The Comatose

by Kate Myers

  “And how will we spray the mud off?” Quinn asks.

  “Oh, right, yeah, there’s probably a water pump. It’s fairly common around here. And like I said, the farmhouse is old, like abandoned old. With all the rain we’ve had, I’m sure we’ll be good.”

  “Farmhouse it is,” Sanchez speaks. “That giant brick one on the left?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Funny,” he teases.

  I shrug then shift my focus to the back of the SUV, to the woman, still lying there partially lifeless. From the ride, she managed to somehow untangle her body from the crumpled-up mess I saw her in from the excursion through the field. I can only imagine the aches and pains she’ll feel if she wakes up, being thrown around like that—it’s a surprise she didn’t break her neck. We should have been more cautious with how she was secured, but it’s not like we could have anticipated a pursuit like that.

  My mind wiggles its way free of this woman and lingers on Skylar, something I find myself uncontrollably (and controllably) doing, nearly all the time. It’s rare if, at any given moment, my mind isn’t thinking about her in some capacity.

  The woman reminding me of Skylar.

  Wanting Skylar to be okay, needing Skylar to be okay.

  Imagining Skylar being okay and simply being able to talk to her, to hear her voice.

  To tell her that everything is going to be okay and hear her tell me the same.

  I let her down, I broke my promise. I was supposed to keep her safe, to protect her. When I failed her, I failed myself.

  I permit my thoughts to return to her journal, to the few entries I allowed myself the pleasure of indulging. The one where she talked about the pain of not having anyone to rely on, how everyone has let her down in some capacity. How she felt responsible for having expectations of people, how she doesn’t feel as though she expects much, just common decency, but she fails to receive that. How her mom flakes on her over and over, how she wished she had a mom who was more involved, who cared enough about their daughter to be there during the times she was needed most. How her dad promised he’d quit drinking, but what that meant was that he would quit drinking liquor, and still gets drunk every day. How nearly every guy she’s considered showing interest in ends up sleeping with her friends or turning out to be a creep. How she desperately wants one good thing in her life. How she doesn’t think she’ll ever really be happy because she feels like she expects so little and gets even less.

  My heart broke reading her words. I don’t think I’ve ever related more, but in my own unique way. Life feels like this constant battle of not knowing who anyone really is, expecting the best and getting the worst. Assuming people are genuine and mean well, when most people are selfish and only have themselves in mind. Don’t get me wrong, there are good people out there, but they are so heavily covered and concealed by all the bad, it’s hard to find them. And it’s especially harder when you’re shielding yourself and putting up your own walls and guards, so the bad ones don’t break through and take advantage.

  It reminds me of this story I read once about this person who put on a mask every day to hide their true identity but tried so desperately to find someone like them, so they could take their mask off and be free. The other person was also wearing a mask, so every day they walked past each other without knowing, and it wasn’t until one person finally decided to be themselves, that the other person finally found them.

  This is me taking my mask off. I know I won’t be perfect and I’ll make mistakes, but I know I can be a good person, that I am a good person, and I can be the one thing that Skylar can finally count on. And I won’t give up trying to be a better version of myself and helping her be a better version of herself. She deserves that, I deserve that.

  My heart aches at the impossibility of the situation. I might not ever get the chance to say any of this to her, to let her know of our potential. The unknown weighs on me heavily, like a thick cloak that cannot be removed, and the likelihood that she very well could be dead when I return to her breaks my heart in two.

  Our tires touch gravel, and the sound, along with the slight bumbling of the shift in terrain, brings me viciously to this reality. The reality of so many unknowns all around us. I quickly scan what I can see of the property.

  “You okay?” Quinn asks, her contemplative eyes peering into my soul.

  I muster a fake smile and say, “Yeah,” although I know she knows, she knows more than she lets on. I’m terrible at hiding my emotions at times, and Quinn knows all too well what I’m going through, so she sees straight through my shoddy attempts to conceal them.

  Sanchez eyes something in the distance. “You were right, Max. There’s a water pump up ahead.” He nods toward the pump, on the far side of the house.

  Relief floods through me. I didn’t know for sure if there would be one here, I just didn’t want to not have a possible solution when he asked me earlier.

  “Let’s park, assess the situation,” Sanchez says.

  “Good deal.”

  Quinn points a few feet away from the pump. “There’s a hose under that picnic table.”

  The SUV comes to a slow stop, and Sanchez puts it in park. We all let out a collective sigh and turn toward each other in a slight huddle. Teamwork!

  Sanchez communicates first. “I haven’t seen anyone, and we should be shielded behind the house and not visible from the road.”

  “Two people clean us off, one stay behind? What do you guys think?” I offer.

  Our eyes shift back and forth to each other.

  Sanchez orders, “Quinn stays, in the driver’s seat, keeping an eye out for us, and on the lady in case she comes to.”

  “Okay,” she confirms.

  “Then, let’s do this,” Sanchez directs, authority seeping from his pores, something that must come naturally to him.

