LEFT. a Thriller, a Novel, in parts. Part 2.
Michael Gray Griffith
It’s refreshing to work on a piece that isn’t about Covid, or it’s wake.
In the first lockdown i decided to write two novels that had been haunting me.
I wrote this one in the evening.
The Sandcastles Of Quarantine Bay
Which is about a young woman, in the 70s, trying to save an isolated tropical beach
And I wrote this one in the morning.
LEFT.
I post them because publishing now is a joke, so if people read they read.
Would love your thoughts though, I’d never written a thriller before.
PART 2
LEFT
Naked, Steve is standing to the left of Jarrod. He is turning the rifle from the truck to his brother. Jarrod is standing like a kangaroo transfixed by headlights. He raises a hand to use it like a shield. There is a flash of light. A gunshot. Jarrod brings the hand to his face. He turns it around and looks at his palm. Then he collapses.
Steve calmly aims the rifle at Sonya. For a moment, she sees his face. It is covered in dirt. She ducks. Another bullet clinks through the windscreen. She slams the truck into reverse and, foot to the floor, takes off. Steve fires once more. The bullet clinks through the windscreen, forcing Sonya's head further down.
Sonya keeps reversing, but with so much gear hastily packed in the back, she can't see where she's going. Blood is pouring out of her wound as, unaware, she approaches a large rectangular hole. The rear top edge of the truck falls, then thuds into the far end of an abandoned mine shaft.
To Steve, it’s like he's brought down an elephant with a single shot. The impact breaks the lock on the rear doors and shatters the rear glass as all the airbags fire. Dazed and bleeding, Sonya pounds the steering wheel’s airbag flat, then tries to drive the truck out, but despite the engine idling, the truck doesn’t move. All four wheels are off the ground: the rear two in the mine shaft, the front two in the air. There is so much dust it's difficult to see, and an old cold air is rising up from the shaft. The wheels spin, the truck vibrates, but nothing moves.
She opens the driver’s side door. A bullet hits it. She closes it, then locks the doors and clambers into the backseat, grimacing at the pain and the sight of so much of her own blood. She looks for anything to use as a weapon. She tries to see out of the windows but can’t see anything, and she can’t hear anything except the engine idling as though nothing is wrong. She picks up the cracked camp shovel and, huddling in the well of the rear seat, waits. Her wound won’t stop bleeding.
Steve tries to open the passenger door. It’s locked. He bangs on the glass with the butt of his rifle. He bangs and bangs and bangs until it shatters into a hole. He smashes out the rest of the glass, then reaches a hand in and unlocks the door. Steve glances in. His eyes squint until he locates her hiding behind the driver’s seat. Opening the door, he enters the truck. He wants to smile, but his lips are too dry. He moves slowly, like he is old. Most of his skin is sunburnt. He grabs the dash with one hand to steady his entrance. The shovel’s handle is tight in her hands.
Taking his time to secure his footing, Steve raises and aims the rifle at Sonya's face. Then, in a dry and raspy whisper, he says, "About our divorce..."
The breeze lifts the tent’s flap as though it were a bored child. Steve, naked and still covered in dirt, has the rifle on the table. It’s next to the microphone.
"What are you talking about?" Steve says. "They were trying to kill me!"
"But since you had the only firearm," says Dena, "you were able to defend yourself by shooting your unarmed wife. Twice. The second time at point-blank range. That one was fatal."
"And then you shot your brother," says Boris. "He was also unarmed."
"They left me out here to die."
"But then they came back," says Boris.
"Yeah. To finish me! I am the victim here!"
"A victim they left with the rifle?" asks Dena.
Steve lowers the rifle and Sonya breathes, but then he raises it again and fires. The bolt clicks. Sonya shudders. Steve grins. The rifle is empty.
Lowering the weapon, Steve finds and grabs a bottle of water and drinks like he's never drunk before. He stops, vomits water, then drinks again before pouring some all over his face. He finds another bottle of water and does the same.
