The Reaches

[Jude]

It was a truck bed. It was metal. Were he to vomit again, Jude reasoned that all it needed was a hose. Short of leaving the keys in the truck, there was nothing here for him to steal -- unless the dead bird was some kind of prize. Why? Why make Jude get out of the truck? Stupid Near, all elbows and knees as he clambered out. Useless! Useless and blind! Because apparently Near had never seen a horror movie, or had never seen anything die. Had he been anywhere near Courtland when he died? Was death anything more to Near than a new big house and more zeroes in a bank account?

For a moment, he buried his face in the top of his backpack once more. In his mind's eye, he opened his mouth and screamed. Externally he looked like he was trying to steel himself through another wave of nausea.

Near would be no help. It was up to Jude to ensure he did not get murdered. If bloodshed began, Jude vowed to find some way to use it to his advantage. He was not going to get murdered in the cabin in the woods. No no no.

"No," he grumbled, lifting his head and sliding the pack around to his back. He scooted along the bed and carefully dangled his feet off the edge, shifting his weight until he softly landed on his feet. He made no attempt to look any less surly, calculating that friendliness signaled weakness and made one more murder-able.

Jude wished he could hurl again. He'd hurl right on Near's feet.