  Within a minute, I’ve gathered and attached the hose to the pump while Sanchez maintains a lookout. Still no sign of life, or death. The wind picks up for a brief second, and the warm breeze grounds me to this summer day. We make quick progress on ridding the SUV of its mud, making sure to hose the old brick driveway, too. I ask Quinn to pull up a little bit, so I can get the whole tire, and in a matter of seconds, we’re done. It’s that simple.

  Sanchez and I hop into the SUV and Quinn settles comfortably into the passenger seat. I wipe my hands on my jeans and relax into the seat, only then re-remembering the woman lodged in here with me. A chill runs through me. Life is weird.

  I reach across and buckle my seat belt, securing my place behind Sanchez.

  “We ready?” he asks.

  “Let’s go home,” I say.

  And just like that, we’re turning around in the big driveway behind the house and starting our journey around the rear side of the house, toward the street. Right as we pick up a little speed, I’m startled by a blur that darts across my vision, heading toward us. Sanchez does his best to slam on the brakes, but before we can stop, we’ve hit whatever ran across our path.

  “What was that?” I ask, unbuckling my seat belt and leaning forward.

  Quinn turns to me, her golden eyes bulging, stammering with a shaky voice, “A person.”

  16

  Max

  “What do you mean a person?” I ask, heart accelerating fiercely.

  Quinn begins to speak, but Sanchez cuts her off.

  “Stay put, I’ll be right back.” Without allowing us to interject, he jumps out of the vehicle, gun drawn.

  My mind starts going wild—did we accidentally kill someone? Sanchez disappears under the hood of our SUV momentarily, and immediately as panic boils inside me, he stands up and motions for us to come.

  I take a quick peek into the trunk before exiting the vehicle, the woman still alive and unconscious. I step onto the driveway, close the door, and immediately I see feet sticking out, attached to legs, attached to a man. A man who we just ran over.

  My hand instinctually goes to cover my mouth. “Is he dead?” />
  Quinn, kneeling next to the man, her fingers resting under his chin, placed gently against his neck, speaks quietly, “No.”

  “Can I be honest?” Sanchez asks. Before we can answer, he adds, “I think he’s deranged.”

  “What, how?” I say.

  At this, Quinn stands, turns her attention to Sanchez, the doctor in her coming to life. “What makes you say that?” she asks.

  Sanchez studies the man for a moment, while we wait eagerly for him to respond. “I saw his face.”

  “Yes, and what about his face?” she says.

  “He looked pissed.”

  “He could have needed help or thought we were robbing the property,” she offers. “Or he could have been with that group of people.”

  “Speaking of, we should probably get a move on it,” I suggest.

  Ignoring me, Sanchez says, “It was his eyes, they were swollen, bright red. His fists were balled up like he wanted to hit something.” He glances from the man to Quinn, “I’ve seen enough of them, and the more that I think about it, he was definitely deranged.”

  “Okay,” is all that Quinn says, walking to the SUV, opening the rear door and fumbling with something inside.

  She returns with a syringe in her hand, holds it out for us to see, and then kneels carefully down and injects it into the man’s arm, doing her best to be precise. Luckily, the man’s veins are bulging, so she finds her target easily.

  “This should kick in fairly soon, if not within the minute. I’m unsure how long it will last, based on the dosage, so we need to move fast.”

  Quinn stares from me to Sanchez, as if expecting a specific response.

  “Because we’re taking him with us…” she replies slowly to make sure we understand.

  “Ohh, right,” I say, feeling like an idiot. I guess we did come out here for bodies.

  “You grab his feet, I’ll grab his torso,” Sanchez commands.

  I wrap my hands around his ankles and motion to the SUV. “Can you open the hatch and reposition that lady? Make room for this guy.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Grab him under his knees,” Sanchez demands.

  “You said his feet,” I correct.

  “Have you never…” he mutters and shakes his head. “Never mind, grab him under his knees. It’ll be easier to hold him. Lift with your legs, not your back.”

  I do what he says, and we’re able to carry the man around to the opening of the SUV with relative ease.

  We approach, and Quinn has rearranged the woman and is hopping out of the trunk area.

  “I had to put one of the seats down to make room. I’m thinking you can lay him sideways in there.” She motions toward the available space.

  The woman is partially in the back seat and partially in the trunk area.

  “Oh, and I still call shotgun,” Quinn adds.

  Great, this unconscious woman is going to be right next to me. It was one thing when she was in the very back, with the seat as a somewhat barricade, but now she’s pretty much my seat partner. At least it’s not the man. If I had to choose a comatose or a deranged, I guess I would choose the former. I don’t think she will come to life and beat me to death. But, anything is possible in this world.

  “Thanks,” I say, heavily laced with sarcasm.

  Sanchez hoists his end of the man into the SUV, and I help him arrange the rest of the body. Sanchez pushes the electronic hatch closure, and just like that, we have kidnapped two people. I didn’t realize it would be this simple. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, though, we still have the rest of the trip home. And the chances of this lady dying, or the man coming to and killing us are pretty high. I forgot to mention the men we left stranded in the cornfield; they’re probably coming after us right this moment. The likelihood of us getting home safely is decreasing by the minute.

  “We should hurry,” I advise.

