“Win! Win, fuckin’ come around. Short needs help. Fuck. Win? Fuck, you’re no help, you asshole. What do I do?” A pause, a rustling, then, “Oh, shit, damn. Where is he? Come on, Brother, fuckin’ answer.” Another few seconds go by, then, “Bullseye? Thank fuck you picked up your phone. Mojave Devil’s jumped us. Short’s been stabbed in the chest and shot in the fuckin’ leg. Win’s been knocked out. Where the fuck is Saint? I can’t get hold of him… Yeah, get Genie to track my phone. Need Doc and a truck… Saint’s with Tempest? You’ll try him?… Yeah, get him to call me.”
The words start to drift over my head. I’m hurt bad, I begin to realise. Every intake of breath hurts and doesn’t seem to help. I feel like I’m drowning, my heart’s beating so fast like it’s going to jump out of my chest. Speech? Totally beyond me.
I’m a one-percenter biker, a member of an outlaw club. My life hasn’t been roses. I’ve killed men, and I’ve robbed. I certainly haven’t paved my way to heaven. There will be no angels awaiting my arrival. It’s the Devil’s work and I’ve done aplenty. Maybe he will roll out a red carpet in Hell when he realises I’m on my way.
Breathing’s becoming too difficult. All I can see is blackness in front of my eyes. I wonder if that’s the start of the tunnel, and whether there’ll be light beyond it. But my ears tell me I’m still of this world, for the moment.
“Saint–thank fuck Tempest had his Bluetooth on. Short’s been stabbed in the chest. His breathing sounds wheezy, and he’s fuckin’ turning blue. What? Sit him up? Hold on a minute.”
A hand grabs at me. I’m a big man, and even under normal circumstances difficult to move. But a one-armed man is trying to do his best, and I’m unable to help. Somehow, after aneternity, during which I wish I could make any sound of protest to get him to stop, I feel myself propped upright against a bike.
“Got him there, Saint. Now what do I do? What do you mean, seal the wound?… Oh, I’ve got a pouch of tobacco, will that work?… Fuck, it was three-quarters full… Empty it? Of fuckin’ course, but he’ll owe me. And tape? What the fuck? Will duct tape do?”
Paint’s hand on me doesn’t really add to the pain I’m feeling. I doubt if anything could increase it, but it’s an odd sensation as his hand pushes something over me, and slicing sounds tell me he’s using his knife to cut tape and smoothing it across whatever he’s holding to my chest.
Then, finally, the pressure to draw in air begins to ease.
It’s at that point that I finally succumb to the darkness taking me over.
With a bizarre sense of relief, I realise this is it. I’m dead.
