by J. N. Morgan
“Ehhh, I dunno… besides, my immune system is probably not the greatest right now…” His face looked dull, as though drugged, or too drunk. It made sense though, at least it did in his mind. “Beans?... has iron, doesn’t it?...”
“Um… the cans, they…”
He nodded, mouth opening in an ‘O’, realizing that without a non-electric can opener, neither of them could really manage. Hell, neither of them had a proper pair of working hands right now. What the Hell were they going to do… this was ridiculous… and she was still out there somewhere! The thought worried him as though she’d come back for some reason. He wished he could hold his rifle, feel the wood, manipulate the bolt with his usual confidence, but the right arm was useless and the left would probably have trouble petting a kitten at the moment.
A weak smile came suddenly, it was morning, pancakes did sound alright, but he wanted some meat… and not fish. “Moose… take out my… Mason jars…” She scuffled over hurriedly to his pack, happy that he was looking cheerful in spite of the nature of things. He seen her bandage as she pulled the two bottles out. “Left… and your hand… you should dress it… wish I could do it for you… baby…” It looked like he was about to fall asleep, it almost seemed as though he didn’t feel any more pain.
Ignoring the mention of her hand, she looked worriedly at him. “Richard, are you alright?...”
“I… I’m… ohhhh God-” barely with enough time to finish his plea for Heavenly help, his head fell back, passed out, and then screaming his name she scrambled over to shake his chest, tapping his left cheek with her right hand, then outright slapping it. He startled awake. “Auff… unh? How long was I-?”
“You just passed out! Richard, please, stay awake, ok? Please? I don’t want you to leave me…” She was crying again, head coming down to his exposed chest, tired, exhausted, but afraid to leave his side, afraid to see him sleep, afraid of the unknown and wondering if he was dead or not. His breathing was slow, almost laboured, and she went up, kissing his lips, and said something in a shaky voice but said it with confidence.
“I love you…” He let out an exhale of breath, almost a chuckle, that weak smile coming back, and couldn’t believe he meant what he was about to say.
“You’re crazy… but I love you too, Tiff. You saved my life…” She kissed him again before he could say anything else, and her own hunger reminded her of his. She went over to the bottle of moose, putting the Mason jar of deer back in the pack.
“Ohhh… yeah… this will uh… be a challenge… that sucker is on tight.” True enough, down on her knees, she trapped the bottle between them and started trying to unscrew it with her right hand. “Well what do… you know?” He asked labouredly, though in a tone that he was obviously going to tell a joke. “A woman who ca-… can’t open a jar. Heh-ough…” His smile widened, a bit of a weak chuckle came, but then cut off with a groan from the pain in his shoulder spiking. She smiled as well though in a mockingly-reproved way, however it of course faded from the return of his pain, concern on her face.
She started tapping the edge of the lid on the top of the book shelf, trying to loosen it. Bringing it between her knees, finding it still too tight, and then going at it again. This happened quite a few times until finally, with her knees locked on it so tight she feared she might break it and imbed the glass into her flesh, the lid finally came free, and she gave a cry of glee as it screwed off.
“Heeeeey, way to goooo! You… opened iiiit!” It was as though he’d been up for days… weeks… and was doing everything in his power not to fall asleep. “Don’t try to… force the lid off… it’s stuck… too. You’ll slice… fingers… hmm…” His eyes were closing as he spoke, closed at the end, and the final word wasn’t a word at all but just some nonsensical mumble.
“Richard- RICHARD! I-I know how to get it off! Check it out!” She said, trying to sound as excited as she could, considering she was so tired as well. It was all in a bid to keep him awake, to keep him conscious, at least until she got some food in him. The eyes opened lazily, head nodding left to right in an effort to keep it off the ‘mattress’. She hit the glass where the rim had been, but this time at an angle so that the wood was hitting upwards on the metal lid. It took a surprising amount of effort, and sliced quite a lot of wood off the book shelf. She looked over at him with a surprised look, though also combined it with the sense that she was doing something bad yet it somehow excited her. Like a couple kids working together to get up to the cookie jar on the kitchen counter, and was just now taking some out, keeping an eye and an ear out for anyone who might catch them red-handed. He bit his lip, feeling genuinely bad that Charlie and Denise Winters’ house was being slightly damaged… he had promised to their grave that he would leave it in as good a shape as he found it, but it would seem that promise could not be kept now.
