Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  Sarah just looked at him as if he was crazy. “Please coach, slow down. You’re going to get us all killed.”

  “What?”

  “I said, slow down. You’re going to get us all killed.”

  Before Dave had a chance to process what she was saying, a swirl of red and blue lights caught his attention. What the fuck? He sat up and looked in the rearview mirror. Oh shit. There was a patrol car behind him blaring its siren. Was it for them? Were they trying to pull him over? Or were they just trying to get around?

  He instinctively removed his foot from the accelerator and brought the bus down to fifty-five. “Come on, go around,” he mumbled, looking up in the rearview mirror, his heart thumping from the sheer adrenaline. “Don’t pull us over. Please God, I won’t ask for anything else, just go around.” But they didn’t go around—they stayed close behind him, the red and blue swirl reflecting in his mirror. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” He started punching his fist against the steering wheel, his knuckles driving against the vinyl.

  “What’s wrong daddy?”

  “We’re being pulled over, Larry.”

  “Weally? Where?” The kid spun around and glanced behind him then started to cheer when he heard the siren. “Oh wow! Look daddy, a cop car. Awesome daddy awesome.”

  “No Larry, it is not awesome. It is definitely not awesome.”

  Dave eased on the brake, put on his blinker, and slowly veered the bus off onto the shoulder.

  “Do they have guns? Daddy, do you think they have guns?”

  “God damnit Larry, just shut up and don’t say anything. If we’re lucky, they’ll probably just give us a warning.”

  “I doubt it,” Sarah said, looking behind them, at the flash of blue and red shining through the back window.

  “You can go back to your seat and sit your little ass down.”

  “But coach, I’m—”

  “Don’t argue with me, Sarah. Just do it. I’ll handle this.”

  Sarah snarled and flipped her hair outward then strutted back to her seat and sat down.

  Dave took a deep breath and waited for everyone to settle then cut the engine and peered out the back window. The lights were still going, but nothing was happening. No one was getting out. The cop was just sitting there. What the hell? What was he doing? Why wasn’t he getting out of the fucking car? No, no, wait a minute…he had to calm down…he had to get a hold of himself…everything was fine…nothing was wrong. He’d just explain to him that he was sorry he was speeding, but he was in a hurry because they had a big match tonight up in Estes Park…and they were already late by about thirty minutes and if they didn’t get there in time then they’d have to forfeit…and the girls worked too hard to just have to forfeit—hell, if they lost tonight, they’d lose their chance at a state playoff. He could appreciate that, couldn’t he? How sometimes you had to make sacrifices for the good of the children? Yeah, of course he could. Hell, the guy was probably a dad. He probably had a couple rug rats of his own. He knew how demanding they could be sometimes, but that’s why you did it, you did it for them. You sacrificed yourself for the good of your kids. You broke the law so that they could get what they want. Yeah. See? There was no need to worry. Everything was gonna be fine. Everything was gonna work out. He’d just write him a ticket, give him a stern warning, and send them off on their merry, little way.

  “Alright.” Dave took a deep breath and pulled himself together then turned his attention to the rear of the bus. “Alright, everybody listen up.”

  But, the girls didn’t look up. They weren’t paying any attention. They were too busy ogling the two officers now getting out of the patrol car. “Hey!” Dave shouted, clapping his hands together. “God damnit, listen up.” But, the girls still weren’t paying attention, so he put two fingers in his mouth and blew as hard as he could. The whistle was so deafening it caused the bus to immediately go still. “Alright you little brats, I want all of you to shut the fuck up and don’t say another fucking word. I’m going to take care of this.”

  “Oooohhhh,” the girls all said in unison, as if that was the first time they’d ever heard him swear.

  Dave straightened his collar and turned towards Larry. It looked like the kid was doing an impression of a pile of dirty clothes. He was all curled up, his knees pulled up against his chest, his head buried beneath the collar of his t-shirt.

  “Larry,” Dave said, snapping his fingers. “Larry, Larry!”

  The kid slowly popped his head from the t-shirt, like a gopher poking out of its tunnel.

  “Larry, listen to me. I need you to sit here and don’t say anything. Daddy’s gonna go outside and straighten this whole thing out. Okay?”

  The kid nodded his understanding then tucked his head back into his shirt.

