The Bearer of Grievances by Joseph McKinley

Author:Joseph McKinley
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781907389153
Publisher: Unsung Stories
Published: 2016-03-08T00:00:00+00:00

Bitch

Sniff!

Sniff!

Sniff!

Oranges!

But that was later.

*

'Find someone,' weakly.

'Find someone.' I smell the blood dripping from his upside down head.

Now he's just mouthing things. I don't know what he means, but I can smell the pain and the gasoline mixed together. What he's saying doesn't matter. I know the sound of fear. I know the smell of pain. There's too much insulin in his blood: that's what makes the words slur and sound funny. But I'm in pain too, and swollen.

*

The cars are supposed to avoid me, and for the most part they do. But I can't very easily avoid them. They don't rumble or roar; they don't scream and rev. Instead, they just whir, and whir is a tricky sound. Whir rides up on you. Whir is all rhythm and no beat. Whir undulates like AC over wire. Whir flows through you like water. And it leaves you just as quickly, the taste of copper in your mouth and numb rear legs.

Boom! Thump! Your lower body is crushed and paralysed, but whir moves on.

That's what happened to me.

*

The sun is falling fast, but there is no one here to help. I'm just something else to ignore. I am not long for this world; I never was. I am big, and I will break your heart. My forelegs are strong enough to keep me moving, but every time I stretch, my fur, just a little matted, tugs at my skin. There is no reason to yelp and no one to hear me cry. So I don't. We should have brought a communicator. Boss should have brought a phone – one of the old ones that only transmits voice. I have heard of these things, but I have never seen one. They fell out of use before I was born.

Not much works in Boss anymore: nothing onboard. He is too weak. His systems do not love him, so he shakes and falls. Falls and shakes. This does not happen to the others, the others with two legs, instead of four. But they don't keep running either. Boss never stops. Boss and his machines are never repaired.

This is what they call fleeing.

*

Gasoline is ancient. Two wheels use it; four wheels rarely do, but there are exceptions. Like Boss's machines: obsolete. The lights ahead are not very bright, and the greyed, broken blacktop is not smooth like a river. It is not shiny. It reflects nothing. This is not a winding reptile. It is a skin, something long ago shed. I can see them, though, the white lights that are starting to glow and buzz and cut through the faint rays of evening light. But that's long after the gas tickles my nose and leads me in the right direction. The nose knows first.

I am waiting outside, waiting to go in. But I cannot explain myself to the passersby. I can plead and beg, but no one will have any idea of what I need. No one will know what Boss needs either. I must try to help.

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