  Sanchez nods, and we all return into our respective seating arrangement.

  “How effective is that sedative?” I ask Quinn.

  I don’t want to buckle, because I don’t want to be stuck in place and not able to see what’s going on around me, but I decide it’s the best option. I do my best to sit at an angle, back pressed slightly against the door to give me a better view of the people hanging out in here with me.

  “I’d say it’s fairly effective, accompanied by the blow to the head rendering him unconscious. We should be okay.”

  “And okay is good, right?”

  She lets out a small chuckle. “Yes, Max, okay is good, you can relax.”

  “I’d like to see you relax, being stuck so close to them.” I motion to our passengers.

  She shrugs. “You could have called shotgun.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, looking out the window as we drive slowly onto the road. The slight shift in pavement startles me, and I nearly jump out of my seat to make sure these people haven’t woken up.

  I shake my head, trying to rid myself of my nerves. It feels like it’s one thing after another. When will the chaos stop? I’m fairly certain I’m going to end up having a heart attack soon from the constant adrenaline coursing through me. I take a deep breath, in through my nose deeply and out my mouth.

  I close my eyes, and Skylar comes to the forefront immediately. My hand on her back, helping her sit on the steps at our house, only a mere couple weeks ago.

  “Anxiety,” she had said.

  I couldn’t begin to understand then, the trauma she’s experienced from her past. Reflecting on it now, it makes sense why she was so distant and would only give herself in pieces at a time. It was almost like she subconsciously felt comfortable enough to open up, and then at the slightest thing, she returned to reality and shut herself down. I don’t blame her—I did something very similar to her. We all have our secrets, our demons that eat at us from the inside that no one can see. Every person has their own struggles.

  I want so badly to fix this, to bring Skylar out and away from this mess. I would change places with her in a heartbeat if I could. I want her to know that I see her, that she can take her mask off. I don’t expect anything from her, and if being her friend is all she wants, then I will be the best friend to her. Even if she wants nothing to do with me, I need her to know that I’m sorry, for all the things I’ve done, and for all the things the universe has put her through. Whatever version of me she needs, or wants, I’ll be that for her.

  Quinn shuffles in her seat and speaks low. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, why, what’s up?” I crinkle my nose and sniffle slightly.

  “We’re almost there, we’re almost home.”

  My eyes shift from the unconscious passengers to the landscape around us. Bright-green foliage overflowing along a dirt road, leading us toward the cabin.

  “How did you know how to get to the cabin?” I ask Sanchez.

  “I just paid attention.” His response unsettles me a little and I wonder what else he may have noticed or picked up on.

  A thought strikes me. “Wait, are we parking where you were parked before?”

  “Yes, why?” he queries, breaking his concentration only slightly to glance at me.

  Quinn looks to me, too.

  “How are they getting there?” I motion at our passengers.

  “We’ll have to carry them.”

  Greatttt. This should be fun.

  17

  Max

  After we park, we sit and brainstorm for a minute.

  Sanchez, rubbing his chin, says, “I can carry the man. You two can carry the woman.”

  “How are you going to carry the guy, he’s like, really big?” Quinn says.

  “It makes the most sense, and I think it’s the quickest option.”

  I shrug. “We could carry him, you could carry the lady. That would probably be the quickest option.”

  “You two would be slow with the man. I’ve had to carry men this size or maybe even larger in the past. I can handle it,” he insists.

&nbs
p; “Whatever we do, we really should hurry. I don’t know how long that sedative will last,” Quinn says.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Sanchez agrees.

  “Okay,” I say, conceding and going along with the plan, mainly because I desperately want to get back and see how everyone (Skylar) is doing. Now that the heavy guilt of Wiley’s unknown whereabouts has lifted, Skylar is all I can think about; it’s all-consuming. It’s probably not healthy, and it’s probably borderline insanity, but I have no control over the way I feel about her.

  We all throw our backpacks on and make our way to the rear of the SUV. Sanchez quickly, and with more ease than I expected, throws the deranged man over his shoulder. Sanchez grunts as he bends his knees and hoists the man into position, his arms dangling down Sanchez’s backside. Quinn and I both grab an ankle and pull the woman to the end of the trunk area.

  “Grab under her knees and walk that way,” I say.

  She follows my order, and I’m able to grip under the woman’s torso just at the right time, the weight of her body falling into our arms.

  Sanchez reaches over and pushes the button to lower the trunk lid and then fumbles in his pocket for a second, a chirp-chirp announcing the vehicle’s locked position.

  “This way,” he commands with a nod.

  Without a word, we follow.

  I realize I’ve made a mistake with how I’m holding the woman, so I say, “Hold on a second,” as I reposition her to be behind me. Now I can actually move forward and see where I’m going.

  We walk in silence for a small eternity, my mind focusing on the small sounds around us. Birds chirping to each other, insects buzzing, our feet breaking the occasional twig, our labored breaths with each step toward the cabin. Thanks to the cover of the trees, we’re not in direct sunlight, but it’s still warm, and it’s not long before a bead of sweat runs down my brow. My hands cramp, and I remind myself that we will be there soon.