David J Ebner

Sticks and Bones: Part 2

Darien grabbed once more at Aaron and was able to catch his shoulder.

The gun fired.

Hitting the dog in the hind parts did nothing more than startle him. He pulled free of his now loosened rope and leapt onto Georgie. Aaron gathered himself from the ground and stood up with anger in his blood and a knife in his hand. Darien turned to confront the boy that almost shot his brother. Aaron slashed the six inch blade of his father’s Buck knife in Darien’s direction, missing at first, he swiftly returned for another attempt. The blade sliced past his open jacket across his chest. Darien was stunned, as well as Mike and Aaron, once they realized where the brawl had taken them. Darien dropped to his knees in amazement, staring down at the wood and gold platted grip lying in the snow in front of his knees. His blood was visible on the blade, a dark maroon spilled onto the bleached snow.

Splash.

The boys turned in the direction of the noise. Where a smiling boy and a yellow Labrador once had cuddled, now came nothing but the sound of wading waters. Then a yelp.

Aaron and Mike took off, running to their houses with the speed of bad-deed-ridden children. Darien left the glistening knife next to the flaming lantern, and the black stocked BB-gun, all in a half buried bed of snow. He began to crawl, but progressed to a jog toward the water. When he came to the shore he saw Georgie trying to stand in the shallows of the canal, the current deterring his efforts. Mr. Scruffles was swimming to the other side, struggling as well.

“Darien, I can’t stand up.” Georgie began to struggle, but his legs gave in and he began to float carelessly with the current.

“Georgie!” Darien hurried down the embankment and dove at his brother.

He splashed his way to Georgie’s side, and then haphazardly pulled him to land by the sleeve of his coat.

“Keep moving,” Darien pushed him up the water’s edge, gasping in the burning coarseness of the icy air, “you can’t stop moving.” He turned and noticed the dog still fighting to prove the worthiness of his existence. The dog bobbed at a pace that slowed with each tread and his mouth steamed like the smokestack of a sinking ship. No mayday was heard by Darien as Mr. Scruffles went under.

“I’m sssso cooold.” Georgie muttered as he moved from the scene.

“I know, I know, me too.”

The boys hobbled along, Darien holding his left chest with his right hand. They dropped like falling leaves next to the lantern, their only source of heat for miles.

“You hold that lantern as tightly to your body as you can, okay?” Darien winced in pain.

“Darien, you’re bleeding.”

Darien looked down at his chest and saw that his wound was revealed through his exposed shirt.

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” he zipped his jacket closed; “we have to get inside.”

“Do you know where we are?” Georgie looked up in search of a distinguishable landmark, but found none.

“No, not really, but we have to get moving, it’s starting to get dark.”

Both boys rose and as they did it started to snow. Georgie picked up the lantern and Darien grabbed the knife that resting where it was left. They marched on through the worsening conditions of winter. They climbed over logs and crouched under branches, but were unable to decipher the pressed path from the wooded wilderness. They guessed once, and then once more until their guess became futile in a Tetris of trees. They used the branches and trunks of trees to propel themselves forward, but after two hours they were trudging deep in an unknown territory where the snow fell merciless on them.

“I’m tired.” Georgie had been dragging his feet for over a mile.

“We can’t stop Georgie,” Darien’s chest was starting to wear on his outer clothing

“I can’t go any farther.” Georgie collapsed onto the ground.

“Maybe just five minutes.” Darien fell as well.

The two huddled together in a small hole dug into the earth by some older boys that used the woods for paintballing in the warmer months. The hole’s depth was a few feet at its center, and wide enough for the two of them, shaped like a bowl. Darien scooped the snow out to his best ability and then held Georgie in his arms who still possessed the low-burning lantern.

“Darien?” The hole concealed Georgie’s quiet voice.

“Yea.” Darien started to drift.

“Do you think Mr. Scruffles is okay?”

Darien debated which lie would be the best to tell, “Sure, I saw him come out the other side.” The farthest from the truth was the best.

Two minutes passed with nothing but hard breaths being passed between the two.

“Why?” Georgie’s blond hair was now covered with snow in the front, and blood in the back.

“Why what?”

“Why did they do this?”

“I don’t know.”

“You always know.” A tear rolled down his face before freezing at his chin.

“I’m sorry Georgie, but this time I don’t.”

“I’m getting sleepy.” Georgie’s eyes began to glaze.

“Okay, you sleep for a little bit and I’ll stay awake.” Darien felt bad that he had no logical answer for his little brother, although he knew that sleeping was a bad idea.

“Darien?”

“Yea.”

“Will you sing for me?”

“Like Mom?”

“Yea, only better.”

Darien chuckled, “Okay. What do you want to hear?”

“Anything.”

“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas just like the ones I used to know...”

Georgie was sleeping within seconds. Darien sat with his brother in his arms and all he could think about was the knife in his pocket, so he took it out. He opened the knife that now had his own dried blood frosting the blade. He took his right glove off and scooped his pale blue hand into the snow, replacing it with the knife and covered it up. As Darien lost consciousness the snow continued to fall and just before he closed his eyes he saw the lantern flicker out.

For two day authorities searched for the boys to no avail, with only sorrow, pain, and layers of warm clothing. Mike and Aaron constructed a well-planned story to tell the concerned parties, stating that they never showed up after school.

On the morning of the third day a man hunting for white-tail deer walked onto a shallow depression in the snow and stepped on what he thought was a log.

Crack.