  “Alright, okay.” Dave spit on his hands and exhaled deeply then patted down his hair and wrenched open the doors. “Please God,” he mumbled, as he stepped out onto the shoulder, “just let me get through this. I promise, I’ll never ask for anything ever again.”

  There were two of ‘em. They looked like assholes, their shiny badges glistening in the taillights of the bus. They had on blue starch-stiff shirts buttoned all the way up to their collars with those ridiculous floppy hats and black leather boots. One of ‘em pointed his finger in Dave’s direction, beckoning him to the rear of the bus.

  “Me?” Dave mumbled, looking behind him as if he was pointing at someone else. “You want me?”

  The officer smiled and nodded, his hat like a decoy hunting duck bobbing up and down in a lake.

  Dave took another deep breath and began to walk towards him, trying as best he could to walk in a straight line. When he got to the rear of the bus, the cop was just staring at him, his arms folded across his chest, his feet wide apart. “You some kind of sports team?” the officer said, flatly, glaring at the whistle dangling around Dave’s neck.

  “Uh, yes sir. Girl’s volleyball.”

  “Uh huh. And where ya’ll coming from?”

  “Uh…Boulder.”

  “Boulder?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The officer moved his eyes to the bus’s back window—the girls were all crowded around it, their breath fogging up the glass. “And where ya’ll headed?”

  “Estes Park.”

  “You the one in charge?”

  “Yes sir, I’m the head coach…Coach Bell.” Dave extended his hand for the cop to shake it, but the cop just looked at it, snorted, then spit on the ground.

  “Coach Bell, huh?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Dave, would it?”

  “Uh…yes…yes it is. How’d you know that?”

  The cop just smiled and let go another loogie. “You know what the speed limit is on this highway, Dave?”

  “No sir. Eighty-five, is it?”

  “Nope. More like fifty-five.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” The cop cocked his head and took a step forward, squinting at Dave like he was trying to catch the whites of his eyes. “You wanna do me a favor?” he said, as he lifted his middle finger and touched it to the center rim of his big, floppy hat. “You wanna look right here for me?”

  Dave lifted his chin and turned his eyes upward trying to focus on that ridiculous hat. He was shaking so bad that he could barely control his muscles and he started to sweat like some kind of farm animal. His hands shook, his legs quivered, and it felt like the gorilla fingers were back slowly closing around his neck. But, he had to stay calm…he had to focus…he had to keep his eyes on that god damn hat.

  “You know what you look like to me, Dave?” the cop said, inching closer, the smell of dip and coffee thick on his breath.

  “No sir.”

  “You look to me like one of those Colfax crack roaches. Is that you, Dave? Huh? Are you a Colfax crack roach?”

  Dave clenched his jaw and shook his head nervously, casting his eyes down towards the pavement. “No sir.”

  J
ust then, the other officer appeared behind them, holding what looked like a long, black billy club. “What’s up Donny?” he said, as he walked towards them, his black boots crunching on the shoulder’s dirt infused snow.

  “Looks like we got ourselves a DUI, Jimmy.”

  “Really? With all these kids on board?”

  “Yep. Looks that way.”

  “Wow. That’s not good.”

  “Nope.”

  All of a sudden, the one called Donny grabbed Dave’s collar and, in one quick thrust, slammed him face first against the hood of the patrol car. “Spread your legs dickwad!” he screamed as he kicked Dave’s legs out from under him and mashed his cheek against the hot metal of the hood.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Dave shouted, squirming, the heat from the engine searing his cheek.

  “Stop that whining or I’ll give you something to cry about asshole.”

  Dave tried to move, but he was paralyzed—the cop had him laid out like a fly on a wall. He was able to turn his head just enough to see the one called Jimmy, strapping on a pair of black leather gloves. “You got anything on you we should know about?” Jimmy said as he began running the gloves down Dave’s torso, across his hips, and back up his arms. “Weapons, drugs, needles, anything like that?”

  “No,” Dave whimpered, his voice cracking like a fourteen-year-old boy.

  “You sure? I’m gonna be real upset if something sticks me. You sure you don’t got nothing down there you wanna tell me about?”

  “No, I don’t have anything. I swear.”

