One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 5, page 6

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Bhanar Narak lay at the edge of the driveway, clutching his empty rifle to his chest. He knew he should stop the bleeding from his shin’s compound fracture, but he felt a little light-headed and it was so much more comfortable to just lie there and not move at all. He could almost ignore the pain if he didn’t move.

Above him, two men spoke. Had Zhíno joined Pí‘oro? Were they partners in crime, now just standing there watching while Bhanar bled to death? The second man talked down to Pí‘oro and the old man answered dutifully. Was Zhíno the boss and Pí‘oro his flunky?

Or was this someone else entirely? Pí‘oro was a good guy, right? Demeaning, slow-witted, and annoying; but good. He wouldn’t be obsequious to some Zhéporé-spawn idiot assassin. Maybe the other guy was a police officer.

“Bhanar?” asked the policeman. “I have to move your leg to stop the blood. It may hurt.”

He spoke with precise enunciation, slow enough for Bhanar to understand. Maybe he didn’t need extra lessons in the Sariman language, after all. Maybe just all the Sarımans needed to stop mumbling.

“Do it,” Bhanar replied and gritted his teeth.

Hands gripped his right leg on either side of the break, sending shivers of agony rolling up Bhanar’s body. They lifted his leg into the air, tightening something around the break, squeezing the splintered bones against each other. Bhanar pressed his head into the ground, grinding his scalp against the gravel, his face twisted shut. His hands clenched themselves white around the barrel and stock of his rifle. He bit both his lips together and iron blood filled his mouth.

Eventually, they lowered his leg to the ground and released it. Sparks of pain continued to dance throughout his body, but Bhanar forcibly relaxed his muscles, loosening his grip on the rifle and sinking against the ground. He unclenched his jaw and opened his eyes, blinking repeatedly.

He was correct; it was a policeman. He wore an ink-black uniform just like back in Zhuphío, shiny shield badge on one pocket and a nametag above the other. Too dark to read it, though. His very short, blond hair glowed like a fuzzy halo with the house lights behind him.

“Stay calm,” said the policeman. “I called an ambulance.”

Bhanar took a deep breath and replied, “Get Zhíno.”

The blond man nodded. “We will. I called for backup.” He reached out one hand towards Bhanar, palm up. “I am a Colonial Enforcer. I need your rifle.”

Bhanar was safe now. The police were here. The Enforcer had called for backup. The bastard Zhíno would be arrested, he would be imprisoned, and maybe--just maybe--he’d be put to death. What were the Narakamíníkı-Sarıman laws on capital punishment? Does he actually have to kill someone, or is intent enough to execute the Zhéporé-spawn?

The Enforcer repeated, “Your rifle, Bhanar,” his hand still extended.

“Yes.” Bhanar held up his bulletless gun.

The policeman took the weapon with clean rubber gloves. He stood up and asked, “Are you well enough for questions?”

Other than the constant agony and light-headedness, Bhanar felt fine. He propped himself up on his elbows. “Yes.”

“Very well.” The Enforcer nodded crisply. “I will return soon.” Carrying Bhanar’s rifle at almost arms-length, the blond man strode down the driveway.

Pí‘oro stepped in front of Bhanar. “Let’s get you inside, son, where it’s comfortable. And safe from Zhíno.”

That’s right. Zhíno’s hiding in the desert somewhere and us two now don’t have any protection. He didn’t really care to go inside the old man’s house, but it was better than lying in the driveway. Zhíno was already a lot closer than any ambulance or Enforcer backup could be.

“Let’s go,” Bhanar replied.

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