“I’m going to be
sick.”
Just
look at the basket.”
“I
mean it. I’m going to be sick.”
“Dead
men don’t vomit, Gerd.”
“Don’t
care.”
“Just
look at the basket. Nothing else exists. No cliff, no sky. You’re standing on a
nice, flat piece of land, and there’s only you and the basket, nice and close
and easy.”
“You’re
a lying bastard and I’m going to be sick.”
“Just
close your eyes. Go on, close them.”
Slowly,
reluctantly, Gerd did so.
“You
have no idea how many things I blame
you for.”
“Yes,
I’m a truly terrible person. Now, there you are, on a flat piece of land. You
feel it, beneath your feet?”
“Of
course I do.”
“That’s
good. Now, can you see a cliff?”
“Of course I can’t see the sodding cliff!”
“Of course I can’t see the sodding cliff!”
“It’s
not there.”
“I’ve
got my eyes closed, you git.”
Marius
poked him in the ribs. “It’s not there,” he said through gritted teeth. “And
there’s no sky. Just you and the basket. That’s all. Open your eyes and all
you’ll see is the basket.”
“How
will—“
Marius
took a step back, and to the side, so that he stood directly behind his friend.
“Open your eyes.”
Gerd
opened his eyes.
“Do
you see the basket?”
“Yes,
I—“
“Good.
Don’t forget to grab it.”
He
drew his elbows back and pushed Gerd as hard as he could, flush in the centre
of his back. Gerd teetered for a moment then, with a scream, pushed off from
the cliff’s edge and fell into the basket. It swung out from the cliff with his
momentum, swung back to crash into the white stone, then slowly, in diminishing
arcs, returned to its original position, twisting this way, then that, around
the taut line of the rope.
“Gerd?”
“You’re
a bastard.”
“Are
you all right?”
“I’m
going to be sick.”
Marius turned to
Brys.
“He’s
all right.”
48 500 words in, three beta-readers
killed off, two to go, and it’s all progressing rather nicely. Marching Dead
comes out in early 2013.
No comments:
Post a Comment