Dead Earth

by Demers, Matt

  “It took me the better part of a year, but finally bagged me some Oncologist. You wanna throw acid on us? You’ll fucking pay.”

  Orsol crouched for cover against the opposite wall. A doublewide doorframe separated them, its doors wedged open. One of the doors read: ICU.

  “He’s in the hall. Not sure which room,” Orsol said. Blood soaked his tie-dye along his chest and stomach. Orsol called out: “You’re all that’s left, Thrasher. The Airborne are all dead, Tweak, or MIA.”

  Thrasher blabbered back something about warrior spirits springing eternally.

  “Doc, you’re good right?” James asked.

  Orsol dabbed for wounds beneath his shirt.

  “Doc?”

  He turned and shook his head. “My liver.”

  “Tell me what you need.”

  Orsol scrunched his face into a chuckled grimace. “A transplant. Priority rush.” He shuffled to the side of the room to grab the Spas, which lay atop a ventilation monitor.

  James considered the cradled child in his arms. She had removed her contacts, but yellow no longer clouded them. They shone their natural green color.

  “She saved you, James. You were out for days and I thought you were done, but her blood is what you needed. Just a taste.”

  James felt her metallic life-giving blood on his tongue. Blood from the gunshot wounds.

  “Don’t fuck it up.” Orsol tossed the Bearcat. James caught it one-handed and laid Jade aside. He tried to stand. Too weak.

  With the Spas tucked beneath his armpit, Orsol took position on the opposite side again. The blood across his shirt now pooled down to his crotch, turning his cargo pants from grey to black. Red mittens of blood covered both hands up to the wrists.

  Thrasher’s boots squeaked from down the hall as he changed positions. “I blaze the way to far flung goals – behind, before, above my country’s enemy’s front lines,” he roared.

  A line of automatic fire cut across the doorway’s trim and along ICU’s ceiling tiles. White material snowed.

  “My goal — in peace or war — is to succeed in any mission of the day do or die, if needs be, in the try.”

  Rounds peppered drywall, blew a spectrometer, popped an IV bag. James felt Orsol eyeing him.

  “I am a trooper of the sky! I am my Nation’s best! In peace and war I will never fail, Anytime, Anyplace, Anywhere…I am Airborne!”

  Another burst chopped at the floor. Thrasher’s magazine clanked somewhere.

  Orsol planted the butt of the shotgun to his hip and leaned out. James risked a peek.

  The shotgun blast boomed through the corridor. The glass doors shook. Orsol pumped the action. A shell ejected from the extractor and clicked against the floor.

  “Hot damn!” Thrasher screamed. “Now that’s a boom-stick. What happened to the pocket pistol, Orsol?” The flash of Thrasher’s fatigues darted across the hall, but James got a good look at him. It wasn’t the Thrasher he remembered. This Thrasher’s face resembled hot wax, the pigmentation gone, patches of hair replaced by charred skin. Acid splashed indeed.

  “Behind the vending machine,” James warned Orsol.

  Thrasher darted back to the room he had come from. Another shotgun blast. The ceramic water fountain exploded and chimed across the floor. A moment later, Thrasher’s barrel poked defiantly from the room’s doorframe. James reeled back into cover just before another burst from Thrasher’s rifle fire splintered the molding only feet from where James sat.

  James reached in his vest’s magazine pouch for shells. “Orsol, here.” James tossed one. It tapped against Orsol’s shoulder and fell. Orsol stood frozen with his back against the wall, his legs supporting his weight like a kickstand. But Orsol only stared into the space of the ICU.

  “Orsol?”

  Orsol’s legs began to skid out. His body slid down the wall lifelessly, leaving a trail of blood as he went. The Spas fell from his grasp and bounced into the entryway, just beyond arm’s reach from James.

  “Hoo-ah!” Thrasher yelled.

  James scooted closer and grasped the fore grip. Thrasher sidestepped into the hall and strafed. Rounds popped shards of tile into James face. He slipped back into cover and pumped the Spas. A lightning bolt shot through his arm, or so it felt. The tube magazine, James realized, dimpled from a direct hit, rendering it useless.

