by Amy Cross
“I get it,” he replies, but it's clear that he's still frustrated.
“I can't face it,” I add. “I can't face the day when I know I've played that last piece of music. I'd rather carry it around with me and know that one day, at the end...”
My voice trails off.
“If that's your decision,” Craig says finally, “then that's your decision.”
“Please try to understand.”
“I do,” he replies, “and Jerry will have to understand as well. He'll just have to go back to his boss empty-handed.”
Suddenly feeling utterly exhausted, I lean back in the chair and let out a long sigh. For the first time, I've faced my deepest fear. My whole life, I've been terrified that music would be taken away from me. Perhaps by a stroke, or by dementia, or by some other affliction. And somehow I think I always knew that it would be taken away, that I was gifted with this great ability but that nobody could ever be lucky enough to enjoy it forever. Granted, I didn't quite imagine that it would be taken away in this manner, but the fear isn't new. At least now, I have a modicum of control over the situation, and I do not intend to surrender that control to some know-nothing billionaire.
I turn to Craig, to tell him that I understand if he wants to leave, but suddenly I hear a rushing sound and I look at the window just in time to see a vast red light exploding across the yard.
“What's that?” I gasp, getting to my feet.
The light seems to be moving fast, casting long, twisting shadows.
“I think it was...” Craig hesitates, before turning to me. “I think it was a flare!”
Twenty-Seven
“Calm down, gentlemen,” Jerry says as he steps back into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. “I was sensing some resistance on your parts to my offer, so I sent a signal to my friends.”
“What friends?” Craig asks, stepping toward him. “You can't just come here and -”
“This isn't about you, buddy,” Jerry adds, cutting him off and turning to me, “it's about our musician friend.”
“I told you,” I say firmly, “I'm not going anywhere with you.”
“And I told you,” he replies, “things are a little more complicated. Mr. Glass knows what he wants, and he gets what he wants.”
“Find someone else to play for him!”
“We would if we could,” he explains, “but you might just be the last musician on the planet. Mr. Glass has had his surveillance system tuned to find music for the past few years, and all across the world he didn't pick up anything until you started strumming your guitar the other day. Naturally he wanted us to spring into action. The world might have fallen to pieces, but some people still manage to keep a grip on things.” He takes a step forward. “You'll be properly compensated, I assure you.”
“I'm not doing it,” I tell him. “You might as well leave right now.”
“You heard him,” Craig says. “This discussion is over.”
Jerry smiles.
“I think you'd better leave now,” Craig adds, putting a hand on his arm, ready to lead him out. “Nobody asked you to come here.”
“Mr. Glass asked me,” Jerry replies, “and -”
“Get out!”
Craig tries to push him toward the door, but Jerry resists. Craig tries again, and this time Jerry shoves him against the wall.
“I told you to leave!” Craig says again, this time grabbing Jerry and pushing him toward the door. “Get out or I'll make you get -”
Before he can finish, Jerry puts and arm around his neck and twists him around, and then slams him face-first against the wall.
“You talk a big fight,” Jerry mutters, as he turns Craig around, “but you're just a kid.”
With that, he punches Craig hard, sending him crashing back against the table and then thudding to the floor.
“I will not come with you!” I shout, as I hurry over and help Craig to his feet. “I don't care how much force you think you can use, I refuse!”
“I'm the nice guy,” Jerry replies, still with that asinine smile plastered across his face. “My friends, who are coming, will be a little more forceful. I really think you should read between the lines here and try to see how this is all going to play out. Let me be more blunt. You're going to come and play for Mr. Glass, and then he'll send you right back here if that's what you want. He'll even provide some good food for the pair of you, and then you can go on living your lives in this hovel. If that's really, truly how you want it to end.”
Once he's back up, Craig steps toward him.
“Are you going to try all of that again?” Jerry asks, apparently amused by the situation.
“We told you to get out!” Craig says firmly.
“And I'm very keen to leave,” Jerry tells him. “With the musician.”
“You'll be lucky to leave with your teeth,” Craig replies. “I'm done trying to do this the nice way.”
He lunges forward, grabbing Jerry's shoulders and trying again to push him to the door. In an instant, however, Jerry kicks his legs away and sends him crashing back down to the floor. Craig tries to leap straight back up, only to get Jerry's knee crunching against the side of his face.
“Stop this!” I shout, hurrying around the table to check that Craig's alright. “We're not animals!”
I kneel next to Craig, just as he sits up with a bloodied face.
“My friends'll be here in a minute or two,” Jerry continues, as he takes the pack of cigarettes back out of his pocket. “Here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna go out for another smoke and leave you two to figure this out for yourselves. You seem like smart guys, so I reckon you'll understand pretty fast. This situation has already become far more violent than it ever needed to be, and I hope you'll back away from all of that.” He turns and starts heading toward the door. “Come out when you've accepted the inevitable. And have a think about any little luxuries you wanna ask Mr. Glass for. I'm sure he'll be in a generous mood once he's heard a tune or two.”
“No chance!” Craig sneers, getting to his feet.
