Excerpt: Boone's Moon

Admission
 
 
Donovan waited for his life to pass before his eyes after the first bullet penetrated his shoulder and tore out the back, taking blood and flesh with it. That’s how it worked, right? The movie of your life played fast forward, complete with Technicolor and surround sound.
           As wet heat spread across his chest and back, he waited for the show. When it didn’t start, he figured the bullet laying somewhere on the ground with a fair amount of his skin wasn’t the ticket of admission. Or maybe the whole thing was a load of bull. If that were the case, too bad. There were some damn good times worth watching. R-rated… X-rated.
The second bullet kicked the projector into motion when it lodged in his thigh. He didn’t see highlights of wicked nights, or even chaining flickers of the tamer moments. Instead, one static image hung in his head. Big brown eyes obscured by short tawny hair and a far too innocent smile. Oh, that’s just mean!
His knees shook and buckled. Fortunately, he managed to shift sideways and avoid falling face down into the mucky ground. The smell of decaying vegetation surrounded him. A disgusting smell, but better than the pile of donkey shit at the trail head.
Other than a small swarm of buzzing flies, the forest had no perceivable sound. He used his free hand to bat the little monsters away. “Wait til’ I’m dead ya little bastards. There’s a pile of shit while you wait.”
           Somewhere, the sound of cracking branches and thumping feet caught his attention. It was hard to tell with the increased buzzing. Not the flies. His brain cells were dying by the thousands as blood leached through his clothes. He gripped the camera tighter, despite the futility of the act. The shooter need only wait a little while longer to pluck it from a limp hand.
           He chuckled. A blast of pain rode every nerve, threatening to take away the last precious moments of consciousness. Hell no! I’m finishing this ride with my eyes wide open. His eyelids felt like they were tied to sandbags, but he managed to pull them up into slits. Ever the optimist, he hoped the blurry figure standing over him was Simon charging in for a dramatic rescue. The barrel of some cheap-ass rifle pretty much killed that dream. What an insult. Taken out by a piece-of-shit gun. In retrospect, a Kevlar vest wasn’t such an inconvenience. Had the killer used respectable armor piercing rounds, Donovan wouldn’t be laying on the ground feeling like a dip-shit right now. Thanks a lot, jack-ass.
           More crackling and thumping sounds. He hoped the sound came from the killer’s buddies. Any attempt to save his sorry hide would only buy Simon admission to his own personal show. Maybe he’d fare better. Seriously, of every possible thing to show him… why her? Now, God and he had their differences, especially on issues of morality. But this… well, this was dirty pool.
           The man with the gun shouted something over his shoulder. He had no clue what it was. Why hadn’t he paid more attention in Spanish class? Oh yeah, Heather Willis. If the board of education really wanted to improve academic achievement, they’d make girls like Heather dress in over-sized muumuus and put bags over their heads. And make them use ivory soap instead of that sexy stuff. The scent of things like freesia and cherries made a boy fantasize about copulation not conjugation.
As hard as he tried, Heather’s blue eyes and 36-D chest didn’t materialize in his head. Nope, he got another flash of a pert but average figure and the sound of a lively giggle. Aww… come on! Throw a dog a bone, would ya! If people thought life was unfair, they should get a load of death. The sum of Donovan S. Balder’s life was worthy of the Playboy channel, and all he could get was Disney. He looked at the man holding the gun and wished he could beg for mercy. Hurry it up, pal. A bullet to the scull please. Given my state of mind, it’s the humane thing to do.
If the man shot his nose off, that’d be a blessing too. He wondered if soap had been outlawed in this region. Now he wished he’d fallen closer to the donkey-dump. Lucky flies.
A familiar, panicked voice came from somewhere, but his eyes had fluttered shut and told him to piss-off. If the camera still sat in his hand, he couldn’t feel it. The moisture from boggy ground and his blood ceased to feel distinct. Damn, I feel cold. How cliché’. A man lays bleeding from bullet wounds. His friend makes it just in time to cradle the dying man’s head and scream something delusional but encouraging. Don’t you die on me, man! Or, something to that effect. If Simon managed to reach him without getting killed, Donovan hoped he had the sense to say something reasonable like, ‘Don’t sweat it. I hear angels wear thongs.’
Of course, there was the matter of uttering that last dramatic phrase. He didn’t have a rat’s ass chance of getting a word out of his frozen lips. But what would he say if he could… I love you, man? Tell my family, I love them? When you see George, tell him to kiss my left nut? Call Nora, and tell her I can’t make it Saturday night? Rosebud? EEEEE… TEEEE… Phone… Home…. Aww shit! Anoxia.
 
He felt the sensation of getting sucked backwards. A black and white checkered tunnel whirled past his imaginary peripheral vision. A face, her face receded into the distance. Tell her… What the hell, it really doesn’t make a difference now.
 
He’d had anesthesia at sixteen for an appendectomy. This wasn’t much different really. Drifting along, he saved the last thread of thought for God. It wasn’t a terribly nice sentiment, but the Big Guy could take it on the chin without flinching. Thanks! No really… What an epiphany! Suddenly, it’s all so clear. Too bad I’m maggot food!