly certain I have the fortitude to pull it off. But is it the right course, really? Or am I, at some strange level, playing the part of an exceedingly cruel god?

I ignore those voices and push on. I am aware it is a chance I have to take.

He is awake when I pull the tarp off him. His eyes fix mine with a blend of fear and loathing.

I can smell piss and shit and feel heat roll off him—the fever of infection. There is drool and maybe a bit of puke at the edge of the binding I used on his mouth and his eyes have a kind of yellowish tinge. When I pull the tarp back, he regards me with the wary expression of a cornered dog. I take care to stay clear of his teeth.

I pull the Bersa out of my bag and take some small pleasure when his eyes widen at its appearance. Good. It means he still cares about staying alive. Which means I still have a chance to do what I intend.

I pull the gag out of his mouth carefully. The last thing I want is a bite, and I keep that cornered dog image firmly in my mind. It is not inaccurate. A dangerous dog. He’s probably been that his whole adult life. Or longer.

“Bitch,” he spits when he can. But the voice and the energy are weak. He’s cursing me, but he’s on autopilot.

“Now, now, William,” I say. “You’d better be nice to me. I’m the one with food and water.”

“What makes you think I give a fuck about your food and water?”

“You’d rather die.” It’s not a question.

“This is bullshit. You can’t keep me here like this. I know my rights.”

I laugh. The kind of laugh that feels good because it is so honest and pure. He looks at me like I’m crazy, but I see the fear grow in his eyes. It feels good to be on the receiving end of that look. It is the best gift he could give me. And in that moment, he is not wrong: I am crazy and fear is his best response.

“Your rights? You think that’s the conversation? Do I look like a cop, William?”

“I guess you kinda do, yeah.”

I reflect briefly. He’s right, of course. I probably do. But still.

“I am not.”

“What do you want with me?” There is a helplessness in his tone. Something childlike. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Plus, I don’t really have a fully formed answer. Not yet.

“You’re lying there in your own shit. I’m going to cut you loose and get you cleaned up. We’ll talk later.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks up at me from under hooded eyes. I’m not sure what to say either, so I get down to business.

“I’m going to toss you the knife,” I say. “You’re going to cut yourself loose, then let the knife fall. Make any funny moves, and I will drop you right where you are. The reason you are still alive has nothing to do with any reluctance on my part to kill you. Are you clear on that?”

He nods yes, but I can tell he doesn’t fully believe. I decide to move forward with my plan anyway. His opinion is not high on my list of priorities.

He cuts himself loose, tosses the knife where I’ve indicated, then stands in front of me, shoulders slumped, hands at his sides, waiting. He seems beaten. For now. It surprises me that I have no feeling about that, one way or the other.

“Strip,” I say.

He hesitates.

“Trust me,” I say, “this is not for my pleasure. You smell like shit and piss. We need to get you cleaned up. Throw your clothes into the bushes, over there.”

“But I got no other clothes.” His voice is weak, and with the edge of a whine to it, he sounds like a child who has almost been pushed