Hibiscus Coulteri
Wilderstory 06
Daylight was dwindling, and the shadows from the bus stretched almost to the other side of the road. Next to one of the upturned wheels lay the flattened heap that used to be the bus driver — half in and half out of the waning sunlight.
Abe watched as Dot stepped toward the lifeless body. Her ponytails had almost come undone. Stray bits of black hair defiantly twisted and whipped around her face in the breeze.
Abe pushed himself up from the ground and limped to his motorbike, which was parked on the shoulder behind the bus. He fumbled with one of the saddlebags tied to the back.
His voice broke the silence. “I had her right where I wanted her,” he grunted, in Dot’s direction.
“She had me for a bit there. Took me by surprise. But I was just letting her get close.”
He returned, pausing beside Dot. They gazed down at the bent and tangled figure on the ground. Wind whistled hotly through the underbody of the overturned bus.
It was the first time Abe had seen the damage up close. The sheer force of the trauma inflicted by the young girl surprised him. The bus driver’s face was unrecognizable. Her glasses lay in pieces on the ground. And her legs were bent awkwardly beneath her body, as though she had been laid flat while doing some sort of dance.
The twist, thought Abe.
He turned his attention to Dot. “I think this is yours,” he said, holding the rag doll out to her. “You dropped it at the station.”
Dot vacantly took the doll. It’s loose fabric body dangled from her hand as she knelt down on one knee, slipping her backpack off the edge of her shoulder. She pushed the doll under the top flap and snapped the button shut.
The ground around them was a mess. The swarm of dying bugs had become an uneven wreath of black dots on the ground. A broken halo. Some of them still struggled to move.
“Bat-shit crazy,” Abe muttered.
“Her name was Florence,” said Dot, as she walked silently past the lifeless body. There was a scraggly outgrowth of wildflowers along the side of the road. Little scalloped cups of yellow with orange-gold nodes in the center. They bobbed in the wind amid a tangle of grey-green stems.
Stooping down, Dot plucked one of the blossoms. She returned, pushing her free hand into the pocket of her jumper. There was a brittle rustling as she pulled out two small wands wrapped in clear plastic. Abe recognized the garish red letters printed on each.
Rooster Stix.
Kneeling beside Florence, Dot pressed them into her stiff, upturned palm. She fixed the tiny flower stem between the blackened and bloodied fingers, secure against the wind.
“Hibiscus Coulteri,” Abe said.
Dot squinted toward him. He cleared his throat, looking away. “It’s a desert flower.”
He peered down the empty road. The pavement seemed bleached by the desert sun. “You know, some poor bastard’s gonna drive by soon and see all this,” he gestured, encompassing the whole scene. “And before you know it, this place will be — ,” he trailed off.
“Swarming with cops,” the girl finished.
Abe looked sidelong through the setting sun. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”
Dot stifled a grin. She looked down at the ground and kicked aimlessly at one of the withering bugs.
Abe picked the wooden cane up off the ground and walked back toward his bike. It shined along its length where the dark blood had dried — like an exotic shellac.
Dot watched as he strapped it to the fender.
His back was broad. Hulking. And his muscles twitched as he pulled the strapping tight. He threw his leg over the bike and kicked it to life, piercing the desert air with a booming series of pops and rumbles. He cranked the handle and the engine blasted with even greater ferocity.
Abe motioned, and Dot could see his lips moving. The sound of his voice reached her above all the clamor.
“Listen, I need to go now,” she heard him yell. His speech had become one with the rest of the engine. Dot stared at him, brushing the stray hair away from her face. He dropped the engine to a low idle as he rambled closer to her.
Abe held out his hand. “Thanks, by the way,” he said, “for what you did.”
The smell of exhaust swirled around them both. The motorbike burped and sputtered with an irregular rhythm.
Dot put her hand in his. Abe frowned, seeing the blood and dirt that covered her fingers, mingling with that on his own. He looked west down the long stretch of highway.
I need to not be here, he thought. I need to be far away.
Abe felt Dot’s grip tighten in his. He gazed across the landscape as the scene before him took shape. The mangled bus. The bent and broken body of Florence lying dead in a pool of blood. The girls who left, knowing full well who they had left behind.
The stories they might tell.
And this one girl.
The one who seemed at odds with the others. Apart.
“Do you have a home?” he heard himself saying, “Some family somewhere?”
Dot stared back at him. Her eyes strained against the wind.
Abe pulled his hand away, reaching into the second saddlebag on the back of his bike.
“I have this helmet,” he said, holding it out to her.
“If you have a home, I can take you there.”
