That's what Lya used to say, and for the first time in his life Jason listened. He had a book in his back pocket, one pack of cigarettes in his front pocket, one ballpoint pen in his shirt pocket, and a baseball cap on his head. Travel light. He took nothing to remember her by; not even the fucking gun he used to kill her.
This trip was about freedom, and he was sure he was on the right track. So what if the sun was turning the nape of his neck brown like a burger pattie, and what if he had no idea how much longer he'd have to walk? He didn't mind the walking, even if he was tired already. Ever since Lya changed he'd done very little walking. He was always running. From the meat shop to the house. From the house to the meat shop. Running from her when she got free. Running to catch her when she got free.
This was nice. Walking was nice, even if he felt a cramp coming on.
Every ten minutes or so a car passed him on the road, blowing the dust in his face, and he let it pass. His goal was to chance upon a car, sure, but he'd reach a gas station and jack one there. No point in risking the old hitchhiker trick on these roads. Especially considering the odds of running into a goddamn turner.
The skin of his left cheek felt stretched out when he turned to look right, at the electricity tower with the bodies hung on the wires, and he touched his cheek with two fingers, finding the hard, caked mess of her blood there. No problem. He stopped biting his fingernails once he decided Lya had to go, and they were large enough to dig through that cake.
Looking at the red-black gunk stuck under his nails, he thought, Brought a little bit of her with me after all.
He chuckled, then rubbed his fingers together to let the gunk drop, blow away with the wind. Travel light.
Used to be, on these roads, you'd see packs of dogs, rabbits, all the various animals that made up these drylands. Nothing now; not even the rotting corpse of a vulture. The turners were God's idea of a cleanup squad, Lya once said, back when you could still get together with other people.
This trip was about freedom, and he was sure he was on the right track. So what if the sun was turning the nape of his neck brown like a burger pattie, and what if he had no idea how much longer he'd have to walk? He didn't mind the walking, even if he was tired already. Ever since Lya changed he'd done very little walking. He was always running. From the meat shop to the house. From the house to the meat shop. Running from her when she got free. Running to catch her when she got free.
This was nice. Walking was nice, even if he felt a cramp coming on.
Every ten minutes or so a car passed him on the road, blowing the dust in his face, and he let it pass. His goal was to chance upon a car, sure, but he'd reach a gas station and jack one there. No point in risking the old hitchhiker trick on these roads. Especially considering the odds of running into a goddamn turner.
The skin of his left cheek felt stretched out when he turned to look right, at the electricity tower with the bodies hung on the wires, and he touched his cheek with two fingers, finding the hard, caked mess of her blood there. No problem. He stopped biting his fingernails once he decided Lya had to go, and they were large enough to dig through that cake.
Looking at the red-black gunk stuck under his nails, he thought, Brought a little bit of her with me after all.
He chuckled, then rubbed his fingers together to let the gunk drop, blow away with the wind. Travel light.
Used to be, on these roads, you'd see packs of dogs, rabbits, all the various animals that made up these drylands. Nothing now; not even the rotting corpse of a vulture. The turners were God's idea of a cleanup squad, Lya once said, back when you could still get together with other people.
