“I
figured that out myself,” Elys said, “I meant the part about him saying he’d
back off. Maybe he’ll have patrols out tonight looking for you. But as long as
I’m with you we should be left alone. So, maybe keep the knife in your jacket,
yeah?”
“Maybe
keep it in my jacket? Yeah, I guess I’ll try to do that. It’s not like I
don’t know how to handle it. It was my grandfather’s. He taught me how to use
it in a fight.”
“Is it really made for fighting
though?” She asked.
“Yeah, actually,” he said, “He got
it in the first world war. He said that his friends called it the Einhander.
Because they got it from a German prisoner.”
“The one hander? That’s fuckin’
retarded.”
“Yeah well it was my grandfather’s
so maybe you can go ahead a lay off and calm down? Maybe I don’t want you
yelling at me about it?”
“Maybe calm down,” she said, “I was
baiting you.”
“Fine,” he said, “You got me pretty
good Elys. You’re so good at just barely concealing your sarcasm that I can’t
even detect it. That’s how good you are at it; no one ever knows.”
“Backhanded compliments are still
compliments,” she said, “Hey, you wanna see the explosives? And the weapon I’m
bringing along?”
“Uh, yeah,” he said, “Duh I’d like
to see bombs and swords.”
“It’s not a sword,” she said, “It’s
even better.” She turned and walked for the back door.
“What’s even better than a sword? A
gun?” He said, following, “I hope you’re not bringing a gun.”
“Guns are stupid,” she said, “There’s
nothing personal about a gun.”
“Oh god,” he said.
“What?”
“Nothing personal? You say that like
you have experience with it,” he said.
“Who said I don’t?” She asked.
He decided not to ask. He skipped
inside after her and closed the door, and followed her through the kitchen. The
kitchen was as meager in appearance as the front of the house. There was a table,
four chairs, a stove, sink, and everything else a kitchen is supposed to have.
There was a bowl of mints on the table. Dave
grabbed one as he passed, and took off the wrapping.
“Help yourself,” Elys said, “We never eat
any of those.”
“Why not?” Dave asked.
“My dad and I hate them,” she said.
They stepped down into the basement, taking
wooden steps that creaked more often than not. Elys flipped a switch and a pair
of fluorescent lights powered on, bathing the room in a pale blue light. There
was a concrete floor, walls with bare insulation, and a work bench. There was a
punching bag on the end of the room, and a fallen bag seated up against the
wall. It was full of holes; sand had pooled around it on the floor.
Upon the work bench was a single grey
package, a blade, and a black rod that was a little less than a foot long.
“This the stuff?” Dave asked.
NEXT PAGE
NEXT PAGE
No comments:
Post a Comment