by Mike Kilroy
Solo had mixed feelings. He wanted to see Mar again, but he didn’t want to hurt her. Clearly the part of him that was Tom did want to do her harm. “What’s the point?”
“You want your stuff back, don’t you? You want that mutt back, don’t you? You want revenge on those assholes that beat you, don’t you?”
Solo smiled. I do. I do. I really, really do.
Tom’s pace slowed as they came to an intersection, the street light, long dead, swaying in the wind above. Tom peered around the corner of a brick building that used to be a bank and waved for Solo to come closer.
Solo stuck his head out and gazed at a sprawling parking lot, abandoned cars dotting it. He saw three figures weave through the tangle of automobiles and into a Walmart.
The yellow smiley face on the sign was so weathered and beaten it was no longer smiling.
“Everything she wore was from Walmart,” Tom whispered. “She didn’t even bother to rip off some of the tags. This is the closest Walmart. They’ve probably looted most of it, but it’s familiar and they know it’s safe.”
Solo heard the faint sound of barking carry to them and saw Uno walking beside Mar as she slipped into the store. Solo couldn’t help but smile.
“I’m surprised they haven’t killed that dog and had it for dinner yet,” Tom said gruffly.
Tom could be such a dick. Solo, though, had to allow for cruelty. After all, Tom was a part of him, it seemed—a dark, realistic, pragmatic part that was there to protect him in this world.
Even in an imaginary world, the dangers were real.
They walked stealthy toward the Walmart and slipped through a slight opening between the sliding doors. They could hear rummaging and distant sounds of laughter.
The Walmart was dark and the odor strong. Shelves were turned over and the roof leaked a sludgy, brown liquid that Solo avoided as he prowled.
He peeked around a corner and saw the stocky man who had helped beat him stumbling and knocking over cans on a shelf. For every can he successfully snatched, two tumbled to the floor and rolled. The man was high—probably on one of the plethora of drugs they filched from Solo when they beat him.
Tom pointed to a golf club—a 3-iron—propped up against the shelves. “Pick it up.”
Solo did. He could never hit a 3-iron, though. He remembered struggling at golf in the Before.
Now a 3-wood, I can hit. But a 3-iron would be a more practical club in this situation.
Tom pointed to the drugged-up man. “Creep up on the bastard and brain him.”
Solo nodded and crouched. The man kept reaching and fumbling can after can. Solo wondered what he was on that made him so loopy—probably the Vicodin.
Solo got within swinging distance, and the man was still unaware of the fate that was about to befall him. Solo peered back at Tom, who gave a spirited nod, and Solo swung the club as hard as he could, smashing the man in the side of the head with the club face. The man dropped quickly to the dirty flood and grasped the side of his bleeding head.
Solo peered back at Tom, who made an adamant swinging motion with his arms. Solo turned and looked down at the man, who now looked up at him in fear. The whites of his wide eyes were bloodshot. His lips quivered in panic as he tried to stand, but couldn’t, either from the blow to the head or the drugs that filled his veins.
Solo wanted to bring that club face down upon the man, the one he remembered punching and kicking him mercilessly, but he couldn’t.
“Do it. So help me, Solo, do it!” Tom said in a hushed yell. Solo waved his hand back to Tom.
Solo cocked the club over his head and the man’s eyes became even wider and his lips moved with even more terror. Solo gripped the club tightly in his hand and felt his fingers burn. He clenched his jaw and felt the rage well up in him.
Before Solo could bring the club down and end the bastard who had brought him pain, the man’s head fell to the floor and his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
Tom shook his head and mouthed “pansy” before pointing to his right. Solo crept along with him and saw the spindly man filling a bag with what little sweets were left on the shelves.
The man snatched the Ho-Hos and Little Debbie Snack Cakes and Twinkies with nimble fingers. This man was on a different kind of drug, one that made him alert and quick.
Solo paused. Fear squeezed his chest. He began to sweat.
“Just smash him in the head.” Tom whispered.