  Thrasher continued incoherently about his disfigured face and payback for it. For a man who spent lifetimes alone with his mind in the dark, Thrasher could do nothing to scare James. No one could. Not anymore.

  James placed the Spas aside as he mulled over Jade’s half-closed eyes. He never agreed with people when they said the dead looked peaceful. He saw something neutral — an emptiness — that saddened others that saw it, not only for their loss, but the sharpened clarity of their own mortality.

  “The sight of you in the bedroom that day — that naked, sickly body of yours might haunt my dreams forever,” Thrasher acknowledged. “But I don’t have beef with you. So I’m giving you a chance not afforded to others.” Metal clapped as Thrasher loaded a fresh magazine. “You are trespassing on secured territory. Slide over your weapons, leave now, and I won’t cap you.”

  James thought about it and sighed. He grabbed the Spas and slid it down. He waited for Thrasher to grab it. He finally did.

  “You think you’re so smart, eh? Where’s that gun Orsol tossed?”

  James pulled Jade’s shirt to her navel. The 45 Special was there, tucked into the batman belt he’d given her that day in the gas station. James grabbed it, sank against the wall and gripped the Bearcat with the other hand.

  “I’ll count to five. You don’t surrender that gun and the deals off.”

  “You promise not to shoot?” James asked.

  “I swear on the Airborne Creed.”

  James slid the 45 Special down. It sounded hollow and light against the floor. Shards of broken mirror lay shattered at the foot of some large machine with knobs. He saw the corridor through the mirror. Thrasher’s head popped from cover for a moment. The plastic 45 Special lay less than four feet from him. To James, it looked ridiculously fake even from that far away.

  Come on, jarhead. Take the fucking bait.

  Thrasher finally went for it, but with far less urgency than before. He gave Thrasher two steps before James pivoted from cover. He unloaded the Bearcat from one knee. A round blew a pot light, another ricocheted off a pushcart. Thrasher took the toy and doubled back and cackled from behind cover. Missed.

  That’s it. I’m dead.

  James opened the gun cylinder to confirm it.

  Out.

  No more options. Except to watch the mirror and wait. The toy gun flew from 2H and nailed the fire bell above the vending machine with a ring.

  James’ death didn’t bother him. Not for the loss of his own life, anyway. A few shots to the sternum seemed complementary to the other possible outcomes that day. Jade, though — that bothered him. It felt wrong that a child sacrifice herself for someone much older. She died for nothing on top of that. James supposed Orsol did too.

  James heard shuffling from Thrasher’s position. With his cover now useless, James stuck his head out to get a clear look at his maker. Something slid along the wall. Thrasher fell from cover and spilled into the hallway with a thud. James kept his eye on the body until blood pooled out from it. James turned back to Jade.

  “If you got in, Jade… This floor ain’t secure.” James put her arms around her. By now, he felt strong enough to stand, but sudden movements jolted his body enough to take his breath away. He took his time until he heard the echo of boots pounding up the steps of the stairwell. More Tweaks.

  James remembered something about Orsol drawing power to an elevator. James figured ICU might have, better have an emergency one. He gritted his teeth and picked up the pace with Jade cradled in his arms. He made a left and saw the elevator, its digital readout lit. He placed Jade on a hospital bed and wheeled it forward. The elevator opened automatically.
He got in and pushed Ambulance Transfer.

  Leaving ICU took some of the heat off his back. James took his time, kept quiet, found a bottle of Percocet in triage. He searched the medic’s lounge, found saltines and ginger ale. He took the three sets of keys hanging from key hooks, wheeled the bed down the hall to the transfer exit. A barricade of desks, office and ambulance equipment had been pushed away from the exit already. Through the glass door, ambulances sat in a row beneath a pavilion. The evening air felt much cooler now, more suited for the time of year, but crisp and refreshing nonetheless.

  James tried the first ambulance, finding the right key on the second try. He loaded Jade in and drove fast, Frank Sinatra be damned.

  ***

  Finding gaps in the wreckage downtown had been a chore, and it certainly attracted attention, but this time he wasn’t visiting here.

  Jade was what he couldn’t manage. Her death really hit him once the road became highway, when the open space and relative safety gave his mind the freedom to think.

  On Saturdays, me and Daddy always go to the horseraces.

