by Demers, Matt
Gaffer side-armed a pebble at the creek and it skipped the surface twice. “I know what you mean now; the thing you said to me before. That you almost saw it. Whatever it is, it’s coming at me from somewhere out there.”
Gaffer pointed east, at the distant factories beyond where Turkey Creek met Green River. “I can’t see what it is, but I will soon. And for that I’m scared. “
The shudder in Gaffer’s voice was terrible. James’ bottom lip tingled and he felt his eyes grow hot. Over the past year, they got themselves into plenty of near-death situations, but Gaffer never showed fear, never lost hope. Or at least never admitted to it.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” James offered.
“I know, but I’m outta buckshot and you ain’t using that .22 on me. You only got five, and one might not do me in.” Gaffer drew the Desert Eagle from his holster and examined it. “I figure whether this gun fires or blows to shrapnel, it’ll guarantee a quick kill — almost.”
Gaffer’s “No problem, mon!” t-shit taunted James again. They stood silently until Gaffer offered the Remington.
“Nah,” James responded. “Too heavy to travel with and I’m not confident I can find ammo. It’s just a 12-gauge paperweight, now.” He hoped his voice didn’t sound crackly to Gaffer. A wishful thought.
“You forget all that revenge bullshit. You here? Those Airborne boys were just savin’ their asses, as pitiful as it was.” Gaffer’s voice raised a notched. “You just get to John Hopkins and maybe find a few dumbasses to tag along. Tell ‘em there’s food there.”
James doubted anyone would volunteer to tour the downtown core on a hunch for lunch. “Then what? Say I actually make it. No friends, no family. Just a guy with tumors and a gun.”
“You come back here and grab that boat the Airborne boys left on Belle Isle.” Gaffer pointed across the river again. “Fuck your fear of water. It’s been, what? Ten years since it happened? Just take that boat to Crystal Bay. Start over. Look for a cure. Somethin’ we should’ve done months ago.” Gaffer took out a roll of paper — the health update emails James had begun sending months before the Escalation. “Take it. Read it. Remember what you’ve been through, why you gave up on us.”
James felt a sudden thud of guilt. Here they were, talking about his purpose in life while Gaffer held the gun that would guarantee-a-quick-kill-almost. And if James wasn’t such a pansy, they might be sunning themselves on a boat deck in the Boblo harbor disease-free. Double guilt.
James threw his gear in the canoe, pushed it down the slope and jumped in. They didn’t shake hands or admit how much their friendship had meant. How they felt like brothas from different mothas. And James didn’t dare begin to cry until safely out of earshot. As he paddled, James wondered if one day he would regret a rightful send-off. But for now that’s all they could muster, because some things are best left alone, they knew. That was why they made good friends.
#
CHAPTER 6
Beyond the Wire
Beyond The Wire there is stillness, but beneath that stillness carries a heavy form of dread...
James chewed a painkiller. The pain had taken a first row seat, now. Not just from the gash on the head, though that hurt too. Most of the pain came from deep inside. It squeezed his bones into ribbons. He would do as Gaffer had said — read the emails, because Gaffer always knew when James was in a funk; when James was inappropriately feeling sorry for himself, which he was. The emails would remind James what he’d been through. That he could truly take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.
He unrolled the first page of emails with barred teeth…
Buy the ticket, take the ride…
From James on May 4, 7:51 AM
I am doing this for my friends and family (who live all over). If this is how you have found out, I am sorry…
From the moment I walked into his office, I knew something was up. The doctor wouldn’t look me in the eye. I saw a spine x-ray on the bulletin and asked if it was mine. He said yes.
My spine was covered in dark polka dots. “Timmies” he called them. Nice guy. Bad speech impediment.
(What this means…)
I have relapsed. Again.
Doing more conventional treatment is pointless. The last round of chemo caused necrosis of part of my lung, and the doctors didn’t even know it before I literally coughed up dead, chunks of it (the smell was like strong cheese and rotted meat). Did you ever think coughing up a lung was doable? The more you know…
My oncologist is looking into phase 1 trials (immunotherapy). I’ll keep you updated on that.
