MARK TRAIL
MARK TRAILKeep clear, the man said. And the dog too.No sooner had he said it than the pup was up under the stationwagon. Its spotty limbs with imbecile inerrancy skittering backward into the canting pumpjack. It gave. Its on my legs.You'll be okay.I'm scared. I can't get my legs out.He could see the boy was unhurt. Soft sand took the brunt of the blow. But now the weight of the automobile pinned his skinny legs to the beach like a twoton shackle. Work of some sadistic jailer. The pumpjack lay halfburied in the soft ground. No more use to be had of it. Nor could he lift the stationwagon himself. Try to dig and the boy would sink further. I'm going to get help.Dont go.It wont be far. I want you to stay with me.He looked at the water and the beach. Black rime of dried kelp between the stationwagon and the dunes. The tide would be coming. I'll be back soon.They'd passed a general store on their way in. He climbed back to where they'd left the roadway and began to run with long jolting strides. A pelican crossing overhead with heavy wingbeats. The grasses gave way to scrubby saltblasted trees. Battered vanguard of the terrestrial forest. Then the parking lot. He slowed to a trot. The gas pumps had a thin coat of grime on them and weeds were coming up through the gravel. More grime lay on the darkened windows. No commerce here. The doorknob rattled in his hand but did not turn. Whoever left the store had locked it. He shaded his eyes and leaned close to the glass. Trying to discern something useful in the silent gloom.
