South Village (Ash McKenna) Read Online Free Page B

slack. Everything gone but the meat. You look at a dead body and know it’s empty of something.
    Pressure builds in my face like an over-filled water balloon, stretching my skin.
    “Ash.”
    The bridge is there, lying in the dirt. It looks like the bridge Indiana Jones gets trapped on in Temple of Doom , stuck between Nazis and the crazy Indian death-cult. Except this bridge was twenty-five feet over the forest floor, not hundreds of feet over a croc-infested river. I’ve walked across the bridge. I thought it was sturdy.
    “Ash.” Tibo is standing next to me, his voice low. “I need you right now.”
    I nod at him and he turns to the assembled staffers and guests and says, “This is a tragedy, but one that must be dealt with. Could everyone please return to the Hub? We’re going to call the sheriff and inform him there’s been an accident.”
    A few people drift off, the guests and the newer staffers, the ones who didn’t know Pete, but most of the crowd lingers. Ignoring Tibo, staring down at the ground, like Pete might shake off being dead and stand back up.
    Tibo raises his voice. “Please, everyone. I know this is very difficult.”
    More departures. Tibo grabs Cannabelle as she passes. “Call the cops, okay? Ask for Ford specifically.”
    She nods, her eyes rimmed in red. One small hand, her fingernails caked in dirt, placed over her mouth. Not like she might throw up, more like she’s trying to hold something in. She turns to me and her body looks like it’s about to unwrap and fall to the ground. She wants a hug. The comfort of human contact, and anyone will do.
    I step aside, let her look for someone else.
    She settles on Magda, whose face is mostly hidden behind a wild bush of fuzzy gray hair, her thick body draped in a yellow sundress and yellow shawl and yellow ceramic jewelry that clacks when she moves. They fall into each other and Cannabelle glances back at me, disappointed. Tibo puts a hand on each of their shoulders.
    “Okay, ladies,” he says. “Head on back.”
    They disengage, hold hands, and walk off.
    There’s a sharp voice behind us. “We should start cleaning up.”
    Marx is standing at the edge of the clearing, tense, like he’s preparing to pounce on someone. He’s barefoot, wearing an old pair of jeans, the legs folded up mid-calf, and a red t-shirt, and his stupid black bowler hat.
    My understanding is he and Crusty Pete were close, but he’s not betraying any emotion other than anger.
    Tibo takes a few steps toward him. “Why don’t you head on back with the others?”
    Marx puffs his chest. Tibo is wires and bone and sinew. Marx is thick and lean. The kind of body that indicates a life of working outside. I’ve got a big ego and I wouldn’t want to fuck with him. But I kind of assume it’s going to happen eventually, only because he’s got a bad attitude and I’m good at inviting stupid things into my life.
    “We can’t leave him lying there in the dirt,” Marx says.
    “Yes we can,” Tibo says, pushing up his thick-framed black glasses, which are sliding down his face on a sheen of nervous sweat. He’s not so much looking at Marx as he’s looking at some point past Marx, beyond the trees. “We can’t start disturbing things. I know it’s not fun, but we have to do the right thing here…”
    “The right thing. Leave him lying in the dirt. Of course you wouldn’t care.”
    “This has nothing to do with me and him,” Tibo says.
    Marx takes a step forward. “Does it? Maybe it does. How am I supposed to know that?”
    This is the start of a familiar and very unproductive dance, so I get between them. “Marx, go back, keep everyone organized. We’ll handle things here.”
    “What the fuck…”
    “I’m not repeating myself,” I tell him. “This whole thing is very unpleasant. Let’s not make it even more unpleasant. In case it’s not clear, yes, that is a threat.”
    Marx is mulling over whether a challenge is worth what’s next. His eyes studying