The Bone Traders - Free Chapter

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DYING TO MEET THE DEAD

The sound of the crowbar Joe uses to shift the rock echoes in the canyon. He is sweating and he’s removed his shirt. Nearby, a small fire burns over which roasts a dead rabbit. A can of pineapple and a water canteen show that a meal is due.

Dog preens himself as Joe digs the crowbar deeper beneath an obstinate rock.

“...not idle chatter. No, Dog. Looking and wanting something,” Joe mumbles to Dog. “Why come to me like a blue-fly to a mound of dung?  A man has a problem where he is and what he does, he makes a change, right?  Every road has a detour; go left, go right, go straight. That is his choice.” Exasperated, Joe sits down on a boulder, wags a finger at Dog. “Just don’t make it my problem. Especially that sort. Sky - who is called Sky? Isn't there enough sky? There’s nothing but negative oozing from him like an old car battery. Just like this place, Dog. Negative.”

Joe lifts his head. “Come on! Speak to me!” He suddenly shouts.

Dog ruffles his feathers as Joe’s words echo in the canyon. Then silence.

As if in abeyance, a sod of chalky earth topples near to where Joe was digging.

Joe hears the movement of the falling sod of earth, looks to it. He grins. “Apologies for the shouting, fine stuff,” he tells the soil.

Joe drops to his knees and begins digging with his bare hands. He soon reveals a glimpse of black material. It is wedged like a layer in a sandwich. He pulls at the material. It won’t budge so he gives it another jerk and applies more strength. He leans back on his heels.

The material suddenly gives and pops out the hole. Joe falls back on his backside. Attached to the remnants of the material are the well preserved, skeletal remains of a human hand.

 You can barely recognise the colour of this material, but you finally do. It is the colour of the clothing worn by the armed, mounted Border Patrol.

Dog reacts by flapping his huge wings, the downdraught causing a cloud of dust.

I am Dog. We both seek a carcass.

Joe collects himself and kneels alongside the remains. There’s an edge of excitement to him as he blows away the dust, scrapes away the congealed soil, revealing more of the fingers and the wrist bone. 

Joe rocks on his haunches and looks at Dog. “It’s time for my silence now Dog. But you listen to me now and listen well, my friend. If I don’t come back, you eat me true and clean. You hear me, Dog?  You finish me before the worms do. True and clean is what I ask for.”

Dog stares and offers a blink from hooded eyes.

He seeks his for a different reason. 

Joe takes a deep breath. “Good, Dog -- good. Yes, before the worms get me and before the Priest gets to me.”

From his trouser pocket, Joe pulls out a strip of leather -- it is plaited, like a fake dog’s bone -- and he puts it between his teeth, and chews down on it so it becomes an extension of his mouth. He gets comfortable on his haunches, settles his feet on the ground, ensuring his boots grip the earth’s crust. He’s planting himself.

Joe bites down on the strip of leather with force. 

 You are able, through the gap between the two boulders, to see the man who is hunched over what you mistakenly think is a pile of garbage, of plastic. Out of the corner of your eye you take notice of the size of the bird that sits as stoic as a statue.

You see the naked back of the man. His shoulders are broad and glisten with sweat. You inhale quickly as you see the muscles on the man’s back tense and ripple. You hold your breath as those same muscles remain taut. Your reaction is alien to you and you are confused by it.

You shift your position silently for a better view. Now you see that his hands are hovering over what you think is garbage, plastic. Every sinew in the man seems to be working. He rotates his body and his chest suddenly expands with a breath of air or is it shock? That thing between his teeth – he is gnawing on it, his jawbones set rigid.

You are trying to hold your own breath.

There is a tremble to his hovering fingers.

You exhale and ‘yelp’ simultaneously as the man is suddenly thrown backwards as if kicked by an invisible horse, a something. You clutch your mouth to stiffen any further noise as the man is slammed against the ground.

There he remains motionless. 

MY NAME IS DOG