You don’t look sick
From James on May 8, 2011 7:46 AM
Everyone says it: you don’t look sick. The fact is, you don’t see me on days when I am my worst. Days like today where Timmy is snuggling up to my sciatic nerve.
Another thing. If you say to a dying person “If you need anything, just ask,” don’t assume I won’t. Cause I did ask but my motherfucking prescription has run out AND OXYCOTIN WITHDRAWAL IS HORRIBLE! AND PLUS I’M IN PAIN!
Update: 7:00 PM
Knew this was good for something. Got pills, feeling better. Red Lobster then Lethal Weapon marathon on cable.
Update 9:30PM
My lobster eating days are over. It is the little things that get to you the most. Palliative care recommends reducing the amount of painkillers to improve my digestive tract. Fat chance!
Cautiously hopeful
From James on May 30, 2:51 AM
Can’t sleep.
Usually I would think this is a bunch of overoptimistic BS, but my specialists are never one to beat around the bush. So when he became ecstatic about getting me into this radical new immunotherapy trial that all the cancer folks are raving about, I can’t help but feel a little upbeat. Side effects are minimal and my eyebrows won’t fall off again.
Also the palliative care team have my painkillers evened out so the pain is okay for now. Plus the side effects from the last round of treatments have improved. Today’s a good day.
The catch?!
Phase one trials have not been tested on people really. Short and long term side effects are unknown. Hell, they could give me a pill and I could wake up the next morning with breasts. I’d spend more time in the bathroom if that happened! Not just throwing up either.
OH FUCK!
From James on June 12, 2011 8:50 AM
Had a nightmare about the trials. What if those cocksuckers give me a placebo?! They do that in studies I think.
Update: 4:00PM…
Nurse from the office finally called back. Says the clinical trials ain’t using placebos. Good.
Another plus is I don’t have to leave Greenville. These trials have begun all over the US and abroad which includes the John Hopkins hospital in downtown Monroe City (just 30 clicks away).
Nice!
Strange facts about cancer only patients know
From James on July 21, 7:59 AM
Fact 1: When your hair grows back it might be totally different. After the first round of chemo, my hair grew back curly and smooth. After round two, back to coarse and straight.
Fact 2: Chemo farts.
Fact 3: Cancer pain comes in cycles. It’s throbbing, shooting, stabbing, and aching. There’s nothing else like it.
Fact 4: Possible side effect of radiation treatment…CANCER!
Fact 5: Men who have never married are 35% more likely to die from cancer (Why didn’t anyone tell me?)
Fact 6: The chemo also makes your nose hairless, leaving you like a toddler with a semi-permanent runny nose.
Fact 7: All that radiation damages your nerve endings. Half the time I can’t pick anything remotely cold or warm up without a pair of gloves. Last night’s freak drop in temperature literally took my breath away. Hope it’s temporary.
You are so brave.
From James on August 2, 4:22 PM
People tell me this all the time. What are they are talking about? It doesn’t take co
urage to have cancer. And it doesn’t take courage to go through treatment. If I don’t, I’ll die. Faster.
So if you are told to either:
1. Receive gamma knife radiation, which will extend your life for about two months, which might result in fatigue, vision loss, nausea and swelling of the brain.
2. Do nothing and die within weeks.
Which one would you choose? If you are one of those to opt for whole foods, yoga and vitamin c supplements instead, YOU ARE the brave one. Not to mention suicidal.
The fact is every new pain that I get, I wonder if it will be the one that does me in. For the people that see my nonchalant attitude about things this might come as a shocker:
I’m not ready. I don’t want to die and 35 is too young.
Just glad Mom isn’t here to see this. A single parent seeing an only child die (from what people tell me) is irrecoverable?. Would it make it easier because I am adopted?
