Women and children next, I suppose. The tenders are hermetically sealed in short order, using twenty bin liners, from an open pack of fifty he withdraws from the backseat. I idly wonder if the other bin liners were used for the last set of tenders or the body parts of some project manager who had pissed him off. It was too late now to check the crossbow bolt for blood, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out entirely.
The tenders set out on their space voyage. They sail across the chasm, speeding towards the earth below on the far side, the freaky wraith a lightweight foreshadowing of what is to follow. I’m up next, handed a twisted rag cloth by the boss, which I wrap around the coil. Bravely I leap out across the void, albeit with a generous shove by him as I dither. As I descend rapidly, the question of how one might land, slow or even survive comes at me as suddenly as the onrushing earth. Another scream of terror escapes my lips and I release my hold on the twist of cloth. My feet touch down a split second before my face plants into the soil in front. Head spinning from the impact, I get unsteadily to my feet, retrieve the tenders and turn my attention to the boss, up at the cliff on the opposite side of the watercourse. I figure he is carrying almost double my body weight on his carriage and wonder idly if he might plunge to his death in the river below. How on earth would I explain it, I wonder, and would we have a week or a month of mourning at the office?
Having disappeared from view to make his charge, he bursts forth from the undergrowth to attach himself onto the rope and streaks down towards me. The rope sags and the car shifts forward but then holds firm. Whether because of the oil in the rag or the added friction from his extra weight, the cloth above him begins to smoulder and then flashes into flame halfway across the river. I stand aghast, holding the tender. Then the rag above him tears apart in flames.
“He’s a goner,” I whisper.