In the Season of Killing Bolts

Chapter 13

It was two things above all else: adorable and almost dead. It was also attached to the top of the tire like a vise (where it had taken refuge after the near collision), its little claws dug into the rubber like a cat’s and its dark eyes regarding them fearfully—and yet somehow bravely. Still, it was not a cat (or a kitten) in spite of its claws, nor was it a mouse, however over-sized. What it was, quite simply, was something unknown; although what Coup thought it resembled most was a mongoose, albeit clearly still in its infant stage. Nor did it seem to be dangerous, as Tess found out when she touched it against Coup’s advice and it merely licked her fingers—or tried to—its sandpapery tongue just as dry as the dead.

“It’s this heat,” she said, finally, stroking its neck and back. “It’s seriously dehydrated.” She looked at Coup. “Whatever it is, I don’t think it has very long.”

“It needs water,” he said. “And it needs it fast.”

He stood and looked into the backseat; at the cooler he’d picked up from Walmart before heading out to L.A. “And we gotta bring his temperature down. Can you move him, you think?”

“I think so, yes. If he’ll let go of the tire.”

Coup took a spare shirt from the back and shook it out, then opened the cooler and laid it inside. “Most the ice is still good; we’ll lay him in here.” He picked a Styrofoam cup off the floor. “And see if we can’t get him to drink something.”

And then, having managed a few sips and been laid in the chest—it had taken both of them to disengage it from the tire—the thing seemed to sleep; as they pulled away from the shoulder and back onto the road (although where they should go was another question entirely) and decided to name it “Rikki-Tik”—after Kipling’s famous mongoose.

They hadn’t traveled far, however, when they encountered more evidence that something wasn’t right—with the road, with the traffic (or lack thereof), with the world.

“What’s that?” asked Tess as something glinted about a mile ahead, something blue and crumpled, torn, smashed.

“What’s what?” he said, and then noticed it: a blue and chrome thing turned over on it side in the middle of the road, a ruined and battered thing. A car.

“Jesus,” he said, letting off the gas.

“Mary and Joseph,” added Tess. “Christ. Do you think anyone could have ...” She paused, squinting. “Coup, tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

But he was seeing it too, and knew that what was splashed down the car’s door was exactly what she thought it was.

“It’s blood, all right.” He geared down and brought them slowly alongside the hulk, where he put it in park and inhaled, deeply. He did not, however, shut off the engine.

“Please, God, be empty,” said Tess. “I’m not ready for this shit.”

Coup sighed. “Why don’t you ... check on our friend or something. I’ll have a look .”

“Okay.”

But he’d barely begun to open his door when a wrinkled hand appeared suddenly, waveringly, amidst the wreckage—and gripped its glass-covered dash. After which Coup reiterated calmly, gently: “Tess, check on our friend.” —and climbed out.

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