Sonya, hand to her bleeding wound, is evaluating everything. There is a lot of blood. She stops to watch as Steve moves.
He opens the handrest cover between the two front seats and takes out another clip of bullets and reloads the rifle. Then he places the rifle on the passenger side floor of the front seat, placing it sideways to make sure it doesn’t slide towards her. Then she gasps as Steve moves into the rear seats, then further. Leaning over the rear of the back seats, he starts rummaging through their camping gear. His entire side is bare to her. His skin is sun-blistered, dirty, and grazed.
She looks at the shovel, but with only one strong hand, she knows she can’t do anything worth doing with it. In her pocket is Jarrod’s knife, but it’s in the pocket on the side closest to Steve, and the blade is folded. She can’t reach it without him noticing.
Steve grabs some rope, then finishes another bottle of water and breathes the moisture back into his parched lungs. He stops, looks at her, a mixture of anger and sadness. Then he goes to check her wound. She freezes. Steve pulls down her blood-soaked shirt and checks her wound.
"Lean forward."
After a moment of evaluation, she does. It hurts. She can’t hide this. He studies her back.
"It went straight through."
"Is that bad?"
After a moment, Steve backhands her. Stunned, Sonya comes back to him, a bloody hand cradling her now-stinging cheek.
"I don’t know. Google it."
He grabs the rifle, checks it, then looks back at her as she glares at him. Opening the glove box, he pulls out the first aid kit and tosses it to her. Then he leaves.
Steve lands on the hard earth and walks towards Jarrod. He is drinking more water.
Jarrod is not dead. The bullet removed his thumb just above the base before gouging a gully down the entire right side of his face, just past his lip and all the way to just below his ear. Jarrod is in deep shock.
Steve takes a long, slow drink, then he spits some of it onto Jarrod’s boots before striding off to get his clothes. On his back, Jarrod watches his brother undress the log he'd used as a ruse and then dress himself.
The crackling flames dance in Steve's eyes. Jarrod is sitting back up against a tree. There is a nylon rope tied tightly around his neck, pinning him to the trunk. His hands are behind him, tightly bound around either side of the tree. Both are swelling. His thumb’s stump is bleeding. His face is bleeding too, and the cavernous wound is thick with flies. His ankles are bound separately, each rope stretching off to a different tree. His legs are spread so wide that Jarrod can’t move.
Slowly, steadily, Steve's eyes switch from the stuck truck to the campfire. Jarrod’s back is to the truck.
A raven caws. Jarrod looks up at it. The bird is sitting on a branch, looking down at him. It is not alone. There are two other ravens with it.
"I’m not angry," says Steve. "I was, and mostly at myself, but then I saw that you were coming back. Then I was grateful. I’d made it. I had survived the unsurvivable. That's the difference between us. If I'd left you here, I would never have come back, and if I had, you’d be dead. Now look at you. Once a winner, now unable to win even when dealt the perfect hand."
Steve takes a thick stick out of the fire. Its end is a burning ember. He studies it, then blows on it until it glows, then he stands up and squats between Jarrod’s legs and holds the ember in front of Jarrod's face. The flies flee and buzz around them both in a frenzied, starving anger. Steve blows on the ember, and obediently it glows.
"What's the first rule of negotiation, brother?"
Jarrod does not reply.
Steve blows on it again until the ember threatens to burst into flame. He then moves behind Jarrod and grabs Jarrod’s wrist to hold his bleeding hand still.
"Always let your competitor know that you are serious."
In no rush, Steve places the ember against the stub of Jarrod’s missing thumb. The flesh sizzles, and Jarrod squirms, but the binds are too tight. Clenching his teeth, Jarrod tries his best not to...
Sonya is trying to bandage her own wound when she hears the raging scream. Holding a pressure bandage to her wound, she forces herself up and reaches the front door, where she squints into the blinding outside light. The screaming continues.
