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SNEEZING, BROUGHT ON by the dust in the air inside the compact space I found myself in, was what brought me around. I was still a bit muddled, trying to figure out where I was and how I got there. Besides having a sore head, I felt dizzy, and a bit nauseous. I reached up and felt the left side of my throbbing head and my fingers came away wet and sticky. That’s when it all came flooding back. I remembered Ken bashing me in the head with his gun when I refused to get in the boot of the car. Yep, the boot. That’s where I was. The bouncing and bumping along on what must be a rough, rutted road wasn’t helping with the nausea. I wasn’t claustrophobic, actually. I’d only tried to talk Ken out of making me get in the boot. I knew it would limit my escape options if I were stuck in the boot of the car.
I twisted and worked on the duct tape trying to get enough slack so that I could pick at the tape to try and free my wrists. No good. I couldn’t quite touch the edge of the tape with my thumb and index finger. Something was digging into my back. I scooted away and rolled over. I ran my hands over it and discovered it was a long-handled spade. I didn’t need three guesses to figure out what Ken had brought along a spade for.
At first, I thought it could be used as a weapon. But I discounted the idea realizing it was too long and I’d never manage to swing it fast enough to catch Ken by surprise. I needed something to use as a club, but the spade wouldn’t do. Then I thought of the tyre repair thing, the iron used to remove the lug nuts when changing a flat tyre. After feeling around, I didn’t find a spare or any tools. It must be in a compartment below me. Running my fingers along the bottom of the compartment, I found the edge of a cover.
It wasn’t easy with my wrists bound. But by contorting my body this way and that and heaving at the edges, I managed after a while to raise the cover. I found the spare. Secured somehow on top of the tyre were the tools.
My fingers found a large wing nut, and I unscrewed it. The tools came loose. I separated the tyre iron from the jack. Putting it aside for the moment, I resumed my contortions until I managed to get the cover closed once again. Exhausted, I lay on my back sweating and gulping breaths. The car continued bouncing along, the air still filled with dust.
After what seemed a long while the car came to a stop. With haste, I organized my plan. It wasn’t a great plan, but with a bit of luck, it might work I thought. I pushed the iron up against the front edge of the compartment, hoping it wouldn’t be visible when he opened the boot. I heard steps. I heard the click of the lock, and then all I saw was blinding bright sunlight when the boot lid raised up.
"Get out," Ken said. I struggled to focus on him with my pupils dilated from the previous blackness I’d been in. "Get out," he said again.
Ken had the gun out but was holding it down at his side. I reckoned he believed he had taken the fight out of me by bashing me in the head. I struggled to throw my legs out and over the lip of the boot. Then I scooted backward on my stomach until my toes touched the ground. Putting my palms on the bottom of the compartment I pushed myself into a standing position, to the left of Ken.
"Get the shovel out of the trunk," Ken said.
"Going to make me dig my own grave, Ken?" I said. "That it?"
"Shut up and get the shovel like I told you," Ken said.
I bent over, reaching into the boot as if to retrieve the spade, watching Ken out of the corners of my eyes. I expected him to take a step back when I went for the spade. Instead, he took a half step closer. He must have known what I’d already worked out. Given its length, it would take too long for me to wind up and swing the shovel with enough force to do him any real harm. He must have thought by getting closer, if I tried swinging the spade, he’d only need to bear hug me and take it away. I reached in. It wasn’t the spade I came out with though, but the tyre iron. It was compact, only a little more than a half meter in length, which allowed for a tight swing arc. But it was solid steel, and heavier than the spade. The acceleration of velocity would occur much faster when swung. Once I had a grip on the iron, I started to straighten and rotate my feet from right to left. That required me to turn my back to Ken for a split second, but that was okay. Action always beats reaction. The human brain must first interpret what the eyes see before reacting to it. By the time I came back around and Ken was again in my view, I was three-quarters of the way through the swing arc. The leading edge of the iron approached the greatest velocity.
Ken’s eyes were open wide, like a deer caught in the headlights. He realized what was happening, but too late. He was in desperation mode playing catch up. Forced to make a split-second decision, his brain told him to rely on the gun rather than moving to try to avoid the blow. But action always beats reaction, every single time. Ken was way behind and didn’t even come close to getting the gun in position to shoot in time.
It all seemed so surreal as if everything was moving in slow motion like we were in a vacuum. I didn’t hear a sound until the steel connected with flesh. I was holding the straight end of the iron. The straight part at the opposite end struck Ken’s jawline and the crooked part of it, the left side of his head. I heard the thump of metal meeting meat and the sound of breaking bone. A pink burst of spray hung in the air after the blood sprayed from Ken’s mouth. He went down hard, losing his grip on the pistol in the process. It went skittering into the red dirt.
Enraged, my adrenaline was pumping. I’d already raised the iron and started coming down to finish Ken with a second blow before I regained control. I stopped myself. He was down, and it was clear he was unconscious. Another blow now and self-defense would become murder. I stumbled backward, and my arse came to rest on the rear bumper of the car. I sat for a moment struggling to regain control of my emotions. I looked around.
Ken had stopped the car on a rutted red dirt road that ran between thick, head-high cane fields on either side. It looked like a perfect place to bury a body. No one would find a grave here for a long while, if ever. I still had the iron in my hand. I had decided to not to kill Ken, assuming I hadn’t already. But I had to neutralize him. I had to leave him here but had nothing to tie him up with. I didn’t want to leave myself in the position of looking over my shoulder, watching for him to appear again somewhere.
I stood up, raised the iron over my head, and brought it down again, but this time I didn't aim for his head. Ken was lying on his right side, and the unforgiving steel came down on his left leg below the knee. There was another crack of broken bone. Ken moaned and jerked, but I doubted he felt much pain from the blow. He was still out of it. Likely the leg didn’t even hurt now, but I reckoned it would hurt like a bastard when he came to if he did.
I flung the iron out into the cane field. I walked over and picked up the pistol with my pinkie through the trigger guard. It was evidence to prove the case of self-defense if I needed it. I tossed the pistol into the boot of the car and closed the lid.
I went back to Ken and dug through his pants pockets until I found the folding knife. I opened it and cut the duct tape off my wrists. I threw the knife into the field. Looking down at Ken I said, "I warned you. I told you not to touch me you bastard."
The keys were still in the ignition. Sliding behind the wheel, I started the car and made a turnabout through the edge of the cane field. Back on the red dirt road, I accelerated and drove away, clouds of red dust from the road billowing in the wake of the big car.