  He drove through the night, syphoning gas from cars along the road with a catheter line. When he reached Madison Heights, James steered for Monroe City Raceway instead of Hiram’s. He did a pass through the Shell Gas lot just before, wondering whether Tweaks or people emptied the place out. One of them did indeed.

  By the time James reached the industrial park, he had driven eight hours straight. During better times, before plethora’s of car wrecks and scrambling Tweaks, it would’ve taken fifty minutes.

  The highway curved, straightened out and the rolling hills with their decaying trees became visible in the distance. The thicker, healthier tree lines of pine lead him to Monroe City Raceway, where he drove as close to the track barriers as possible.

  Getting Jade and himself over the fencing took effort, but he chewed a Percocet as he carried on. A search in the stables turned up a shovel.

  “It’s a shame we can’t do this properly, with a priest and the whole Eulogy thing.” His words felt sterile compared to what he felt. His throat tickled, ready to hiccup tears any moment. Holding them off weighed heavy on his sternum.

  James picked the spot in the median, close to where they met. Three good shovels set his lungs on fire, but he rested no longer than necessary. The divot eventually became a pothole, the pothole a ditch. The paint-chipped bleachers played timekeeper, its shadow moving across the track as the sun fell and James worked. Just before the shadows succumbed to late dusk, James noticed a silhouette.

  A man sat motionless three rows from the top. James noticed the ominous outline, which, even from afar, took on a jagged, malnourished look.

  “Bettin’ on Snowflake, tonight?” James yelled dryly. “Heard her jockey gained twenty from a binge of double Big Macs and strawberry milkshakes.”

  The skeletal silhouette surrendered to the night. James stood motionless in the dark and waited. The bleachers creaked as the man descended. James heard the fence vibrate and the thump of foot against dirt. Two yellow cat eyes floated closer. His body came into view and appeared more skeletal with each step, but also more familiar.

  “You’re Gaffer’s brother-in-law, ain’t ya?” James asked. The Tweak’s cheekbones protruded so horribly it looked to obstruct his vision.

  “My…” The Tweak curled its lip trying to form words. It pointed a frail finger at Jade. “My girl,” it hissed.

  James had done them in — both his kids. He’d shot one in the atrium of Greenville’s aquatic center. The other, sacrificed her life after centuries and centuries and centuries in the Event Horizon, falling, suffering, and through even that — sometimes laughing.

  I’m glad my pain makes you happy.

  Of course it is, argued to himself. You flipped eggs down your own shirt. It was freaking hilarious.

  “I’m sorry,” James pleaded and now the tears came for both of them. To the Tweak father, his time sitting on the bleachers happened centuries ago. Now he looked down at Jade’s body, which lay curled into a fetal position. The Tweak’s tears dripped on her.

  “She…loved…this.” The Tweak held his arms and hands open, a preacher beholding sacred land.

  “I tried,” James began, but it only clenched its teeth and sneered at him. This one was nothing like Jade. Related — yes, but what James stared face to face with was your everyday rabid Tweak. Talkative yes, domesticated, no. It stared back. The yellow cloudiness swirled. Tweaks held out well against lack of nutrition. As bad as it looked, James guessed his own body felt far worse.

  “Are you going to kill me?” James asked it.

  The Tweak’s expression turned stoic, but the tears still streamed.

  “Yes,” it whispered, almost apologetically. The Tweak charged.

  James felt his body reel back. It felt just like that night in the lot, where he was charged and he slammed his head against gravel, and the Desert Eagle went flailing. The Tweak’s weight spiked his tailbone to the ground. James’ teeth gnashed from the impact, his still recovering spine devastated. He held the Tweaks by the wrist, but his strength already abandoned him. Too many digs. Body still recovering from Timmy. James gulped mouthfuls of air.

  His elbows lost the will to lock. His arms bent. The Tweak’s hungry mouth lowered ; its breath distinctively rotten from its body digesting its own fat and muscle. The teeth lowered for the kill.

  From behind it, one toned arm wrapped around the Tweaks neck in a rear choke. The Tweak’s eyes bulged with surprise as it clawed at the forearm. The arm pulled the Tweak away. They barreled end over end along the grass, until the Tweak lay belly up, the rescuer hidden from view beneath. James noticed his savior’s right arm. Yarns of flesh dangled from the elbow where the rest of his arm should have been.

