Blue Anesthesia

by Daniel Lidman

  “I can’t even look up at the night sky,” he said to himself. “It just reminds me of the government; especially the SWAT.”

  Axel and Susanne’s straitjackets had been modified. Humphrey found a way to have them use their arms, although, their arms didn’t reach far. They resembled the arms of a T-Rex. Their arms barely reached long enough for them to clap their hands. The straps on their back grew tighter with this modification, and whenever they were sitting up, the straps pushed into their spines. Both of them only managed to eat half of their cans. Their reach wasn’t long enough to tilt the can any farther. They stared down the abyss of spaghetti, observing the rest of the food with jealous awe.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll try to find a cabin, something solitary. There, I will continue what we started. The Valuables must be gathered.”

  An animal cried in the distance.

  “Of course, I no longer have my tools. I’ll try to find a gas station, or maybe even a grocery store along the way. They’ll carry knives. I think even a scissor would do the trick.”

  “You’re not hurting her,” Axel said.

  Humphrey sighed. “Not this again. Give me a break.”

  “I will—a permanent one.”

  “Axel,” Susanne said, whispering. He looked at her. She formed the words “don’t” with her lips.

  No words were said after that. Without interest, all of them sat and listened to the wildlife around them. They were still on the outskirts of Birch. In his excitement, Humphrey had forgotten to the check how much fuel the truck carried; it wasn’t much. They drove down the tongue of Birch for a couple of miles, before turning onto a path, which went past an abandoned farm where a barn stood stripped of its red paint.

  Humphrey, who ate more than either of them, was spared from the pain of hunger and fell asleep first. Both Axel and Susanne thought of saving themselves while he slept, of course, but Axel reminded Suanne that sleeping on a truck’s hood would not be a pleasant, deep sleep. Therefore, Humphrey would wake with ease.

  “Besides,” Axel said. “Do you hear this?” He slightly shook his arms, and the straitjacket’s belts rustled with their steel. “He’ll hear us move.”

  This seemed to startle Susanne. She lowered her voice, whispering. “But Axel, I cannot do this much longer. What exactly are we waiting for? I feel like I’m just letting myself die.”

  “The time will come. I’ve studied his psyche, and I think I’ve found a weak point. I just need an opportunity.”

  “When’s the right time?”

  “When he’s unstable,” Axel replied.

  “He’s already unstable.”

  Axel laughed. Susanne grew annoyed; she didn’t find any humor in that whatsoever. He changed the subject in an attempt to cheer her up. “Do you remember my first ever show? The one at a local bar, when all of us were underage, including Duncan, so Ma had to go with us?”

  “Yeah,” Susanne said. “You were joking about school. What did people call your teacher again? Was it Miss Tits for Hits?”

  “Miss Hits for Tits,” Axel corrected. “I guess it means the same thing, though. I remember this guy, Fredrick, who one day realized that he wanted to hit our teacher’s tits with his penis. He was the one who came up with the name. He mentioned it, out of the blue, and all of us were surprised. He was older, though, and had failed three years of the same grade.”

  Axel repeated the punchline of his joke from memory. “I always wondered if I was too young, or if he was too immature.”

  Susanne laughed under her breath.

  “Hey, was that real?” Axel asked, smiling.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Well, I thought that you guys were just laughing at that joke for sympathy points.”

  “Duncan was,” Susanne replied. “But he wouldn’t understand; he dreamed of becoming a tit-hitter, himself.”

  Axel gave a wide smile. “He always was the bad one.”

  “He sure was. Hell, even mom knew that. He didn’t even try to hide it.”

  Both of them breathed laughter through their nose. “Want to know what mom always said about you?”

  Axel looked at her, curious. “She always said: ‘Axel is a comedian by day and a writer by night.’”

  She tucked her feet in the sand. “I didn’t understand what she meant at the time. But, I think I do now. You were always giddy during the day, joking, and making everyone laugh. At night, however, when you grew more quiet and relaxed, you seemed to be deep in thought. In our teenage years, whenever I would want to knock on your door around bedtime, mom always waved me off. And she always repeated that line: ‘Axel is a comedian by day and a writer by night.’”