***
James flipped to the second last page. This one wasn’t like the others. It was hopeful, upbeat. It detailed a sudden breakthrough cure that the folks at John Hopkins were incredibly anxious to try. This was his goal now — to get that cure.
But John Hopkins was along the main strip in downtown Monroe. With what he had now — a few .22s and a handful of carbon arrows — he wouldn’t last a minute. That’s where Hiram Walker’s came in. They had to have munitions.
And maybe they would feel bad for him, the folks at Hiram’s. “You look sickly; we’ll tag along,” they might say. Even so, James wouldn’t, couldn’t let them risk their lives for him. Even if the “cure” really worked.
***
You are going to do what?!
From James on September 2, 1:22 PM Got the details on the guinea pig treatment. They are going to inject me with the AIDS virus. No joke. They have modified it to attack Timmy and his friends. Orton sends me this study. Looks like it worked for rats. Check out the article:
Injecting HIV to cure cancer: Shrinkage of stage 4 Chronic Lymphomatic Leukemia with Genetically retargeted Human Immunodeficiency Virus
Carpenito C, Milone MC, Hassan R, Simonet JC
Abstract
Xenographs on mice showed complete remission of cancerous tissue when injected with a reengineered form of HIV — Anticarcinogenic Immunotherapy Virus. AIV T-Cells did not only prove to be anti-leukemic, but also harmed less non-cancerous tissue than even the mildest doses of radiation or chemotherapy.
Astonishingly, the International AIDS Vaccine Initiative expects promising results next month when AIV is used to treat late stage AIDS patients.
(How about them apples?!)
I’m too thin!
From James on October 18, 3:51 AM
This is a postdated entry. By the time you read this, it’s already been done.
Got some bad news last week. Phase one treatment is out. Orton says they shut it down. Too many side effects. What kind of bullshit is that?! What about my side effects?! From the cancer that will now inevitably kill me?!
I’m taking control of this shit before the symptoms gets out of hand. My back is killing me, and the constipation from all the painkillers is literally gut wrenching. It is time to OD. I have enough supply to get it done and if I do it right it will not hurt.
Don’t feel bad. I’m going on my terms. I’m sorry to my cousins and aunts and uncles. I’m sorry to my mom and dad who — if they are watching — would want me to fight on. I’m sorry to my best friend Frank Gaffer who I can’t get a hold of. I know you sent your niece to drop off meds, but I won’t be around to answer the door. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience for her.
Peace and love,
James.
P.S. Fuck you Timmy.
***
James winced along with the pain of his body and his nerve-damaged skin. Flat highway ran past a rusted sign that read “Come Back to Greenville soon: Hometown of America’s largest Matisse!” Tall weeds reached upward between cracks of highway. Vehicles peppered the roadside and soaked along the ditch. Dead pine — old and diseased, freckled the hills beyond.
A few rogue Tweaks hobbled along, drunk from hunger. James calmly drew a carbon arrow and loosed it as they came in range. As long as his shots killed on impact, he could lay them out this way ad infinium. Just retrieve the arrow and go again. But an upset Tweak almost always bent the shaft if it survived to try and remove it. Carbon shafts, once crooked, could not be straightened without the proper tools. So, kill shots only. No groin shots.
James fired his bow and the arrow sung. It pierced a Tweak through the chest. James walked over the twitching carcass and yanked it out, careful not to snag the ribcage.
Gaffer often spoke of pockets of survivors out here. Some travelled in groups and scavenged towns for supplies. Others hunkered down in police stations, apartment buildings or bomb shelters — this was where Gaffer delivered the majority of his packages. They would radio a request over a CB, or he’d hear from a passerby that Town A needed a back hoe to build a defensive trench in Town B.
One thing Gaffer never found — survivors in the same place twice, unless he counted their skeletons , which he found, once the food ran out, flesh picked clean off the bone. He’d fetch whatever they needed fast enough not only for A-1 service sake, but also because if he waited too long, the Tweaks would beat him there. Nevertheless, fast or not, repeat customers were few and far between in this Brave New World.