  “Alright, you better not be lying to me.” He shoved his hands inside Dave’s jacket pockets and turned them inside out then moved onto his jeans. He hesitated for a moment when he grabbed hold of something bulky then leaned forward so that his lips were just above Dave’s ear. “Well, what do we have here?” he said, as he pulled it out slowly then tossed it on the hood beside Dave’s head. “What’s this coach? Hmm?”

  Dave grunted and turned his head slowly. Aw shit. He forgot to take out the pill bottle and pipe.

  “That looks like a crack pipe to me, coach. What about you, Donny? Is that what it looks like to you?”

  “Yep. That’s exactly what it looks like.”

  “Better call it in, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  The one called Jimmy went around to the driver side window, leaned inside, and picked up the radio. “Yeah we’re going to need some back up out here. We got a 23152. Girls’ volleyball team on their way to Estes Park. Bus full of kids. Coach is all strung out. Better bring the paddy wagon.”

  Donny bent down and got within an inch from Dave’s ear: “You hear that Dave? Backup’s coming. You’re fucked. Hope you like prison shit head, because that’s where you’re headed.”

  Jimmy leaned in the window and hung up the radio then marched back around the car and bent down by Dave’s face. “You think it’s fun driving around all fucked up with a bunch of high school girls? You realize what could’ve happened if you lost control of that bus? Do you?”

  The one called Donny grabbed Dave by the back of his collar then jerked him up away from the patrol car. Then, he reached into his holster, produced a set of handcuffs, and tightly secured them around Dave’s wrists. As he read Dave his rights, he grabbed him by the bicep and marched him around towards the back of the car. Just as he opened the door, something caught Dave’s attention, something large and blurry, charging from the front of the bus. Dave turned his head. Holy shit. It was Larry, charging through the snow like some kind of crazed rhino, screaming, “Daddy!” at the top of his lungs.

  The cop released Dave and went for his holster and whirled around with his hand on the gun. But, Larry was too quick for him and plowed right into his stomach, sending the cop backward and hydroplaning through the snow. But, Larry didn’t stop there. He ran up to the cop and jumped on top of him and started flailing his fists against his nose. Dave was frozen with shock. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He’d never seen Larry this violent before. “Larry!” he screamed. “What are you doing? Stop it. Get off of him.”

  But, before Dave could even blink, the altercation was over, as the other officer came out from behind the patrol car and shot Larry with a set of cylindrical probes. Larry immediately stopped moving—his body went rigid then he rolled off the cop and went into convulsions.

  “No!” Dave screamed, watching in horror as Larry thrashed around like a shark on the deck of a boat. “Stop it. You’re killing him.”

  The cop smiled as he squeezed the trigger, sending a current of electricity through Larry’s skull.

  “Stop it. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know any better.”

  The one named Donny stood up and brushed the snow off of him then wiped the blood trickling down his face. He picked up his baton and walked over to the patrol car, grabbed Dave by the arms and yanked him to his feet. “Who the fuck is that? Huh Dave? Why didn’t you tell me you had a god damn psychopath in there?”

  “He’s not a psychopath. He’s my son. He doesn’t know any better.”

  “Your son? You expect me to believe that?” Donny pulled his pistol from his holster then lodged it into the small of Dave’s back. “March dickwad.”

  “You god damn bastards, stop it. You’re killing him.”

  “I said march asshole!”

  As the cop opened the door, Dave looked back at Larry, at his son’s now motionless body, face down in the ground. He tried calling to him, but Larry didn’t answer. He was a lifeless lump of flesh steaming in the snow.

  Chapter 9

  The Apartment

  MONTY awoke in the early morning twilight, slimy leeches of sweat slithering down from his head. His teeth chattered, his entire body trembled, and every bone in his body ached with a sharp, cold, pulsating pain. As he rolled himself over, he pressed his nose into the mattress. The stench of sweat and stale urine emanated into the damp, alcohol-saturated air. His mouth was dry, his lips were blistered, and chunks of vomit burned like acid on the top of his tongue.

  He flipped over onto his back and kicked off the blankets then opened his mouth and tried gasping for breath. But his throat was restricted and he couldn’t get enough oxygen. He felt like a fish slowly drowning in air. Instinctively, he lifted his hand and reached for the bottle on the nightstand, but the bottle was empty, not a single drop left. Shit. He was going to have to get up. He was going to have to make it into the kitchen. A couple more swigs and he could go right back to bed.

