Mad Lizard Mambo by Rhys Ford Page B

slender piece of white metal death headed straight to the Rover’s radiator.
    I had a chance to take a breath—a short gasping, halting breath—then the Rover was blown to Kingdom Come.

Six
     
     
    WE WERE tumbling. Caught in a fiery pinwheel of pain and screaming metal, I could do nothing but hold on and pray the Rover’s old seat belts held. Gods were fickle things, while Death was a constant presence, his skeletal hand always tapping at my shoulder.
    Death was tapping more than my shoulder right now.
    Streaks of neon scratched across my eyes, long threads of pink and blue caught in the spin of the Rover’s scramble. I heard shouting—probably mine—because Jonas was being tossed about the cab, his long arms flailing, heavy, fleshy trunks slapping at my face and chest. The smoky air frizzed with electricity, the copper sting of open wires and explosive hitting me nearly as hard as Jonas’s right hand across my face.
    The Rover bounced, once on its nose, then on its side, snagging a fire hydrant along the way, and the burst of water sent us spinning all over again. The metal sides let loose a wailing keen when the Rover flipped off of the geyser shooting up from the broken line and was forced into a long slide across the road’s thick, greasy black asphalt.
    I blinked, blood in my eyes, and my head threatened to explode, my skull throbbing from its recent battering. We’d landed driver’s side down, and some unbroken part of my brain panicked, scared Jonas’s arms or head were caught beneath the crushed Rover’s side through the broken window. The seat belt cut across my throat, choking me, and my fingers were unwilling to find the latch, fumbling about on the release until I felt the button. I pressed hard, waiting for a snick to tell me I could pull free, but nothing happened.
    “Shit.” There was too much pain to think straight. “Get loose, Kai. Move your ass.”
    I smelled blood, and it was too much to hope that it was just mine. Someone was shouting something indistinct, but the sound was muffled, and the ringing in my ears grew louder with every passing second. Jonas was moving, moaning silently next to me. I hung over him, my right leg twisted up over the dash, but a shift of my weight anchored me against the middle console, and I lodged my left foot against the steering column so I wouldn’t fall on Jonas once I got free. I could see both of his arms, and while the gash on his head was worrisome, there didn’t seem to be a break in his skull.
    Of course I could only see one side, and my brain galloped toward scenarios I didn’t want to entertain. Shutting down, I concentrated on getting loose. The Rover crackled around me, loud enough for me to hear through my explosion-induced deafness. Smoke ghosted over me, oily black threads worming into my nose, but I couldn’t find any flames. Like the unseen side of Jonas’s head, it didn’t mean there wasn’t a fire.
    “Knife,” I mumbled. The belt latch was broken, but I had to get free—get us both free—because the sting of smoke filling the cabin was a great incentive to get moving. “You’ve got a knife, idjit.”
    It hurt to think, hurt more to talk, and there was something swollen pressing up against the roof of my mouth. It took the sharp sting of my teeth on meat for me to realize it was my own tongue. The Ka-Bar strapped to my right shin was easy enough to get to. Pity my hand wasn’t responding like it should. A second or third swipe of my fingers and I grabbed the knife’s hilt and jerked it free of its sheath.
    There were few gods I asked for help. None really replied, or at least not on a daily, how-are-you-doing-Kai kind of way. Dempsey prayed to the dead Catholic god and a few of the more noteworthy saints when he needed something but nothing formal, so my exposure to religion mostly came from other Stalkers. Jonas cleaved to some nature goddesses, and well, everyone knew Pele, Ganesh, and Morrígan, but my mind was drawing a