“Wait!” I hiss, trying to hold him back. “Let's not -”
“We told you to leave!” Craig shouts, hurrying up behind Jerry and grabbing his shoulder, forcing him to turn back toward us. “Now leave!”
Before Jerry can say a word, Craig punches him hard, and his fist connects with Jerry's nose. Falling back, Jerry tries to steady himself, but this time Craig's too fast for him. Hauling Jerry around, Craig slams him into the wall and then locks one of his arms behind his back, giving it a twist that brings a cry of pain from Jerry's lips.
“You're done here,” Craig snaps, pulling Jerry back and then turning him toward the door. “Take your offer and shove it up your ass!”
He starts pushing Jerry out of the room, but in a flash I spot Jerry's free hand reach out and grab something from the countertop. There's a glint of light, and I suddenly realize that he took one of the knives we've been using to skin the rabbits. And then, before I have a chance to warn Craig, I see Jerry spin around and lunge forward, and I hear a series of sickening crunches as Craig shudders and falls back.
“No!” I shout, but I'm too late.
Craig staggers back, clutching his chest, and as I reach him I see that he's been stabbed several times.
“That wasn't my intention,” Jerry says firmly, still holding the bloodied knife. “I want to make that perfectly clear. No-one had to get hurt.”
Craig tries to turn to me, but at that moment his legs buckle. I manage to grab hold of him and support him, and then I ease him down onto one of the chairs. Turning, I grab a tea-towel from the counter, but then I look down and see that huge amounts of blood are rushing from the wounds all over his chest and belly.
He tries to say something, but now there's also blood running from his mouth.
“Like I said,” Jerry continues, “I'll be outside. Mr. Musician, when you're ready to come out, we'll be waiting. Just don't leave it too long, or we'll have to come and ge
t you.” He heads to the door and pulls it open, and there are already lights outside, heading this way. “Oh, and don't forget to bring your guitar.”
Twenty-Eight
“It's going to be okay,” I stammer as I kneel next to Craig and try to figure out how to stop the blood-loss. “It's not as bad as it looks. I'll fix you up.”
I start unbuttoning his shirt, but when I pull the fabric aside I see that the stab wounds are thick and wide, with blood flowing freely from several different places. I press the tea-towel against one of the wounds, but if anything that only makes more blood burst out from a spot further down on his belly.
“I'll sew them up,” I continue, as I hear voices shouting outside the farmhouse, and as the beams from car headlights start blasting through the kitchen window. “You'll need to rest, but you'll be okay.”
I turn to hurry across the room, but then I hesitate for a moment.
“Do we have string?” I ask after a moment. “Or cotton. Something I can use.” I turn to him. “I don't know what to use to sew you back up!”
He opens his mouth and lets out a faint, guttural whisper, but I can't make out any of the words. Already, blood is starting to drip down and splatter against the kitchen floor.
“I don't know what to do!” I shout, trying not to panic. “Why don't I know? I'm seventy-six years old, I should know what to do in an emergency! How have I got to this age without knowing any basic first aid?”
Craig tries again to speak, but once more his voice is too low. Stepping closer, I drop down onto my knees and lean toward him, hoping that this time I'll be able to understand.
He whispers, but I still don't manage to pick it up.
“I didn't hear that,” I tell him. “What do I need to do?”
“You can't do anything,” he replies, raising his voice a little. “It's okay, Derek. You just have to make sure you get away from that bastard.”
“I know, but first I have to fix you up!”
“You can't do that, Derek.”
“I have to find some -”
“It won't work,” he says firmly, placing a trembling hand on my shoulder. “It's okay. I'm not scared.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, looking into his eyes. “You're not going to die!”
“I am,” he replies, “and I'm not scared. I used to think I was, but I'm not. I just need you to do one thing for me.” He pauses, as if he's struggling to stay conscious. “Two things, actually.”
“Craig, tell me what to do,” I stammer. “Tell me how to save you.”
“The first thing is... I need you to survive. Don't do anything stupid and get yourself killed, not like I did.”
“You're not going to die,” I tell him again. “Stay strong.”
“The second thing is... I want you to just leave me right here, on this chair.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm not scared of dying,” he says firmly. “I'm just scared of all the stuff that goes with it. I'm scared of being buried in the ground, like Adam was. And I'm scared of being burned. I'm scared of being cut open for an autopsy, although I doubt that'd happen now. But I'm not scared of actually dying and just being left here, where I fell. That feels kinda dignified.”
Staring at him, I realize that he's serious.
Suddenly he reaches down and grabs my right hand, and he squeezes tight.
“I never heard you play,” he continues. “That sucks. But you'll play again one day. This whole thing will pass and the world will go back to normal. And when it does, you've got to play a lot, do you understand? Maybe you're the only one who can.”
“I... I'll play for you now,” I reply, before getting to my feet and slipping my hand free of his. “Wait right there!”
I hurry to the next room and grab my cobbled-together guitar, and then I head back through to him.