Solo crept slowly forward, trying to maintain his grip on the club in his sweaty palms. The man, startled, twirled and Solo swung the club, smashing him in the cheek. A gash quickly opened and red poured from the wound. The man staggered backward and fell, his head slamming against the floor.
He was out cold.
“Sonofabitch!” Tom exclaimed giddily in a whisper. “I knew you could do it.”
Solo didn’t. He peered down at the man and wondered how he could be a part of his mind, how his delusion could be so complete and flush with detail. That didn’t sit well with him.
What if this is real?
He wondered what kind of person this man was in the Before, and what kind of person he had become in the After? Was he a brother? Was he a father? Was he charitable? Was he respected? What path had brought him to this place?
Why is he forsaken like I am?
Solo prayed this place wasn’t real.
He prayed for his own insanity.
This place isn’t real. It’s a construct. A demo world for my mind to heal.
Tom is part of that.
That’s what Solo told himself. He wanted to believe it.
Tom walked slowly forward and pointed down the aisle. “She’s over there.”
Solo felt anger erupt inside him and couldn’t figure out why. He was full of vengeance now, full of rage.
She was going to get her comeuppance.
He saw her, back to him, in an area of the store not dedicated to anything that would help anyone survive. Solo was taken aback by this. His backpack lay at her feet.
Mar picked up a guitar—it looked like one for juveniles—and began to strum. It was a haunting song, a pretty song, and she began to sing.
Her voice was like an angel.
“What are you waiting for?” Tom whispered “Kill her.”
“I can’t.”
“Why the hell not? She stole your stuff, your dog, she ordered those men to beat you and kick you. If you would have died, she wouldn’t have batted a brown or blue eye. She deserves this. Brain her.”
“I can’t. Look at her.”
“I am. She’s a devil bitch. Brain her.”
Mar strummed the song, swaying from side to side as she did. In that moment, Solo could tell she was at peace. At that moment, Solo could tell it was rare for her to feel that way, just like it was rare for Solo to feel that way. He hadn’t the heart to hurt her.
Real or imagined, in this moment, she was innocent.
Mar stopped playing and paused, not a muscle twitching. She turned her head and peered at Solo. She spun and raised the guitar as a weapon, her chest heaving, but Solo dropped his bloody golf club in surrender. He walked toward her and she cocked the guitar back behind her ear even farther. Despite this provocative posture, he knew she wouldn’t strike him.
Solo had faith in her, despite all that had happened, despite Tom’s insistence that she was a “devil bitch,” despite her obvious flaws.
Mar was marred—by something, by someone, by events in her life.
He could relate.
Everyone is flawed; Some more than others.
“How did you find me?” She asked.
“I didn’t. Tom did. Keep playing.”
Mar’s mouth gaped again before she spoke. “You killed at least one of my friends, probably both judging from all the blood on that club, and you want me to play you a song?”
“Yes. But I didn’t kill them.”
“You should have.”
Well, that was cree
py.
“C’mon. Keep playing.”
“You’re batshit crazy.”
“So I’ve been told. I don’t dispute that.”
She began to swing, but paused. Instead she dropped the guitar to the floor and kicked the backpack toward him. “All of your stuff is in there. Well, most of it. We took some of the drugs, the painkillers mostly. Just go.”
“Where’s my dog?”
Mar bowed her head. “She’s off somewhere.”
Just then Uno padded toward him, barking as she looked up at him with her tail wagging. Solo scratched Uno behind the ears and she licked at his arm.
His eyes shot to Mar. “Why don’t you come with us?”
She let out a nervous laugh. “Um, no thanks. Got enough crazy in my life.”
“Why not? It’ll get you away from those thugs. You’ll need help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“We all need help.”
“Why are you asking her to tag along? Just kill her!” Tom bellowed.
Solo waved a dismissing hand toward him. “I’m not gonna kill her.”
Mar’s eyes got big and round, like a brown saucer and a blue saucer.