Where would she run to? Where would she hide?
She stops, thinks, looks back, and notices a small bottle of water resting on all their stuff in the rear of the truck. Sonya moves to this water, carefully. She is trying not to use her wounded arm, but she is learning that is not possible. The bottle is empty. She tosses it away, then rests back due to a dizzy spell. Sliding into the rear seat, hand red with fresh blood, she grabs another pressure bandage. Ripping the plastic open with her teeth, she slides it down her back to the hole that makes her shudder to feel. Holding it in place, she leans back into the seat and uses her weight to pin it there, then she holds the bandage, already thick with blood, to the entry wound and presses.
The flies are going insane, but she doesn’t have the energy to fight them. Briefly, she closes her eyes, but in the soothing, pale dark, she can sense the coming end, so she opens them and, breaking through the surface, snorts and presses harder to try and close the wound.
Steve retrieves Jarrod's phone from Jarrod's breast pocket.
"Where's my phone?" asks Steve.
Jarrod doesn’t answer. The flies are back, claiming Jarrod’s face, fighting for space in the deep channeled wound.
"I know there's no connection out here, but there are the photos of my kids. Your niece and nephew. So, tell me, what were you going to tell them? Hmm. Were you going to tell them how you tried your best? That you looked for me? Were you going to hug them when they cried? Comfort them. Tell them I was in heaven?"
Jarrod does not reply. Steve nods, then smacks the undamaged side of Jarrod’s face.
"That's rage," Steve says as he pats and strokes Jarrod’s now red cheek. "As you know, that’s always been my problem. Then again, it is why I survived. I am alive because of rage, but then again, it's also why right here and now I look like the fucking bad guy."
Jarrod is shivering.
"But that’s okay, because you are going to fix that."
Jarrod glares at his brother. Steve blows on the ember, and it glows.
"So here's the deal. I am going to film your confession. If you don't comply, then I am going to hurt you again and then I will go and film her confession. How long do you think she will hold out?"
Jarrod remains tight-lipped.
"You know what’s interesting? I don’t feel guilty for burning you. Something inside me is telling me I should, but it’s small and weak, like you. Then again, I am cauterizing your wounds, so perhaps I’m being kind. In fact, perhaps you should be thanking me."
Steve unscrews the lid from a bottle of water and takes a long, slow drink. Then he holds up the ember and the water.
"Which is it? Water or fire?"
Jarrod glares at his brother.
Steve grins and finishes the water before throwing the bottle over his shoulder. He then brings up Jarrod’s phone.
"One way or another, I am going to record you making a video confession. I suggest for your sake that you comply. Tell me everything and I will untie you, bandage your wounds, and take you home. Don't, and I will leave you here with them." Steve motions to the ravens, and Jarrod looks up. All the ravens are watching the men.
Jarrod comes back to Steve but says nothing.
"Oh come on, don’t be stubborn. You’re no good at it and there’s no point. You’ve already lost..." Steve moves the ember between them and blows. Again, the flies fly off as Jarrod tries to pull his head back, but there is nowhere to retreat.
Steve holds up the phone. "Code?"
Jarrod won't speak.
Steve blows on the ember again, then brings it so close to Jarrod’s face that Jarrod grimaces to the heat.
"Code."
Still no answer.
Steve slips the phone into his breast pocket, then he grabs Jarrod’s hair and shoves and holds his head back before taking his time to sear the entire length of Jarrod’s face wound.
Sonya freezes at the second scream. Louder and longer, and all of its pain is full of anger. In the following silence, she takes out the pocketknife and opens its blade while constantly checking the windows. She’s been trying to check but can’t tell if she has stopped bleeding. Then, in the rearview mirror, she notices the top of one of their twenty-five-liter containers of water. It’s resting in the back behind her.
In her mind, she sees Steve entering the truck. He has the rifle raised, but she is at the rear of the truck. She is threatening to pour all the water into the shaft.
