She disappeared into a thicket of bushes beside one of the nearby vaults, and I looked around. It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be someone else in the graveyard. We hadn’t encountered anyone, but there could easily be someone else wandering through this stone maze. The stones and crypts were too tall to see over. I shivered.
The bushes where Fern had disappeared rustled violently, and I heard her voice, muffled at first, then rising to a shout. I threw myself towards the sound, scratching myself on the thorny branches to reach her.
In the seclusion of the little thicket, the sun twinkled through the leaves to dapple Fern in moving light. It was cool and shady here, quite nice, really, but sweat prickled my skin. She stared down at a guy.
He looked a bit older than us, and he was dirty. There were leaves in his dark, greasy hair, and he wore a filthy plaid shirt and torn brown pants. He was sitting cross-legged, hands spread in front of him as if under arrest, his eyes huge and unblinking, staring up at Fern.
I absorbed the situation and saw a fucking big knife in her hand, the kind with a curved blade that folds back neatly into the handle. She brandished it in her right hand, pointing it at the guy. Her eyes were wide and wild.
“He attacked me,” she said in a high voice.
“I did not,” the guy said, slurring. He was drunk or wasted on something, and he flicked his eyes to me and then back to her. “I did not. I did not.”
“He did,” Fern said. She said the words quickly, never taking her eyes off him.
“Where’d you get the knife?” I asked lamely.
“I bought it in Florida,” she replied.
“I did not. I did not,” the guy repeated. “I did not.”
“Oh god, stop that,” I said.
Then it was quiet. None of us spoke. It was kind of funny, this weird tableau of the guy holding his hands out in surrender, Fern standing there pointing the knife at him, and me, just sort of there. A light breeze rustled the leaves around us. I felt a giggle coming on.
“I’m sorry,” the guy said, startling me.
“I came back here and he grabbed me out of the bushes,” Fern explained.
“I did not. I did not. I did not. I did —”
“Shut up,” I said. I knew where this was going, but somehow it was worse. It was like the polar opposite of the night in Florida. It was bright, it didn’t smell like shit, and I could see this guy’s face. I could look into his eyes. He gave me a pleading look, his brown eyes sad and frantic. This horrible rush of pity climbed right up my throat. I threw up all down my front and my hands. Fern was unmoved.
The guy started to laugh, pointing at me like a little kid. “Fuck, sorry,” I mumbled, wiping my hands on my shorts.
Then, out of nowhere, the guy lunged at Fern. I leaped at him and she swiped with the knife, connecting with his hand. There was a flash of blood and the guy screamed, pulling his hands to his face. She’d cut his fingers — his pinkie looked pretty bad. I didn’t think she’d severed anything. I was right behind him now, and I grabbed him, putting my arms around his neck in a pathetic chokehold.
“Don’t do that again,” Fern hissed.
“I did not! I did not,” he bawled, beginning to cry. I could smell the stink of booze on him.
“Shut up.” Fern stepped forward and punched him in the stomach. The guy let out a gasping grunt, and when she pulled her fist away from him, I saw the knife dripping. It took me a second to realize she’d stabbed him.
As I held him, she took a deep breath and punched him again with the blade. The guy coughed and I let him go. He slumped over into the grass, moving his hands to his belly. I watched his fingers turn slick and scarlet. Blood seeped into the grass. He lay there, gasping.