“I’m not gonna kill you,” Solo repeated in a soothing voice. It sounded a lot like Dr. Hu’s. “I want you to come with me. Maybe we can figure all this out together.”
Mar’s eyes were still big, but there was contrition in them. She was bending to his will. She nodded, picked up her guitar and slung it over her shoulder. She walked with a purpose toward Solo and stood in front of him, gazing up through her different colored eyes at his, which were exactly the same. “Well, Solo, where do we go?”
“Home,” Solo said. “Back to where it all started.”
***
It all felt real, certainly.
The cold wind on Solo’s face was real enough. His chapped lips were real enough. His thirst and the rumble in his gut were real enough.
Mar and the way she looked at him as they walked along was real enough, too.
She looked so vulnerable in the dreary, gray light, blowing on her hands and bracing against the cruel gale.
Tom trudged along, too, griping and grumbling about what a bad and preposterous idea this was.
So negative, that Tom.
“We need to stop, get warm, rest and eat,” Solo said.
“Finally,” Tom responded. It was a sentiment that even Mar shared.
They found a home that was in remarkably good shape considering it had been abandoned for a good long time. Any shelter would have been welcome against the plunging temperature.
Wisps of air still tumbled from their lips as they ate out of tin cans containing beans and stew, but it was pleasant enough.
Uno had her snout in a can of dog food that contained all the essential vitamins and nutrients for a canine of her size. The she lapped water that was poured into Solo’s silver construction hat.
Uno seemed happy.
Mar, however, did not.
“She wants to ask you something,” Tom said, his back pressed against a wall, his knees tucked to his chest. “Don’t tell her nothing.”
Mar shot him curious glances between bites of beans. When Solo did steal one of her stares, she would look away abruptly.
She needed answers—Solo understood that. He was looking for a few.
He broke the strained silence. “Ask.”
Mar paused in mid-chew of her beans, and then swallowed harshly. “Ask what?”
“Questions. What do you want to know?”
Mar washed down the lump that was surely in her throat with a gulp of water. “You really think this is an illusion?”
“Absolutely. Well, probably. Maybe. This is where I go to escape.”
Mar laughed. “This is where you go? Why not a beach with pretty girls in bikinis and drinks with little umbrellas? Why this goddamned hell?”
Tom let slip a chuckle. “The devil bitch has a point.”
Solo relented. It was indeed an excellent point, and one he had considered and grappled with on their day’s march. Perhaps this place was a representation of his muddled mind and he had to overcome its perils to root out the truth so he could heal—and, in turn, escape. Perhaps it was a symbol of his loneliness and despair, of his deep depression and instability, and he had to fight to crawl out of it, some how, some way, so he could be whole again. Or perhaps it was just an unceasing nightmare, his disease swallowing him into a world he could never escape.
He told Mar as much and she sighed.
“Well, from my perspective, this is pretty fucking real.”
She shuffled to get more comfortable and a large piece of sidewalk chalk rolled across the floor. Mar reached out and grabbed it.
“Why do you have chalk?” Solo asked.
Mar shrugged, peering down at the chalk that rested in her palm. Then, she put it to her mouth and took a small nibble as Solo cringed. “I have pica. I eat strange things.”
She took another small bite of the chalk. “Where are you when you’re not here?”
“I’m in a hospital getting help.”
“Is there anyone there who cares about you?”
“Eye Lyds … well, Lydia. My sister.”
Mar peered down at the chalk and took another nervous nibble. She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. Solo could see a great sadness grip her. “You’re one ahead of me, then. I have no one who cares about me.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Tom scoffed. “Boo fucking hoo.”
Solo scooted close to Mar and grabbed her shoulder and squeezed it. He hoped he was doing it like Dr. Hu and he hoped she felt as soothed by it as he did. “I care about you, Mar.”
Her eyes snapped to Solo’s and a strange grin formed on her face. Solo was not so good at reading cues like this. For all he knew her strange look and contorted lips meant she had to fart—she had wolfed down a whole can of beans, after all.
