by Andrew Post
“Mel-Mel,” he said. “It was just a bit of fun, you know? A game. You were it and now that you found me, I’m it.”
Mel didn’t say anything. She raised the tommy gun. He could feel the heat of its barrel on his nose.
“This is cheating, Melanie. If I’m it next, you’re supposed to give me a chance to go hide. You have to close your eyes and count to a hundred. That’s how we play this game.”
He slid a hand under himself, feeling for the revolver he had tucked back there in his pants, hoping the grace of Alice Eberhardt would work through him now, lend the forces of good to the gun that had taken her life and help her son out of this tight spot when he needed her assistance the most.
* * *
“That’s how we play this game,” he said. He looked pathetic in his cursed car, blood on his face, his burst eye dribbling down his cheek, talking about how this had just been a game – a game of tag, playing around, just a bit of foolin’. He thought he was sneaky, trying to distract her by talking as he, quite obviously, tried worming a hand behind his back.
She poked the shredded side of his face with the tommy gun. He shrieked and tried pulling away, and banged his head on the passenger door again.
“Do it then!” he screamed up at her. “If you’re going to do it, fucking do it. Get to it. End my miserable fucking life. Commit for once. Do it.”
Crunching snow. Mel turned and opened fire. Two of the party guests dropped.
And when she looked back down at Felix, he had the revolver drawn – smiling behind it, pleased with his luck. Mel tried throwing herself off the back of the car. Her leg caught. The engine revved. Snow and dirt were thrown. The car shot forward, stopped again. Mel was whipped back into the car, cracking her spine against the windshield frame. She backhanded Felix with her cast, slicing the other side of his face. He let go of the car’s shifter. But now positioned on a slope, Little Bastard began picking up momentum – the yard gave way to decline that sharpened as it went on, terminating at a line of broad, old trees.
Mel dislodged herself, abandoned the tommy gun, and fell off the back of the car. It kept going. She rolled a few times, braked herself in some brush. She rose up, watching the sleek silver sportscar careen down the hill, leaving the ground, pick up speed, back end coming up and slamming back down, guns and bags of blood sent skyward with each violent bounce. Felix’s painful shouts carried. A blind burst of gunfire from the car, hitting nothing. The car hit level land at the hill’s bottom and propelled by its inertia hurtled toward the tree line. With a cry of crushing metal, Little Bastard wrapped itself around an old sycamore. Felix launched forward, struck the windshield, then the tree, slamming shut the forward-compartment trunk as he crashed on top of it, broken and blind, powdery snow that’d been shaken free from the higher branches dusting him.
Mel let herself slide down the rest of the hill. Rocks and branches, she just went over them, felt them jab into her knee or her side, the pain not registering – she was already crowded with too many aches for any new ones to compete. She reached the bottom of the hill and limped toward the smoking wreckage. Felix’s blood dribbled off the sides of the car’s hood, hitting the snow, creating shallow red wells.
An ice chest lay on its side a few yards from the wreck, blood bags spilling out across the ground. She reached inside the car. Came back out with the tommy gun. She stepped to the hood. Felix was sitting up, his back against the tree that his prized possession had collided with. His face was hanging off in ribbons of torn skin. Black gaps in his cheese-colored teeth. And though both ruptured, his ruined eyes still shook in their sockets, looking like a pair of stomped grapes, the high of mondo the only thing keeping him alive at this point.
Blood and pieces of pulverized teeth dribbled from his mouth when he smiled. “Who says we don’t have fun?”
He lifted his arm, fired. Several feet off from where Mel was standing.
A shuffling of cloth, crunching snow. She turned. Merritt Plains, on his knees, the shape of his shotgun imprinted in the snow where he’d dropped it, both hands over his stomach. Surprise in his eyes. Hurt in his eyes.
“That guy’s got to see us,” Felix rasped. “He’ll stop.”
“Yes, he will.” Mel lifted the tommy gun. Pulled the trigger, held it. Felix’s head jostled and shimmied on his shoulders as what remained of his face was ripped away, then his skull eroded under the hail of bullets. The tommy gun clicked empty, brass casings melting the snow at her feet. Felix Eberhardt sat atop his crashed and bloodstained silver throne, his head whittled down to a steaming red stub.
Mel tossed the tommy gun aside and turned to begin the hobbling ascent back up the hill. When she reached Merritt Plains, he was still staring at Felix, tears running down his round cheeks, the front of his shirt turning red. Mel stopped next to him. Waited for him to do something. To pick up that shotgun and point it at her. To try standing up to tower over her and threaten her life again. He did neither. Only looked up at her and said, “But I found you. I found where you were hiding. I was supposed to win. I was supposed to be the winner this time.”
Mel left him there and started up the hill, littered with guns and more guns and phones and burst blood bags and loose money.
She followed the ruts in the snow back to the house. She went around the side, each step needing conscious thought to make it. Her back was screaming from hitting the windshield frame, her right shoulder was most likely dislocated, the cut on her side was still bleeding. She was exhausted beyond measure. And she was still tasting blood.
