Wyland stumbled through the wet grass. The fresh air was a godsend after the stifling stench of the trailer. It was a good quarter mile to the main road, and Wyland's legs didn't feel right. Neither did his brain, for that matter. The events of the day were already blurring, obeying the Professors command to forget. And Wyland didn't quite understand what had possessed him to attempt to bite the "Eternal Death Bird", Alva. He must be going crazy. A wet, gurgling whisper in his head seemed to approve of the thought.
At a distance, he watched Oliver Cunninghill's death, but it didn't register what just happened. He watched Ollie disappear under the truck, and then watched the driver of the rig get out, and even this far away, Wyland could hear the noise from the driver that sounded like, well, like what? He didn't know. Disgust mixed with fear mixed with disappointment, maybe. A retched, howling "aaaugh!" emanated from the driver as he realized he had killed a man.
Wyland ignored most of this, and wandered drunkenly towards the car parked in the distance. They knew what was going on here. His muddy brain knew that. He wanted to talk to them.
After 10 minutes of walking he was finally approaching the parked car. The rig driver appeared oblivious to both Wyland and the car parked a half mile up the road. The parked car didn't appear to see Wyland, either. He had a feeling (why? He didn't know) that the inhabitants of the car would not be thrilled to see him.
There were now whispers in his left ear. Dull, angry whispers. They told him he would fail. They scolded him for walking. They told him to just lay down and die in the cool, wet peat of the fenn.
But then, behind him, he heard noises. Sirens. He turned around to see a long line of emergency vehicles coming up the road from the same direction the Rig had. A long string of shining lights in the wet darkness, flashing oranges, reds, yellows and blues. He muttered something to himself that even his own ears couldn't discern, but the emotion was one of dismissal. Where were they 20 minutes ago? Assholes. That's what he must have said.
He turned back around, refocusing on his goal, only to see the car, with it's lights still off, already turned around and driving up the road, away from all the action.
Dammit. There went his hopes. Again. Driving off in a warm car while he sat out in the cold rain. It was a sad but familiar feeling. The voices in his brain mocked him; called him a "loser".
It was cold, wasn't it? He shivered. It was wet. He wiped the rain from his brow. Where the hell am I? He thought. What the hell just happened? He pondered. He couldn't remember, exactly. He remembered a goat, and the bird. He would never forget the goddamned Eternal Death Bird. And the goat. Why a goat? He didn't know the ridiculous name of the goat, Gillard the Gallant Goat, but maybe the goat was the answer. He turned around, now close enough to the road that he just got on it and started walking.
As he was walking, two police cars drove up to him, lights still flashing. Their bright spotlights oriented on him, blinding him in the dark, moonless, starless night. They pulled to a screeching stop, and out of each car popped a second set of flashlights, and behind them, the dim outline of two cops.
"Please stay where y'are, sir. Please keep your mouth shut and your hands up! DO NOT MOVE! DO NOT SPEAK!" called the cop on the right, and Wyland could dimly see a gun in his right hand.
Wyland hazily thought that this was a bad idea, but he didn't know why. The voices were telling him to run. He felt like the car with its lights off, now surely several miles up the road, was who they wanted to talk to, not him. Still, he put his hands in the air, and opened his mouth to say OK as he took another step forward.
He saw a bright flash from the officer's gun, and felt a deep THUD in his chest, almost simultaneously. He then heard the report of the gun. "I was going to say OK", he said, frowning and coughing. He looked down. He didn't see any blood, but the pain was excruciating, and Wyland Blake fell face down in the soft wet gravel.
The two cops walked over to Wyland, one breathing a sigh of relief. They turned him over, blood now showing over his left breast. A small hole there whistled as Wyland breathed slowly. The cop who shot him pulled his wallet out, flipped it open and studied it, the other cop leaning over his shoulder to see. The second one leaned into her radio and said "Up the road. Bring a SORT and a medic. Punctured lung from a stopper."
She looked at Wyland's ID again. She leaned back into the radio. "And Get Connie. We found her rabbit."
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