  Axel grew quiet. Susanne almost saw his thoughts through the shiny reflection in his eyes. “I always loved your jokes, though,” she said. “You know I did. Remember how I not only started asking to hear them at recess but also at home?”

  “Oh God,” Axel muttered. “Your damn sleepovers were the worst.”

  Laughter vibrated Susanne’s throat. “You mean when I would knock on your door with like four of my friends, and you had to make four jokes on the spot? I’m so sorry about that. We must’ve drained you.”

  “Speaking of sleep, we should try to get some.”

  “Alright,” Susanne agreed.

  Both of them turned their heads away from each other, staring out into the wild.

  “Axel?”

  “What?”

  “I missed you.”

  “Yeah,” Axel said. “I missed me, too.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Night

  1

  In the morning, Humphrey left Axel and Susanne on that patch of sand and headed into Birch to purchase some gas. He had a couple of dollars on him, but that was all. It would be enough for gas and tools, which he planned on using for the extraction. They would have to steal food and drinks.

  He turned left from the path, which leads to the abandoned farm, past the barn, and onto the tongue of Birch. The sun rose above the horizon; coloring the sky red and blue.

  There was little traffic on the road leading into Birch. Every few minutes, a delivery truck drove past him. Humphrey rolled down the window, almost tasting blue anesthesia through his nostrils. No food could ever taste so fresh, he thought.

  The first row of buildings poked out from the town. Some of their windows carried yellow glee. A few had curtains, like eyelids. Others were dark. They passed in a blur. The road turned narrow. Humphrey drove past a few mailboxes. White fence smiled at him in the rising of a new day. Basketballs and footballs from yesterday lay dead on porches. Sounds of glass came from a few open kitchen windows; families preparing breakfast. Artificial sounds of televisions blurred out distant voices from living rooms.

  Humphrey approached the center of town. Buildings were more frequent here, and cramped next to each other, down a long street with little to no space between them. Traffic bloomed here; in vehicles and people. Dozens of footsteps played a symphony in the span of a second. Heels of women in office clacked; loafers of retired men were muffled. When the light turned green, Humphrey drove to the side, away from the town’s heart, onto less populated streets. Coffee shops and cafés were decorated with CLOSED signs. Their interiors were still stained with the black of a vanishing night, but Humphrey could pick out reflections from the counters and tables. They must’ve been cleaned yesterday, minutes before closing.

  He approached a bus stop. Two people say on the opposite ends of a bench, leaving a gap of space in the middle. One of them read a newspaper; the other leaned with his elbow on the bench’s arm, appearing to be tired and sad. A couple of feet down the street, another man leaned against a street pole, smoking a cigarette with a focused stare. Humphrey’s eyes followed that man briefly. When his attention returned to the road, he spotted a grocery a store. A big sign read: YES, WE DO SELL GAS!

  Humphrey pulled the truck into the driveway. He passed a white sign, stained with dirt. In red letters, the sign
read: BERTHA’S GROCERIES.

  The roof was colored green, and so were the outer walls, only in a lighter shade. A neon sign with electronic blue and green letters read: OPEN. Humphrey felt welcome. He killed the engine in a parking space, grunting at the two white lines. He neatly folded his surgical mask in layers of three and put it on the dashboard. With increased police activity in this town since the murder, Humphrey reached beneath his seat for the pistol. He strapped it inside of his pants, feeling the cold metal sting. He tucked his shirt over the pistol. Standing next to the truck, Humphrey began to jog in place. The pistol didn’t move. That was good.

  His shirt immediately picked up the wind as he began to walk. He felt the fabric plaster against his skin, only releasing when the wind calmed down, which it rarely did. The wind was harsh enough for Humphrey to wipe tears from his eyes as he entered the grocery store. An electric bell greeted him.

  An elderly woman, chewing gum with red lipstick, spoke from the counter. Her eyes never left whatever she read. “Be sure to consider our deal on beef jerky. Three for two, located four aisles down to your left.”