It’s like a damn ocean out there. You’re just a lifeboat, looking for a buoy when the water’s calm, Gaffer had described. Except it’s never calm. Gaffer was sure of that.
After a courier run to Madison Heights, he told James:
Fire your weapon outside The Wire? Might as well baste in hot sauce and carry a sign marked “Here’s Dinner!” And even if your gun stays holstered and you creep quiet, you better believe one of them’s watching. Even in daylight. They’ll come crawlin’ out of the woodwork and run twice as fast on half the food. So you sleep on rotation and you sleep in the open, so if they do come shrieking at you through the fields, you’ll seem ‘em comin’.
Far in the distance behind him, the Desert Eagle’s gun-blast rumbled, like an idling transport truck revving in the clouds. James turned and saluted in Greenville’s direction. He hoped the gun had done its job and ended it quickly, instead of exploding like Gaffer thought it might, shrapnel tearing through Gaffer’s body for a slow bleed-out.
James made good distance until noon, all considering. Yet soon the sun cooked the uncovered gash and made it throb in tandem with his heartbeat. He unpacked his parka, hung the hood over his head and let it drape over his rucksack like a cape.
The hood helped for an hour, but soon it hurt regardless. At each step, it felt like the gash split an inch. He dabbed it with his index finger to confirm it hadn’t.
“Fuck it,” James grumbled and snatched the Tylenol 3’s from his pouch. He popped two and chewed them dry. Their bitter chalkiness sharpened his focus. So much for rationing.
By the time the sky streaked with light pinks and dark purples, James knew strong Tylenol wouldn’t fit the bill anymore. His head, the cancer, and soon the big double-u — withdrawals — would rear its head. He’d had a year of triple-dosing on the heavy-duty stuff strong enough to turn bowels into knots. Oxycodone and Percocet and morphine oh my. Tylenol 3’s hardly stood against the tyranny of the Big Three.
The John Hopkins folks warned him about “discontinuation syndrome” more than once. Something one of his specialists identified with beyond just text from medical journals. Orton suffered debilitating back pain for years, even broke the golden rule to never self-prescribe.
The best way to describe withdrawal, the specialist warned, is like tumbling in a dryer of razor blades. For the first few days, you’ll have a permanent scowl, and you’ll hate everyone that’s not your pharmacist.
“What if withdrawal is tag-teaming your insides with bone metastasis?” James asked the weed-strewn road. “What wo
uld that feel like?”
James spewed hot bile over the pavement then took a sip from his canteen. If he moved the wrong way, bolts of electricity cobwebbed through his neck and down his arms. James slowed to a shuffle; the Tylenol bottled rattled in cadence, beckoning. He popped the last capsule and let the empty bottle drop to the pavement.
Dusk deepened. A sprawling piece of property stood to James’ right — Monroe City Raceway — a horse track long past its prime, apocalypse notwithstanding. James dragged through the parking lot, past the paint-chipped bleachers, over the guardrails, and across the track. He stopped in the grass median, dropped his rucksack and unrolled his sleeping bag.
He looked back at the empty highway. A line of pink light sank below the treetops. He watched the night race across the parking lot, eating the earth in its shadow, heading straight for James and the forest beyond. James drank the moment of relative respite because it wasn’t just the night that sought him, but something kept dormant from the painkillers.
***
He dreamt of Greenville’s autumn leaves. He was standing on Will Heller’s balcony on the second floor. The leaves lay black and grey over the lawn of Riverside Apartments, cheated of their color by the power plants and factories along the Monroe City side of the river. A barge drifted aimlessly upstream, passing wind turbines and concrete buildings.
“Switching to the cheap stuff?” James asked Will.
This wasn’t just a dream, but a memory too — just a few days before everything went to shit — Escalation Day minus two or so. He couldn’t remember exactly.