It felt so terrible to just lie there. All his muscle, all his strength, all his confidence and skill, yet just to pull his left arm out from under the blanket would be difficult. POP! The lid finally came off, and she gave another cry of glee. Running to the kitchen, she got a fork and ran back. One after another, she fed chunks of meat to him, the first proving too big even though he normally ate it with ease. She broke it into thinner pieces with the utensil. Moose meat broke away in a stringy fashion, but the ‘strings’ of meat were quite thick, far too thick and far too tender and soft to pose an annoyance on teeth. It practically melted in one’s mouth, it was his favourite, and it should be full of the valuable calories, fat, iron, protein, sodium, and so on that his body needed so desperately right now. More water was fed to him from time to time between bites, wishing to get him well hydrated, willing every drop of it that entered his mouth to soon turn into life blood, to keep him with her. She needed him…
Feeding him until he was content, less than half the jar, which worried her, she screwed the lid on lightly. He told her to have some, that it was delicious. She did want to try it, and also wanted to please him, not to mention was REALLY hungry, so popped a good sized chunk in her mouth. She bit off more than she could chew, and she knew it. He smiled at her difficulty to keep it all in her mouth; she had succeeded in what she had intended though. Giggling as she did so, eventually putting a hand to her mouth in embarrassment, she finished it and gave her compliments to the ‘chef’ who prepared the meat in the first place when it was bottled, and then the lid was screwed on.
“I’ll get some pancakes. Thanks, baby.”
“Yeah… won’t be as… good as mine though… babe…”
That smile of mocked-reproval returned. “You hush…” The smile turned more earnest as he smiled dozily up to her. “Maybe a bit of sleep would be good, honey. After that delicious meal… eh?” A faint movement of his head, it might have meant to be a nod but it was hardly noticeable as one, almost more of a shutter, and with the smile his head plopped back down to the cushion. It wasn’t until a couple seconds had passed until the smile went, the mouth came open, and there hung, looking possibly asleep, but also… possibly… something else. She snuck over to him from the kitchen counter where she had the pancake mix and water bottle, the only two ingredients she’ll need to make her breakfast which she was really hungry for, and then perhaps will be able to get a nap in herself. Putting her right hand down in front of his face, she felt his breath, his torso moving so faintly that it was hard to tell from a distance. She crept away, relieved, to get her little meal that she knew would pale in comparison to the moose meat but it was best to save that for him.
She was mixing the batter in a large bowl, frying pan on the stove already when he awoke with a start. “Dih?... Huh… Tiff? Tiff!”
“Richard? What is it?” She rushed over to him, leaving her potential breakfast once more on the counter. His head was craning about, looking around, and had he the energy for it she believed he’d be looking around wildly as though there were a danger nearby.
“Emm Nineteen… Eleven… my pistol… where?...” His head fell back on the c
ushion upon seeing her, but eyes stayed open, trained on her as she came to his side. She stepped over him, moving the bandolier to sit on the lounge chair beside him, leaned over and reached down, then pulled his shiny, stainless steel sidearm out from under the cushion under his mid-section.
“This?” He nodded slowly to her.
“It… its safety… should be on… left side… under… slide… in the… back…”
Turning the sidearm so the left side faced him, he pointed to the slide stop which was roughly above the trigger. “Here?” He shook his head, the finger moved back along the bottom of the slide to the manual safety. He nodded.
“Flick it… down… to shoot. When it’s up… like that… it’s safe… slide… won’t move…” He seemed even more exhausted than before, possibly even worse off now, why did it seem like his situation was deteriorating? Was he still bleeding? It didn’t look too bad… she’ll dress his wounds again after he’s slept, she thought. For now, hoping she won’t have to use it but glad he thought to teach her how just in case, she clicked the safety down. He nodded.