At the front of the house, several of the cars were gone. She watched a group of the partygoers pack themselves into a Bugatti Chiron and tear down the driveway, screech around the curve, and were gone. A redheaded girl sat on the front steps of the house crying into her pink-stained hands. A young man with no shirt on walked in circles, dazed, and bleeding freely from a bite in the side of his neck.
The Escalade with its pearlescent paintjob had apparently been left to run for quite some time. The tank was nearly empty. But it was warm. Mel backed it out of the fountain it was parked in. She checked her mirrors, put on her seat belt, made a three-point turn to get herself squared up with the open gate at the end of the driveway, and put her hands on the wheel at ten and two.
* * *
Merritt drove under the speed limit, in this car he had no idea who it belonged to, listening to whatever classic radio station he could find across Illinois then the better part of Wisconsin until he’d gotten back within range of the one he knew, the one he’d listen to going to and from work.
There were probably a lot of people out there who’d be surprised to know he was alive, people angry that he was still drawing breath. It’s going to take more than one little bullet to keep Merritt Plains down.
Jesus Christ. Things had gotten so out of hand. He’d let himself become an addict. He didn’t drink spirits, he’d never had a cigarette in his life, but he’d let himself develop a hankering for human blood? That was Felix. Well, that’d been Felix. Brenda was right. Around him, after enough prolonged exposure, you wouldn’t know which way was up. He’d let Felix trick him over and over again. None of it had ever meant anything. No love. No care. Money. That’s all it was about, the reason why anybody did anything. Merritt felt he should’ve known that by now, at his age. But he’d learn from this, apply his new wisdom to tomorrow.
He turned onto his street, feeling like it’d been years since he’d left. He slowed down to appreciate the twinkling lights, though it worried him if he looked for too long because his vision kept unfocusing and he felt like he might fall asleep behind the wheel. He didn’t think the bullet Felix had shot into him had struck anything vital, but it was still a gunshot wound. That and he could feel himself nearing a mondo crash. He was in bad shape, but at least he was almost home. Everything’s better when you’re home.
He passed the house where Sky
ler lived with his parents and though he did want to take a minute to observe him, see what Skyler got for Christmas maybe, he decided now was not the right time. He was bleeding quite badly and needed to get some rest. He’d need the energy to hash it out with Mom in the morning. So Merritt cut the wheel and pulled into his own driveway, the same way he had a thousand times before, albeit in a much less flashy car than this one. And he stopped there a moment, looking at the driveway, the same driveway where his father had taught him how to parallel park, before Merritt killed him. The same driveway where he and his brother used to play horse, before Merritt killed him too. That was the problem with going away: familiar places always seemed so much more haunted when you came back, the ghosts thickening.
Though it hurt him, he turned to look in the passenger seat. Then he adjusted the rearview mirror to look in the back, but found this car had no back seat. Nonetheless, he was alone. It felt more permanent this time. As if his brother and his father had stayed behind, finding that house full of dead people more appealing.
Merritt pushed open the car’s door. A quantity of his blood spilled out onto the ground, drawing in red on white what he thought looked a lot like a cat’s face. He couldn’t say how long he sat staring at this, what felt like a sign of some kind, some kind of message he was too weak and too tired to dissect. Screw it. I’ll figure it out tomorrow. I need to get to bed. He held in a scream unbending himself after the long drive and stumbled out of the uncomfortable sports car and went up to the side door of the house, grunting in pain and exhaustion, dizzy with the imminent mondo hangover and blood loss, the bullet in his belly not feeling so great either.
His key didn’t work.
His mother had made good on her promise and had the locks changed.
He used his elbow to break the window, and reached inside and unlocked the door, and let himself in. He’d explain everything in the morning. Tell his mother he was sorry, about everything. About his dad, about his brother, about all the others, about all the trouble Felix had gotten him into and now, the punctuation on the whole stupid mess was Felix shooting him too. But it was over now. Time for a fresh start. Just fall into bed, let this whole thing become tomorrow, and start anew. But maybe he should at least say hi to his mother, let her know it was him who was in the house not a burglar, not one of those homeless people he’d seen on the news that were going house to house stealing things.
He didn’t turn on a light because he knew his home like the back of his hand, but still nearly broke his goddamn neck when he tripped on something. There was a pile of boxes in the middle of the living room. He opened one and felt around inside, identifying the objects by feel.
An eight-track tape.
She’d boxed up his things. Boy, she knew how to get his goat all right. She’d really committed to the threat this time.
Merritt went to his mother’s door. It was open a crack. This was going to get addressed tonight. Even if it took them until dawn, this was going to get settled once and for all.
* * *
Across the street, all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even Skyler, who was asleep with the white noise machine going that his grandmother had given him for Christmas. He never heard the first popping sound or the second popping sound coming from the Plains house. He was asleep, dreaming about being in a snow-swept military installation, gunning down bad guys.
Chapter Seventeen
“Hey, Dani. It’s me again. I’m on a payphone and must’ve ran out of time before. One of the people I’m with now let me borrow a quarter. Could’ve been their last, but they still would’ve let me borrow it. That’s just the kind of people they are.