  Clenching his teeth, he forced his eyelids open then pulled himself up against the headboard of the bed. The room was dark, the walls washed with blackness, no trace of light except for the blinking, blue glow coming from the power button on his computer screen. He twisted to his side and leaned over the edge of the mattress, straining for the digital alarm clock on the floor beside the bed. He grabbed it by the power cord, yanked it upward, and read the numbers from the green digital display. It said 3:05, but was it day or night?

  He dropped the clock and looked towards the windows, but the glass was shrouded with clippings of newspaper secured with duct tape and spray painted black. What the hell? When did that happen? It must’ve been recently, because he could still smell the spray paint’s strong, chemical stench.

  He shook his head and scooted to the edge of the mattress then dangled his legs out over the bed. After a few deep breaths, he shut his eyes and rolled his shoulders then tilted his head back and popped his neck. It made a sound like someone stepping on bubble wrap as the bones in his back crunched against the muscles in his neck.

  He let out a groan and planted his feet into the carpet then pushed himself up from the bed. But he got up way too fast and his vision became tunneled, his legs turned to liquid, and his head became a balloon. He swatted the air for something to grab onto, like a conductor directing a symphony in the dark. But his fingers found nothing and his knees buckled and he smacked his chin on the nightstand on his way to the floor. The pain was like lig
htning rippling from his cheekbone, splitting down his jaw line, and exploding in his head. He opened his mouth and let out a soft whimper as he flexed his jaw and cradled it with his right hand. Something warm and wet began to ooze through his fingers, across his palm, and down his wrist. He laid there for a while, breathing in the fibers of the carpet, as the blood dribbled out from the cut in his chin. Then everything went dark and silence consumed him and his eyes slowly rolled into the back of his head.

  After about an hour of lying in the darkness, Monty awoke to the sound of voices penetrating the apartment walls. He opened his eyes and pulled himself up against the bedpost then looked towards the sliver of light between the door and the floor. The voices seemed to be coming from the living room and it looked like there were feet moving on the other side of the door. He rolled over, pressed his hands into the carpet, and slowly began to crawl towards the bedroom door. As he approached the light, the voices grew louder, like fluttering moths trapped inside a porch lamp. What were they? Who were they? Were they real? Or were they just a hallucination?

  He reached up and turned the doorknob then nudged the door open with the top of his head. As he crawled through the doorway, he glanced towards the living room and noticed a strange light splashing colors against the wall. He strained his eyes and crawled a little farther, and noticed that the television was off its stand and sitting sideways on the living room floor. Jesus—what the hell happened? Did he do that? He must have.

  He stooped to the floor and cocked his head sideways and stared at the infomercial that was flashing across the screen. There was a short, spiky-haired guy holding a mop handle over what looked like a puddle of dark brown shit. He said that the mop head was equipped with new, exciting space age fibers that NASA had developed when designing their rockets.

  He redirected his eyes across the dining room and crawled towards the bathroom at the end of the hall. Once he got inside, he flipped on the light switch. The bathroom fan kicked on, revving up to a soothing hum. He leaned forward, his head hovering above the porcelain, both palms resting flat on the bathroom floor. He relaxed his jaw, shut his eyelids, and waited for the acidic fury to come. The first heave was dry. It felt like sandpaper ripping away the soft tissue lining the larynx wall. Then his eyes bugged out and his entire body tightened as snot bubbles the size of grapes respired from his nose. But nothing came out—it was all just saliva, pouring from his cheeks, dripping from his tongue. What he was really after was that hot, potent poison, bubbling in his liver, diffusing into his blood. If he could just get at that then everything would be better—his body would relax and his head would calm. He waited a few seconds, breathing steadily, letting the oxygen fill up his lungs. Then he clutched the rug and curled his toes inward, relaxed his esophagus and reached deep into his gut. The poison began to rise within his belly, crawling up his ribs and into his throat. It reached his mouth and slithered from his esophagus like some kind of putrid, alien bug. As it splashed into the water, it disseminated slowly like long, yellow tentacles descending towards the bottom of the bowl.