“Fire… safety is… off now. The slide… can move now… try pulling it… a little… but not all… the way…”
“Sounds like you’re asking me for a hand job, sweetie.” He grinned, dizzy, but recognizing the joke based on what he said. She held the pistol, laying her finger on the trigger, and started to pull the slide again.
“Nnh… no… finger off… the trigger. Take it… off…” the finger was sticking out and away from the trigger now. “Rest it above… the trigger… on or under… slide.” She put it down along the side of the frame. “Good… that’s safe… finger only on trigger… when ready to shoot… there will be some recoil… but not too much… it won’t jump from… hand… just… aim true… and hold tight but… not too tight… don’t be afraid of… it… and… if I get up…… then…… shoot….” The last word barely escaped him, it was scratchy, forced, almost wept. His face looked pained, it was taking much effort to do all this, to form his sentences, fighting sleep seemed to be incredibly straining. He looked sad now, eyes squeezing shut, mouth pursing, frowning, seemingly holding back tears. He was telling her that if the worst happens; if he doesn’t make it, then she should shoot him.
“Oh Richard, no… you’ll be alright… you’ll be ok…” She knelt down, putting the pistol down on the carpet next to him, left arm wrapped around his upper stomach, head coming down on his left shoulder; she squeezed a hug from outside the blanket that covered him then leaned up and kissed his lips. He weakly kissed back, tried to move his arm under the blanket but couldn’t possibly get it out, much less wrap it around her shoulders.
“Safety… back… on…” He smiled, having heard the safety click off earlier but not back on. “Holster… in pants… if you want it…”
“Really does sound like you’re ask me for a hand job…” She said smiling, though eyes red and puffy as she fought back tears. He gave a weak laugh.
“Try to… stop thinking about… my cock… for two seconds.” The smile, though pale, was wide, he liked that even though he was in this state she was joking about such things. She was getting the hang of his sense of humour. “Can’t spare… the blood… for a… hard on… heh-ooh…” Almost laughing as he spoke now, the sudden laugh he couldn’t keep back caused his chest and shoulders to jolt in pain.
“Oh baby… lie still.” She sniffled. “You get better, get your blood back, and I swear on… on…” Her green eyes peered to the kitchen, Denise’s Bible was on the kitchen counter on the far end closest to the back door. Richard had taken it out when he gave his amateur ‘funeral’ service before covering their bodies with dirt, trying to make it as respectable as possible. Tiffany was about to make that Bible used during the ‘funeral’ a bit less so; “… on that old Bible there, that when you get well, I’m gonna suck, or jerk, you dry. Whatever you want baby, just get better, and I’ll have you every… single… night.” With each of those three last words, she kissed his cheek, and he groaned.
“Ohhhh… come on… Tiff… go on now… before I get… turned on…” The face was serious, he meant it, yet that only made her happy. He thought that with her saving his life, it was him who should service her after all this, if he makes it, but the thought didn’t last long as she got up with the pistol, clicked the safety on, and went back to the kitchen; his face relaxed as sleep quickly took him. Keeping the waist of her pants tight, she found the pistol stayed there securely in the back of her pants so didn’t want to bother him by taking his leather holster from the jeans he as of yet still wore.
Several hours later, Richard still asleep, Tiffany woke from her own nap in the afternoon. She had slept on the couch; two of its remaining cushioned brought together which she had lain on, feet dangling over the edge a little, his pistol was on the coffee table. She hadn’t awoken of her own volition however, she heard a sound nearby, and quickly seen the source. Nick was tapping on the glass of the east window in the living room, above the TV; she smiled and waved at seeing her friend awaken. The smile was met with a scowl. Looking down at her man, she could see the blankets faintly moving as he breathed, still sleeping, and so gave a cold look to the young woman she was going out to meet. Through the back door, pistol in hand, she gestured to the south past the ‘grave plate’, as her old black companion came around the southeast corner.
They got some distance from the house, “What are you doing here?!”