  When Humphrey didn’t reply, she peered over her round glasses. Golden jewelry swung from her ears. Her cheeks and chin hung like a deflated ball. A greedy toad, Humphrey thought. She became aware that Humphrey wasn’t the talking type—a rare sight for her. In this town, people would blabber about almost anything as they swung their groceries upon the belt. Sometimes, they would even walk up to the counter and start a conversation before doing their shopping. She went back to reading. Humphrey observed Bertha’s Groceries for the first time.

  The place didn’t have any air conditioning, it seemed, for fans were placed in the corners. Some of the lights toward the store’s middle gave an occasional wink. Through the speakers, a voice sang about farms and women with the help of a guitar.

  Humphrey walked past the meat section, concentrating his stare to look for sharp objects. He came across packets of kitchen accessories. These had knives in them, but they also contained plenty of forks and spoons. Their price was outrageous. Humphrey walked slowly between the aisles, hearing flicks of dirt scuffle beneath his feet.

  The electric bell communicated with someone else’s feet. Humphrey, sandwiched between two aisles, paid no attention to this.

  “Be sure to consider our deal on beef jerky. Three for two, located four aisles down to your left.”

  “Excuse me,” said a voice in a slight whisper. “Who does that truck parked outside belong to?”

  The toad was still reading. In fact, she had been reading all morning since she first opened. She had heard the sound of a truck, but her eyes never left her reading material.

  “What truck?” She almost hissed. Humphrey, who now paid close attention to the conversation, took cover behind a shelf. He could hear the smack of her chewing from here. “I’ve been busy reading all day. Better savor it while I still can. My hearing has already started to give out.”

  “Can you recall hearing the truck approach? When was that?”

  “Mister, either buy something or get out. What are you harassing an old lady for?”

  The slight whisper turned into a shout. “IS YOUR BRAIN AS LOOSE AS THE SKIN HANGING FROM YOUR FACE?” Humphrey heard a ruffle of clothing. “What does this say? I know that you can read. It says: SERGEANT HENRIK HUMMER. Now, I have good reason to believe that the white truck belongs to a murdered Garret Stewart. And I urge you to tell me how long that truck has been standing out there!”

  The chewing sounds were killed. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I recall nothing! You can look around if you please, but quit bothering me!”

  A fist punched against the counter, followed by a warm grunt; the sound of a startled jump and jewelry swinging; elderly breathing turned raspy, jumping ahead a few years.

  Heavy boots walked downward, toward Humphrey, beating the sound of music in volume. Humphrey reached for his pistol. With caution that left his tongue hanging out of his mouth, Humphrey cocked the pistol.

  Click.

  He held the pistol with both hands, evening out the weight. He stood cramped against a shelf of pans, not daring to risk the sound of moving. Every few seconds, Humphrey had to adjust his grip on the pistol, countering the building of sweat, which turned the grip slippery.

  The heavy boots were close now. Humphrey was unable to distinguish them from the beat of his own heart. The pistol began to tremble.

  Henrik Hummer turned toward Berta. He assumed that she was reading, for her eyes looked down. But she held nothing in her hands. Her stare was simply downward in an upset manner. “Ma’am,” Henrik said. He spoke in a loud tone, taking notice of the distance and her bad hearing. “Is there anyone else down here?”

  She gave no answer.

  Henrik repeated himself, louder now; he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. “IS THERE ANYONE—“

  Humphrey pulled the trigger. It struck Henrik’s waist. A simultaneous grunt escaped both men. From Bertha, there came a wooden scream. Henrik managed to unbutton his holster, but a second bullet invaded his collar, lodging itself into bone. The pistol roared a third time, biting Henrik’s chest. He stumbled backward, falling on top of a freezer, containing fruit. Blood stained a sign on the freezer, which proudly exclaimed: OUR VERY OWN HEALTH SECTION! IT’S THE BEST PLACE TO BE!

  Henrik’s revolver slid out of his unbuttoned holster, beneath the freezer, joining the company of long lost quarters. Thick liquid of nutrition and Vitamin D, packed with iron, displayed itself onto the transparent doors.

