Three’s a Crowd

The place Dwight was talking about wasn’t too far off, down under a small two lane bridge situated twenty feet or so above where it crossed over a dry riverbed. Circling around and down, Dwight took them to an abutment where they were above to secret themselves. It seemed relatively safe, small enough for them but sturdy enough to take a step from one of the girls from above if need be.

Daryl smirked, it kind of had the lived in feel, like a hobo under an overpass vibe. “I haven’t seen any animals,” he said, getting settled.

“Or birds, or insects, seems like it’s just us and them,” Dwight said, taking off his roll and setting it near the back of the concrete abutment and untying it.

“How long do you usually sleep for?” Daryl asked, setting his own roll down and bunching it up like a pillow.

Dwight shrugged, “No idea, pretty much until I wake up, no way to measure the passage of time here,” he said, pulling out his water bottle and taking a drink.

“Like living up north in Canada or Alaska where it stays light all summer and dark all winter,” Daryl said.

“I guess, but I think that’s only north of the Arctic Circle,” he answered. “Drink?” he offered, holding out the bottle.

“Pass,” Daryl said, despite his growing thirst he was still unable to bring himself to chug down Hayley’s pee.

Dwight laughed and drained the rest of the bottle before capping it back up and stashing it back in his fold. Turning over on his side, he lay his head down on his makeshift tote.

Daryl lay there listening for sounds of the night. There were none. It was eerie. The change in Dwight’s breathing told him when the youth had fallen asleep. He had no clue how long he had been awake, it felt like days, but it might only have been hours. The whole thing was so confusing.

Thinking back on the love session between the two incredibly massive women gave his balls a tingle. He had been in a few threesomes in his time and he always loved watching the girls as they continued to play with each other after he’d come. The kid was asleep and he thought about rubbing one out, but he was tired, actually weary seemed a better adjective to describe how he felt. He wondered if he closed his eyes where he might wake up. Still under the bridge like some misbegotten troll from a fairy tale? The Bates Motel again? Maybe in his own bed. That thought put a smile on his face as he wrapped an arm around his dirty bundled sheet.

Daryl’s sleep was fitful. The thickness hanging in the air, the moments of preternatural quietness disrupted by the rumbling sounds of gigantic feet moving through the remains of the city and the turbulent thoughts churning in his mind kept him awake.

Where was this place? The giantess ex-girlfriends he had seen may have worn familiar faces, but there was no way it could be them. Right? Nothing seemed to make any kind of sense. The whole landscape seemed like something out of a post-apocalyptic stygian nightmare.

There was a rustling from down below, the sounds of something moving over the round dry river stones. Peeking out in the gloom, he spied the silhouette of a figure furtively traversing the creek bed. The figure stumble, scattering stones as it fell.

Daryl shook his head. Funny how in the near absolute silence how cacophonous was the sound, almost deafening.

“Shit,” muttered figure in a male tone, rolling over and sitting up, bent forward and rubbing an ankle.

Daryl looked at the kid and then back at the figure.

The figure rose to standing and hopped a couple of step before collapsing back to the ground. “Sonofabitch,” cursed the figure.

Looking at the kid, Daryl twisted his positon and slid off the abutment, moving down the slope toward the injured figure.

“Who’s there?” hissed the figure, raising an arm and holding what appeared to be some kind of homemade weapon.

“Relax,” Daryl said, moving closer. The man appeared around the same age as Daryl, though covered in grime it was hard to be sure. He had cut a hole in the center of a darkly discolored sheet and wore it like a poncho, cinched at the waist by a strip of like colored cloth.

“Don’t come any closer,” warned the figure, brandishing a ten inch length of sharpened steel with tape wrapped around an end for a handle.

“You can put your prison shank away, I’m just here to help,” he said.

“What’s your name?”

“Daryl. You?” he asked, crouching down at the fringe of stabbing range.

“Farrell,” he replied, lowering the weapon, though still clutching it in his hand. “Turned my bloody ankle on some of those rocks over there,” he said, motioning with his head.

“You know where we are?” Daryl asked.

Farrell laughed, “Hell, that’s where we are,” he answered bitterly, slipping a rolled up carrying sheet from over his shoulder and laying it down beside him. “You been here long?” he asked, setting the blade down and untying one end of the sheet.

“Not sure, a day maybe, who knows?” he replied spreading his hands and shrugging.

Nodding, “Yeah, time is fucked here,” he agreed. “Now listen Daryl, I don’t know you, you don’t know me, but if you help me get back to my place, I can make it worth your while,” he offered, pulling a single can of beer from his roll.

“Is that what I think it is?” Daryl asked, chuckling and grinning.

“It is if what you’re thinking is brew,” he said, extending the can toward Daryl.

Reaching out, Daryl took the aluminum can in his hand and turning it over.

“Go on, you can that one as a sign of good faith. That one is warm, but I’ve got cold ones back at my place. Help me and I’ll give you a sixer,” he said.

Daryl pulled the tab, the hissing sound of gas escaping loud in the channel of the dry creek bed. Bringing it to his lips he drank deeply, draining half the can, the carbonation making his belch. “Goddamn that’s good,” he said, examining the can.

“What do you say? Lend a fellow a hand?” Farrell queried.

“Where did you get this?” Daryl asked, taking another tug, savoring the rich taste.

Farrell laughed, “That one I’ll take to my grave,” he replied.

Finishing the beer, Daryl let out a breath and burped again, crumpling the can in his hand. “Is it far?” he asked, dropping the can to the stones.

“Half hour maybe, back that way,” Farrell said, nodding his head back in the direction he had come.

Daryl looked in the direction then back to the fallen man, “You came that way,” he said.

“I was going to go out looking for some food, but now with my ankle, I think I’ll just hole up for a couple of days and try to heal. No way do I want to be hobbling around out here on a game leg with these women prowling around,” he said.

Daryl nodded. “I’ll help you,” Daryl said.

Farrell nodded and extended his hand, “Man’s only as good as his word here,” he said.

Shaking the proffered hand, Daryl helped the injured man to stand on his good foot.