Free Like Clockwork by Patrick de Moss Page B

the bathroom, but Evie had waved her off, and had lost her in the
crowd of people in the bar. So, yeah, part of it was the shrug, but part of it
was also that there had been this perverse (and now that she thought of it, really ,
really perverse) part of her that was happy with even that faint (very
fucking faint) praise. Sucker. Peter Rabbit and his magic finger would take care
of that pathetic desperation but quick.
     
    “Dude. Dude!” Evie’s head snapped up from
her self-pity and saw three guys stumbling down the hill to the bus stop. They
were pretty far away, but loud. “Dude, you’re all over the fucking road ,
dude.” A harsh bray of laughter. Speak of the devil. Son-of-a-bitch. For a
second, she gripped the curb, frozen, but they were laughing and trying to keep
each other from tripping over the curb and hadn’t sniffed her out yet, alone,
and as drunk as they were. That was when that same old, same old, hot curdle of
fear rose in her stomach: that fear of being a girl-out-alone. Much as she
hated it, it did come in handy, as it made her move now. She got up off the
curb and almost sighed when she remembered there was a thicket of trees just
behind the bus stop. It took her only a few seconds to slip into them, watching
the oncoming testosterone out of the corner of her eye to make sure it didn’t
catch a whiff of estrogen.
    I can wait for the next one, she thought to herself, working further into the trees. Not that
you’re not a bunch of gentlemen, I’m sure. It’s really no biggie. Half
an hour? No problem. An hour? It’s fine. I’ll wait. She sneezed, but they
were talking about UFC or some other brain-bashing senselessness as they got
closer. The rain had stopped, but she was squidging through mud between the
chestnut trees and her poor ballet slippers were soaked. Shit, she thought, turning around and backing further in, pretty sure they couldn’t
see her now. Shit shit shit shi-
    She caught her breath just before she let
out a scream. There was an arm outstretched beside her. Evie bit her lip, eyes
wide with panic and shivering. Someone was behind her in the woods. Her
breath came out in short bursts as steam, quick jets in the cold night air.
There was an arm to her right as well, she could see it from the corner of her
eye, both frozen in the moment, maybe of wrapping around her. If those arms
moved, she would scream.
    Fuck you, mouthbreathers. Come save a
goddamn damsel in distress. But the arms didn’t
move a hair.
    “Please don’t kill me,” she whispered.
“Please.” But the arms didn’t respond. The blind panic receded enough for her
to catch a glint on the outstretched fingertips. A glitter of metal, slightly
rusted, covered in kudzu. She could see now in the half-light from the road
that the fingers were bronze and copper bands jointed with some ebony black
material. One upraised hand had a beer can stuck into it. She turned then, and
looked up.
    At first, she couldn’t quite make out the face,
but a car passed and in the brief flash of headlights she caught that it wasn’t exactly human. It was sort of round, with rather simple circles for eyes
and a gap for a mouth. The top of the head was hollow, covered over with fine
filigree bands of copper and bronze, and the same witty individual who had put
a beer in its hand had rammed another can in under the metal there. She caught
a glimpse of the Kokanee label in the passing light. Its head was bent down, as
if looking at her or at the puddle at its feet, and the whole of it seemed
tinged with sorrow. Vines covered broad shoulders, and wild raspberries were
growing up all around it. The rain had gathered along the dome of its head and
was still dripping down into the puddle, and the whole thing had the look of
being completely forgotten. The arms were raised up to either side, hands
lifted to the sky, or maybe to the viewer. Whoever had made the statue had done
an incredible job, if they were hoping to evoke sympathy. There was no