“Heeeey, come on, don’t be like that. I wanted to see my girl!” In spite of the presence of the pistol, which wasn’t being aimed or pointed at all, Veronica came up to her and embraced her in a hug. A hug that she’d wanted the day before not long after shooting the man inside, but had been denied for obvious reasons. The hug was returned and held for several seconds.
“I don’t feel bad for the way I acted to you, you know.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, but come on, we’ve lived together for years; we can’t just cut off contact so quickly like that!” They each had a firearm in their right hands, Nick’s a sightless .308 bolt action which was assumed to still be empty, and of course Tiff’s was the .45 ACP M1911A1 Mil Spec with a stainless finished, loaded with 7+1 though he had forgotten to tell her such. She probably didn’t know just how many rounds were in it. “That’s one kickass piece you got there, where the fuck’d you find that?”
“… it’s Richard’s…” Her smile went, the tall woman’s head lowering, “He gave it to me for protection… taught me how to use it, kinda…” There was silence between them for a moment, “… you know he really is a good man; he’s kept me safe, kept me fed, and almost never asks me to do anything! He fights, as you’ve seen; he hunts, as you’ve also seen with the deer, he’s got a good sense of humour though admittedly a bit crude at times, and he’s GREAT in…” She blushed, looking off to the side, hardly believing what she nearly said. Well, believing it, sure, but not believing she nearly said it. Nick’s smile returned.
“Oh, he’s great is he?” Head cocked back, clearly not believing what she was hearing. “Great in?...”
“… look, he’s just… don’t judge him base on how he looks… I’ve never heard him say anything racist even after you…” A look of anger flashed in her, head shaking as she didn’t even want to say the word. “He treats me with respect; treats me good.”
“Has he ever hit you?” It was asked dubiously, obviously not expecting the answer to be ‘no’.
“Well…” An exasperated sigh came from her, a look of defeat coming as her head lowered.
“Bet he makes you think that it was your fault, huh?”
“It WAS my fault- and I know how that sounds!” Tiffany said quickly as they stood there on the grass, in the open, to the south of the house. The quiet bubbling of the small stream was a stark contrast to the conversation going on nearby. She thought about Richard, wondering if he had awoken, if he was calling weakly for her, she wanted to go back to him.
“BULLSHIT! He
really DID hit you?! Son of a… I TOLD you he was just some misogynist mother fucker who’s no good!”
“Shut the FUCK up, Nick! You don’t know what you’re talking about, and this coming from the one who’s shoved that femi-Nazi BULLSHIT down your throat!” The black woman was looking at her in disbelief that she used the term ‘femi-Nazi’, a word they had both hated with such scorn that they believed any man or even woman who used that word must have been such a woman hater that it rivaled the amount that Adolf Hitler hated Jews.
“I don’t… know you… who are you, and what have you done with my Tiffy?!” It was said incredulously, taking a step back, looking at her like she was utterly insane.
“I’m still your Tiffy… but… I was wrong about men… at least I was about all men. In spite of what we believed, or at least what I believed, there are good men out there, whether you believe it or not.” It was said softly, gently, and honestly. “Come here, I’m not a woman-hater…” they hugged again, “… but I’m not a man-hater either. He really is incredible… you know, I tried to shoot him when I first seen him?” To this, the tall female’s head craned back her head, looking at her short, somewhat pudgy friend strangely.
“You’re a hypocrite. Giving me all this shit for doing something you’ve already tried to do?” Tiff couldn’t help but laugh as she broke from the hug, taking a step back.
“Just trust me; I’m glad I didn’t do it, that I didn’t have a bullet in the thing at the time.” She didn’t know the name of the chamber section of a firearm. “In the past week or so, for the most part, I’ve been living better with him than we ever had. We don’t need to ration too much because he hunts and fishes to make the, like, canned stuff last, and as you’ve seen, he’s an amazing shot, not to mention really good with that spike thing on his gun… and… to be honest… Veronica… I’m…” She was looking shy yet ready to burst, and the riflewoman was getting genuinely curious as to what this mother-hen wanted to say.