“It might not sound good,” I explain as I grab a chair and pull it closer, and then I sit down and set the guitar into the correct position. “It's hopelessly out of tune, and I haven't exactly had time to practice.” I stare down at my hands for a moment, trying to work out exactly what I should play, and then finally I turn to Craig. “Is there anything in particular that you'd like to hear?”
He's dead.
I can see that instantly, from the glassy look in his eyes. I stare at him for a moment, hoping against hope that perhaps he'll stir, but deep down I know that there's no chance.
Reaching over, I gently close his eyes.
How many young people have I seen die since this madness began? First there was Sarah, then there was Adam, and now Craig.
If I'd been Craig, I'd have been raging at the end. He was only in his early twenties, I believe. How could he have been so brave, so mature, even as he knew his life was fading? I've always been absolutely terrified of death, I'd have been panicking and trying desperately to cling to life, but in his last moments Craig seemed to reach some kind of peace. As I stare at his face now, I know with absolute certainty that I am incapable of that kind of peace.
I have to get out of here.
Suddenly filled with a sense of sheer terror, I grab my guitar and hurry toward the door, before stopping as I hear the voices outside. I hesitate, and then I race through to the rear of the house. Once I'm at the back door, I stop again and listen, but this time I don't hear anyone nearby, so I pull the door open and rush out into the cold night air.
“Where do you think you're going?”
Startled, I turn and see Jerry watching me from just a few feet away. He has his arms folded, and he's grinning as he leans against the wall.
“Are you still going to fight this?” he asks. “There's no -”
Turning, I rush back into the house and slam the door shut, and then I head through to the kitchen just as two men in dark uniforms come through the front door. I turn to go back, but Jerry is already inside the house and I realize that I'm surrounded. I glance around for a moment, and then finally I grab another of the knives from the counter and hold it up.
“Don't come near me!” I yell.
“Or what?” Jerry asks.
“Or...”
I pause for a moment, staring at Craig's poor, lifeless corpse, and then I turn and see that Jerry is still smiling.
“Or I'll kill myself,” I say finally, before setting the guitar down and then placing the knife's tip against my chest, roughly above my heart. “What will your Mr. Glass think about that? I'm not much use to anyone if I'm dead.”
“That's true,” Jerry replies, “but I guess that if I rush at you right now, you'll drive that knife straight into your own chest, puncturing your heart.”
“Damn straight I will!” I say firmly.
“And we're not going to leave without you,” he adds, “so this seems to be some kind of stand-off.” He pauses for a moment, before taking a step forward.
“Don't come any closer!” I yell.
“If you're going to kill yourself, old man,” he replies, taking another step toward me, “then you'd better get on with it.”
I step back until I bump against the counter, but my hand is trembling. I look over at Craig again, wondering what he'd do in this situation. I want to be brave like him, and unafraid of death, but then I look down at the knife's tip and imagine it slicing into my heart. I refuse to leave this farm and be taken to Joshua Glass, but at the same time I can't bring myself to carry out my threat.
Finally, slowly, Jerry reaches out and takes the knife from my hand.
“Well, there's a surprise,” he gloats. “The old man is too afraid of dying. These shenanigans have gone on for long enough, don't you think? It's time to hit the road.”
Twenty-Nine
“You've been in a helicopter before, haven't you, Mr. Harrisford?” Jerry shouts as he climbs out of the car an hour or so later. “I'm sure you traveled in style back in the old days, at the height of your pop career.”
He comes around and opens the door next to me, and then he pulls me out. I stum
ble slightly, and then I turn to see that one of the uniformed goons has already removed my guitar from the vehicle.
“We've got quite a journey ahead of us,” Jerry continues, leading me across the tarmac and toward the waiting helicopter, “so we might as well get going now. I've already radioed ahead to let Mr. Glass know that we're coming, and I'm sure he's very excited. I hope we won't be getting any more silliness from you.”
I try to pull away, but his grip is too tight and I know that fighting back is hopeless. As we get closer to the helicopter, I feel a knot of dread in my belly as I realize that I am indeed going to be flown to the lair of this Glass beast, where no doubt he'll command me to do his bidding. I tell myself that I must think of a way out of this mess, that perhaps I could yet leap up and try to have my head taken off by the helicopter's blades, but then I'm bundled into the rear of the machine and I realize that I have missed my chance.
I'm a coward.
If I had just had a little more courage earlier, I would not have to do any of this.
“Put these on,” Jerry says, placing a set of headphones over my ears. “We've got several hundred miles to cover. You don't want to be deaf by the time we get to Mr. Glass.”
I don't reply. I don't do anything. I merely sit like a doll, like some dumb creature with no mind of its own, as the helicopter's doors are slid shut. And then, before I even have a chance to react, the helicopter lifts from the ground. I turn to see Jerry sitting beside me, and then I look out the window and watch as we rise higher and higher into the slowly brightening morning sky.
“You haven't been in one of these things before, have you?” Jerry asks, nudging my arm. “I looked you up, Mr. Harrisford. You've had quite an impressive career, although I can't help thinking that you were mis-managed somewhere along the way. Tell me, did you ever think about Eurovision?”
I turn to him.