“So, yeah, I don’t know how much of what happened will end up on the news, but I just wanted to let you know that I’m okay. Well, maybe not doing great and clicking my heels over the whole goddamn thing, but I’m alive. That’s what I mean.
“The Escalade gave out on me before I could even get back to my building, which left me some time to walk for a while. I don’t know how often you get downtown on Christmas, but it’s so beautiful. There’s nobody around, the city has those snowflake lights up on every lamppost, every store’s closed, just the sound of the snow falling, it’s so peaceful. I didn’t think I would be able to appreciate something like that after, you know, having the experience I did, but I found myself having to stop a couple times just to take it all in. The untouched peace of it. I know that probably sounds corny.
“I ran into some people who were out, though. They said they’d just gotten done ‘making things square’. That’s how they put it. And, at first, I would’ve thought they were just looting on Christmas like a gang of Grinches, like something out of that movie The Warriors, but I don’t know, the longer I talked to them, the more it made sense why they were doing what they were doing. They invited me to where they live, to celebrate Christmas with them because I said I didn’t really have anywhere to be, nobody to go visit.
“They use what they took – okay, stole – to exchange gifts. They’ve gathered everything in one place, a spot for the time being the police don’t know about, and whatever you need – that’s the important part – you can just come and get. Purely on the honor system. It’s not about spending all this money on each other to prove that they love each other, it’s more gathering to stockpile for needs. Because everybody has them, everybody needs something.
“I can you hear you now. ‘It’s still theft, Melanie.’ And it is. It is. It absolutely is. But I think maybe this might rejigger some things. People have some things taken from them, see how those things are being applied to a more need-based instead of want-based situation. We could all do with having our perspective shifted once in a while. They could’ve done it in a less, you know, invasive smash-and-grab fashion, but I don’t think anyone would’ve paid attention. I mean, it’s not a new problem and we sure weren’t hearing them out before. Plus, a lot of these people needed those things. Maybe more than those who they took them from, maybe not. That is one argument. I’m not trying to justify this or make it easier for myself. What they took went to a good cause. Personally, I’m okay with that. I don’t think people should be punished for making a mistake if it helps makes something better. At least not harshly. Because it’s just a symptom of a bigger problem if situations like that can even come up in the first place.
“All right. Yes, I’m kind of talking about borrowing that money. Last time I left you a message, I explained all that, right? About how I used it to help Uncle Craig but then that whole insane thing happened with Felix. That shouldn’t be how it went down. There’s a problem there. People need things. People are sick, even if there is no hope to fix what’s wrong with them, they need to be warm and comfortable. It shouldn’t be about who owns what, who bought what. Nobody should own anything. Not things, certainly not people. But that’s what happens. We might not like to think of it like that, but that’s what money does. It’s little green tickets that say you belong to somebody else, that what you do in exchange for that money is physical evidence of their ownership of you, their power over you. And that’s bullshit.
“I hurt people, Dani. And I keep telling myself that it was self-defense, that if I didn’t do something they would’ve killed me, but I don’t know. I feel bad about it anyway. Maybe once I find another job, I might find a therapist. Problem is, I don’t know if you go in there and tell them that you, you know, were involved a situation that got called a massacre by the news if that whole patient/therapist confidentiality thing still holds up. Maybe I should turn myself in. I’m still deciding. I don’t want to end up like Brenda. Not how she died, though that was pretty rough too, but I mean how I approach living in a world with other people, how I see them. But if I feel guilty over what I did, that’s probably a good sign, right? That I still have a conscience.
“Listen. I’ve kind of gotten off topic with this, but my real point is you deserved somebody
who wasn’t going to lie to you. So if you want me to stop leaving you these messages, pick up one of these times and tell me. Because I will. But until then, I’m just going to assume you don’t mind them.
“That night, I tried going back to my apartment but there was a guy standing outside I didn’t like the look of. I was beat to hell and wasn’t really in the mood to be asking if he worked for Felix, and I decided I never really liked living in that place anyway. Rent’s too high, the elevator never fucking worked, nobody knew how to actually use the garbage chute.
“So I said fuck it, I’m spending the last few hours of Christmas with people who invited me to be there with them, who wanted me there. Again, not a guilt trip, nothing against you, I’m just telling my story, letting you know how it all went down and why, if you tried, you haven’t been able to get ahold of me and why my landlord, if you went to talk to him, said I wasn’t living there anymore and how I owe him back rent and I never came to get any of my shit. That said, I don’t regret it. I don’t need any of that. I’m safe, I’m nowhere anybody can find me, and I like it this way. I might come back to the world. I’ll need somebody to cut this cast off eventually. But until then, I don’t mind disappearing for a while.
“I hope you’re having a good New Year’s.
“Maybe you could pick up one of these times and we can talk. Maybe meet up somewhere, do this in person instead of me just leaving you these long-ass messages. Maybe we could catch a movie. It’d be great to see you. Even if it didn’t have to mean anything. Just you and me, meet up somewhere, and have one little innocent drink.”
Soundtrack