  The pistol trembled madly in Humphrey’s hands. Sounds of the string, along with pistol’s bolt, were heard. His eyes were like ice when the reflection of his pistol appeared a white diamond in his expanding pupils.

  “BLACK,” Humphrey tried to scream, but it came out in a suppressed tone. He didn’t direct it to Henrik’s face, but more so to his black uniform. “THE NIGHT,” Humphrey said. “YOU ARE THE LEADER OF THE NIGHT.” His words were exhausted; Humphrey had to turn them over multiple times in his head. It was a long sentence.

  Henrik’s eyes were dry golf balls, spinning around as if high in the air, moving along with summer wind. They never caught on to something. They kept spinning. Humphrey watched them go around, and around, and around.

  Henrik Hummer’s voice lost confidence, probably for the first time in his adult life. “Where is he, you sick fuck?” He spoke again, as if he didn’t know if that had been a thought or actual words. A piercing ring alarmed his entire body. “Where is Axel Gardner?”

  A slight cough erupted in Henrik. He desperately tried to shelter it inside of his arm but failed. His arm jerked, rose a few inches, then tumbled back onto the freezer.

  Henrik bellowed now. “WHERE IS AXEL GARDNER?”

  Blood spurted out of his mouth with the force and emotion in those words. Before he could ask the same of Susanne, another coughing fit rendered him silent.

  Something clicked in Humphrey’s mind. He wasn’t aware, but tears began to build in his eyes. “THE NIGHT,” he repeated. And that was all he managed to say. But, inside, he thought: Crabby is one with the night. Here is the leader of the night, asking for him with such fury, for I am not complying. They must be connected.

  Humphrey looked away to avoid a splatter of blood on his face as he prepared to pull the trigger.

  “YEAH, WELL, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?” Henrik managed. “HAVE I WRONGFULLY STUMBLED INTO YOUR KINGDOM, O’ GREAT KING OF BLUEBERRIES? YOU FUCKING PETTY LITTLE SHIT. GO AHEAD THEN, PULL THE TRIGGER! BE A MAN BECAUSE YOU SURE DON’T LOOK LIKE ONE!”

  Henrik’s head performed a backward bow to the sound of ripping flesh. The bullet entered through his nose, cracking the ridge in two before getting stuck somewhere in the brain. Blood poured out of Henrik’s nostrils. His eyes rolled over, blank in stare, lost in another world. The short hairs on his head turned dark with the color of red, absorbing most of the blood. Henrik’s mouth still hung open in a mid-scream. Humphrey took causal interest
in the denture work of his teeth, made by a lesser dentist.

  Not bad, Humphrey thought, approaching the counter. A man still sang through the speakers. He sang about tobacco when the toad took a bullet in her chin, making her loose skin wobble quite impressively.

  Not bad, Humphrey thought again, firing a second time. The bullet cracked her glasses, turning her eyeball into the texture of applesauce. And that reminded him. The toad still made abnormal sounds in her throat when Humphrey walked past her with a can of gasoline and a bunch of kitchen supplies. He even managed to obtain a scissor. The electric bell bid him farewell.

  Goodbye, he thought.

  Outside, all was silent and calm. In the distance, a few windows radiated with light. It could just be a coincidence, or maybe they had heard the ruckus. Or, maybe, Humphrey had served as their alarm clock, lessening their late arrival to work. Humphrey thought of the greater good. He walked faster now, hearing the gasoline splash inside its canister, increasing in volume with his picked up pace. Henrik’s patrol car was parked next to the truck. Humphrey didn’t have time to listen if the chatter coming from the radio was about him or not. With haste, he fueled the truck and then threw the rest of the gasoline into the backseat. He strapped on his surgical mask.

  The sky was absent of red.

  It was blue.

  2

  “Emma’s birthday is two weeks from now. I never asked her what she wants. She likes to play with toy cars, which others say is odd for a girl her age. Do you remember that Christmas when Samuel got her that expensive model car?”

  “Yeah,” Axel said. “As soon as I saw the package and the detail on that thing, I knew that it was a collector’s item, not meant to be played with. How long did it take before she broke the thing?”