  The Tweak’s flails became weak. The yellow glow of his eyes dissipated. Just enough sunlight remained for James to see Jade’s green eyes in her father. Its pupils dilated and its body fully relaxed.

  His rescuer released the death clutch and pushed the Tweak off. The first James noticed — the man’s bloodstained shirt. A phrase splayed across the front in fluorescent block letters — No problem, mon.

  Jesus.

  Gaffer staggered to his feet. His bottom jaw had been blown completely off, along with his arm. Now he stood with sad yellow eyes, a Tweak in pain many times over, with his arm and jaw probably the least of it. He lifted a shaky finger and pointed at the combat rifle in the grass. James picked it up. He sat the butt on his shoulder and aimed down the iron sights.

  His best friend stared into the earth and waited for the end. Each moment James hesitated, Gaffer lived years and years over, and James knew what that was like. When the end didn’t come, Gaffer looked into James eyes with wide, pleading yellowness.

  But it still didn’t come, because James couldn’t go through with it. Finally, Gaffer’s eyes narrowed. A gurgling click began in Gaffers throat, wet and fleshy. Even without a lower jaw, James recognized the anger in that sound. Just as Gaffer rushed forward, James pulled the trigger.

  Gaffer’s suffering ended.

  James’ suffering, on the other hand, would linger long after his body healed, he

  supposed.

  ***

  The Green River. James starred at it for what he hoped was the last time. The fishing boat Bondy and Thrasher had escaped in sat wedged between the breakers and a half submerged fridge.

  Well Ma, I survived. But the guilt along with it. Guilt for friends that died for me. Guilt for this dead earth. Its death gave me life.

  Earn it, Jade had said, but in his head, it sounded like his mother’s voice.

  Earn it, his mother repeated. For such a young child to say those words, it amazed James. But he supposed by then, Jade was eons and eons old.

  “Eons,” He said to himself. “Yet she brushed her pain aside to find you. To cure you. You’re cancer free, and unlike most everyone else — not dead. It’s time to stop bitchin’ and start earnin’.
”

  Two Tweaks saved him. Two, supposedly, messengers of Death. Jade and Gaffer — overriding Mother Nature herself.

  James dived in. He slapped the water like an amateur, but for a recovering cancer patient with a phobia, he did well and felt good. The river, with enough crap in it to catch fire, already showed signs of recovery — the smell of oil now faint, the river bottom’s algae now visible. Dead Earth was coming alive again.

  He climbed in the boat, found an orange hunter’s jacket, and swapped it for his soaking shirt. He opened the cap on the fuel tank — filled to the brim — and pulled the ripcord. The engine puttered to life.

  ***

  More fog rolled in. It followed James to the Hiram Walker shipping docks. He anchored, stepped onto the dock and walked to the receiving bay. He hit the buzzer and waited.

  The door flew open. Kovac smiled. Bandages still crisscrossed her arms, and one hugged the side of her neck, but at least now they weren’t seeped red. Kovac rushed at James and embraced him. He didn’t hug back.

  “Are you ok, James?”

  “Jade is dead. I told you to watch her.”

  A door slapped shut and echoed across the receiving floor. Bondy.

  “You lied to us,” Bondy yelled from the other end.

  “So? You let a little girl die because of it.”

  “She’s a goddamn Tweak, James. We let you feed the bitch. You’re lucky Kovac let her out before I got my hands on her.”

  “She knew exactly where you were, James. She said so.” Kovac whispered.

  “Yes, we talked about it. She wanted me to stay, yet she knew it was necessary.” James wondered if he felt good enough to take Bondy on. “She was different from the rest and you know it. The same way Father Thomas is different. Her blood would’ve saved lives. Cure it, even.”

  “We have a special place for Tweaks, James.” Bondy stopped in front of James. No sidearm. “Where she’d get all the pet food and mass she could want.”

  James heard enough. He leaned back and torqued his hips as his arm swung. It wasn’t a hard punch, but it swung true and hit Bondy where it counted — on his chin below the ear. He buckled and sank into a heap.