"By the time you reach me, it'll all be gone... Drop the rifle."
Steve grimaces and relents, and she smirks all the way back to the top of the container, waiting in the rearview mirror, her hand covered in her own blood.
"Get up," she tells herself. "Get up."
She listens for but can’t hear any approaching footsteps. She moves, using whatever handhold she can find to pull herself up. The nearest door handle. The metal stem of the driver’s side headrest. Whatever she touches, her blood remains. On her feet but bent to the confines of the roof, she turns. The rear seat where she was sitting is covered in blood. How much can you lose and not die?
Keep going.
She lets gravity slide her over the rear seat until she can reach the container. Her fingers slip around the handle. She pulls. It's too heavy. Grimacing at the pain, she changes position to try to attain a better grip, but with so much stuff packed around the container, their combined weight and gravity are pinning it down.
She looks at the door. She listens.
Hearing nothing, she wraps the top of the rear seat's seatbelt around the wrist of her good hand several times, then she kicks off her shoe and slips her toes under the container's handle. Bracing herself by using the seatbelt, she pulls with all her strength.
The container refuses to budge. Sonya takes a breather, then braces and pulls again.
Come on.
It doesn’t move.
Sonya pulls a third time and groans into the effort, searching for every ounce of strength.
The container moves.
Yes. YES!!
The edge of the hole that was supporting the rear of the truck breaks, and the truck falls into the shaft.
Steve is back at the fire when he hears Sonya scream and watches the truck fall into the earth. The noise wakes Jarrod, and he raises his head from where he's tied, but he can't see the truck. By the time Steve stands, the truck has vanished.
The narrowing width of the shaft stops the truck abruptly, like a cork. It stops so suddenly and so violently that the rear doors burst open and everything inside tumbles into the pit. Sonya is suspended above this hole by her wrist, which is wrapped in the seatbelt. She cannot see the bottom. All is dark. For all she knows, it could be a mile deep.
Sonya dangles, unable to use her wounded arm to pull herself up. She looks to her wrapped wrist, and a moment later, roars. Steve heads towards the truck.
"What’s happened?" asks Jarrod, his voice dry as the dirt. "What’s happened?"
Steve doesn’t answer. After the ravens have watched him leave, they turn their attention to Jarrod. More gear from the front of the truck falls. Empty water bottles. A shoe. They tumble through the truck and out of the rear. Some of them bounce off the dangling Sonya.
Sonya is trying to reach the side of the shaft with her feet. She can touch the sides, but this touch only sees her bounce off and spin, and as she does, the seatbelt around her wrist tightens. Even in the dimness, she can see her bound hand swelling and turning blue.
With her other hand, she forgoes her wound and tries to grab one of the open rear doors. But this hand and its wounded shoulder have no strength. The animal in her rages to live, but the human can't do anything, and the abyss below is calling her down and further.
Steve stops. The truck’s bullbar is level with the opening of the shaft. In a million other attempts, life couldn’t have matched them so completely. He comes to the edge and peers in through the windscreen and sees her hanging. With the butt of the rifle, he pounds the windscreen. It cracks but refuses to break. Then the truck drops another half-foot. Sonya screams, and Steve jumps back, trips, and ends up on his bum, watching the dust rise from the hole as though the hole were alive and had just exhaled.
Leaving the rifle, Steve grabs the winch's hook and pulls it to a bloodwood that looks strong enough to support the truck. But the cable won't reach that tree. He then looks around; the only tree it will reach is a dead paperbark that does not look strong enough to hold the truck. Regardless, he wraps the cable around this one and hooks it up.
Jarrod is trying to see what is happening. He is also trying to break free of his binds. Then a deep sense prods him. He looks up to find a raven. It has landed on the floor between his legs. Jarrod tries to scare it away, but he can’t move.
Michael
OMG, I love this. Now I'm in suspense waiting for part 3!!!!!!