“Why on Earth would you care about me? I stole your stuff. I had two jackasses beat the shit out of you?”
Tom let slip another chuckle. “The devil bitch has a point there, too.”
Solo hoped he was still capable of compassion, even here, in this place. He could call it what he wanted—catatonia, an elaborate delusion or a complete psychotic break—but he was going to go with his gut, and his gut told him he needed her as much as she needed him.
Just in case.
He pushed a strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I just do.”
She shook her head and smiled. It was the first time Solo had seen such a grin from her. It was a grin of acceptance and hope and it looked good on her tired face. “You are an amazing man, Solo. A kind man, a gentle man.” She grabbed the silver construction hat that was now empty and placed it atop Solo’s head. “You’re my knight. Chivalry is not dead.”
Solo smiled.
***
The sirens were getting louder, but still distant.
“Oh, Morris Faraday, you are so fucking fired,” Douche Boss said. Solo couldn’t remember what his real name was. He supposed it wouldn’t matter now.
A gust of wind pushed back Solo’s hair and he felt a chill. Storm clouds, dark and angry, were forming on the horizon, just past the ninth green. The pin flag was starched by the gale.
Solo hulked over another man, his lip busted and bleeding, his left eye already beginning to swell shut. The skin on Solo’s knuckles, still bent into fists, was split and his chest heaved in anger.
Others on the course peeked around trees to see what had broken the course’s silence.
The sirens grew louder.
The man shook his head and sat up. He tried to stumble to his feet, but fell back down to the short fairway grass again. “You fucking broke my face,” he said, his words slurred. “You’re going to jail, asshole. You’re crazy.”
Solo squeezed his fists even tighter. “What did you call me?”
“You’re fucking crazy.” The man yelled as he tried to stand up
again.
Solo grabbed a golf club out of his bag—a 3-iron—and squeezed the grip. He had chili-dipped a great many shots today with that club, but he was sure he would make perfect contact with a perfect swing this time. He raised it over his head and screamed.
“Whoa, Morris. Hey, calm down. You don’t wanna do this,” Douche Boss said, his voice soaked with fear. “Seriously, are you a psycho or something?”
Solo screamed even louder, his throat burning, his hands throbbing, his rage rising like lava out of a volcano. Then he saw the terror in the man’s face. He had seen terror like that before.
“I didn’t mean to do that to your sister. I didn’t mean nothing by it,” the man pleaded. “Please, please.”
Solo saw Tom’s head peek out from behind a tree. He was grinning.
Solo swung his eyes back to the man, who held his shaking hands over his head, still whispering, “Please, please.”
Solo swung the club.
***
Solo felt Tom’s breath in his ear and heard him whisper, “Get up, shithead.”
He rubbed his sleepy eyes, Tom’s beard tickling Solo’s face.
“What?”
“Look at her.”
Mar lay on a makeshift bed of blankets across of the room. Her hands were tucked contently under her cheek and a trickle of drool had dried to her face. It almost looked as if she was smiling.
Solo turned back to Tom. “Yeah? So?”
“Kill her. Do it now before she kills us.”
Solo closed his eyes and shook his head. “What depraved part of me are you? I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. If you think I am a part of you, then you know you can. You didn’t trust me before and look what happened. Trust me now. You have to kill her.”
Solo clenched his jaw tightly and shook his head. He hated Tom. If he could kill Tom, he would. But Tom always seemed to be right. His warnings were always clear and precise and bad things usually happened when Solo ignored them.
“A man warned is half saved,” Tom whispered.
Solo crawled across the room to Mar. He looked down at her peacefulness as she slept soundly, like an angel. Perhaps, though, she was one of the demons he was fighting inside his mind. Perhaps Tom was right again and she needed to be exorcized.
He could strangle her, wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze the life out of her. He could grab the Swiss Army knife from her pocket and jam the blade into her jugular. He could just bludgeon her to death with his bare fists. If he struck her hard enough with the first blow, it was likely she wouldn’t even awaken.