One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 4, page 4

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Zhíno Zhudıro sped the auto in reverse down the driveway. He had to get those guns delivered. And if that Voro-fucking Zhéporé-spawn shot at him again, only then would Zhíno take the time to kill him. Zhíno had to save himself first. This was his one last chance to obtain his dream. If he didn’t deliver the guns, Zhíno wouldn’t get the hidden farm in the desert, he wouldn’t get any solitude, he wouldn’t get to escape from this insane universe and all the Tara-fucking idiots inhabiting it.

He wheeled the Enforcer cruiser onto the highway, screeching to a stop beside Fírí’s old Sonla sedan. The road was as deserted as ever. His bleeding left wrist still crammed under his bloody right arm, Zhíno stuck the gearshift in park and reached across his body to open the door. Up the driveway, the old Zhéporé-spawn was kneeling beside the Névo-brained kid, not paying Zhíno any attention. Zhíno shoved open the cruiser door and grabbed the Enforcer’s handgun from his lap.

As he got out, Zhíno bumped his elbow against the frame, jarring his shattered wrist. Pain flooded over him. He clenched his jaw and eyes and willed the agony away. Why hadn’t he stolen more painkillers from the pharmacy?

He needed to bandage his left wrist immediately. What good would be delivering the guns if he died from blood loss shortly after?

His clothes were in the Sonla’s backseat. He could improvise a bandage from those. Zhíno raced around the cruiser to the brown auto. The policeman’s gun still in his hand, Zhíno patted his pants pocket for the auto keys, but they weren’t there. Empty. Of course. Fírí still had the keys.

“Pétíso damn her,” he muttered.

Zhíno switched his grip on the handgun to bash in the window when he realized that the driver’s door window was completely rolled down.

“You’re a Tara-fucking idiot.” Pay attention, Névo-brain!

Zhíno shoved the police gun into his pocket, reached through the open window, and twisted his right arm backwards to unlock the rear door. Quickly, he had the door open and was rooting through his duffel bag for something suitable as a bandage. A pair of cotton socks. Gingerly, Zhíno unrolled them and began wrapping them around his wrist. Bone grated against bone. He nearly passed out from the pain.

At one time, Zhíno had wanted Fírí to share his dream with him, but no longer. That Vítí-twin had betrayed him when he needed her the most. She’d abandoned him at the mercy of both Gogzhuè and the police. She’d forced him to kill that Enforcer. It was her fault that Zhíno had been shot, that he was practically bleeding to death. As far as Zhíno cared, Fírí could be tortured in the worst of Pétíso’s hells for all eternity.

With the help of the heavy-duty tape they kept in the auto in case the bumper fell off again, Zhíno soon had his wrist securely bandaged.

He took a deep breath.

Without the auto keys, he’d either have to load all the boxes and bags into the Enforcer cruiser, or hunt down Fírí and get those keys.

But wait. Make sure Fírí didn’t leave the keys in the auto. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be like that twin of Vítí.

Nothing in the ignition. No keys on the seat or the floor or the asphalt. Nothing.

“Aw, plagues.”

It would take forever to find Fírí in the desert. But with only one good hand, it would take forever to transfer the guns to the cruiser. He was a dead man either way.

Zhíno leaned down and pulled the trunk-release lever. He had to hope Gogzhuè was in a good mood tonight.

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