by Sean Deville
“No. Let’s just give it some time and see if it wears off. The ride will end. It always does,” she said.
“And you’re always there to bring him back. Nurse him to health.”
“I try,” she said.
“He listens to you. If you told him to go with us, do you think he would?”
“Not happening. And he doesn’t always do what I say. When I tried to get close, he went for me,” Marie said. She was relaxing a little, and had lowered the rifle so it pointed at his kneecaps.
“Who did he get the ride from?” Don asked, assuming that to be his line of investigation going forward.
Marie’s face twisted. “That loser Teapot on 45th Avenue. He stands on the bridge that goes over the Blue Lagoon, right in front of the cops. They don’t do nothin.”
“How long has he been copping from him?”
“Shoot… those two fools go way back.”
“Any reason Teapot might want to hurt Phil?”
“None that I know of. Phil always paid cash, so I can’t imagine what the problem would’ve been.”
Don could imagine many possible problems. Phil’s last batch of ride might not have taken him anywhere, or perhaps it took him some place he didn’t want to go. Or maybe he was shorted a pill, or Teapot didn’t give him back the proper change. With drug deals, there were an infinite number of things that could go wrong.
“Do you know where Teapot lives?”
Marie jerked back, and her lemon lips returned. “Why would I know where that dirtbag lives?” She looked over at her husband and frowned. Drool dripped across his swollen chin, and his face undulated like tiny worms were burrowing beneath his skin.
Don glanced at his watch, and Marie noticed. “What now?” she asked.
He didn’t want to answer her because she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. The two of them stared at each other, hoping something would give, and when the bullhorn outside started issuing ultimatums, Marie vaulted from her chair. “You said you’d help keep the cops away.”
Don closed the distance between them, trying not to look at Marie’s gun. “Help me work through this.”
Marie scowled, lifting the gun as Don moved for the weapon.
Phil sprang, jaws snapping, arms reaching out to tackle Don, who dodged, letting Phil crash into the entertainment center. The old pressboard unit teetered, the heavy tube TV toppling the cabinet and its years of accumulated crap down onto Phil.
Don went for Marie but was met with the point of a gun. Marie sucked her teeth and gave Don a look that would have wilted fresh lettuce. She trained the rifle on his head.
Don dropped to the floor and pulled his gun.
He swung the Glock forward, only to have the Phil-thing clamp its bloody hand around his wrist. He got tossed across the room, the gun flying from his grasp as he hit the glass doors enclosing the fireplace, shattering them. Blood trickled from a cut on his cheek, and suddenly Don was very aware of the open wound, no matter its size.
Bleeding in front of monsters could be a very bad thing.
He backed against the wall and looked for his gun, which lay in the rubble of the entertainment center. His belt buckle was a small throwing knife, but that was the only remaining weapon. Footsteps echoed on the porch outside, and the bullhorn issued one last warning. They would break down the door with a battering ram in sixty seconds.
“Go,” Marie said, as she pointed the rifle toward the door.
Don’s mind swam, and for an instant, he thought he might leave. Who said he had to put his ass on the line every time?
The cops would blow Phil apart, and before he and his crew could get control of the situation, countless officers and emergency workers would be exposed to an anomaly they knew nothing about.
Don dove for Marie, trying to draw Phil in.
Phil caught Don in the head with an elbow as he flew passed, and Don crashed into the pile of entertainment center rubble. His Glock lay right next to him, and he grabbed it.
“Enough!” It was Marie. Phil snarled at her, and she pivoted her rifle towards him, and then back at Don, and back to Phil again. Tears streamed down her face, leaving dark mascara trails.
When Phil went for Don again, she shot him.
The rifle blast caught Phil in the arm and spun him around. He went down then, taking bookshelves with him. The police were pounding on the door with their ram, and in seconds, they would be through. Don scurried across the room to where Phil lay, and when he arrived, he stopped short, his mouth hanging open.
Phil’s eyes were clearing, the blood draining away like dirt down a sewer. He looked bewildered, and when he saw Don, he said, “Who are you?”
The door broke open, and Don’s men came in before the local SWAT team. “You okay, Boss?”
Don didn’t have time for that. He positioned himself between Phil and the police, shielding him. “Hold your fire.” The cops were in full body armor, their identities hidden behind tinted face shields. They poured through the door showing no signs of halting. “I will shoot the man who fires his weapon.”
One by one, the officers lowered their guns when they saw a middle-aged man in torn clothes staring up at them, his eyes glassy, eyebrows furrowed. Phil’s natural color was returning, his face smooth. The gunshot leaked blood down his arm, but he didn’t appear to notice. Dark bags hung under his eyes, and thin white lines ran across his face where the blood vessels had pushed against tightened skin.
“Why are you all here?” Phil asked.
“You don’t remember anything?” Don said. His men were clearing the room, and the locals retreated.
“No. I dozed off, then… you woke me?” He hadn’t seen Marie yet. She lay on the couch. She’d fainted. As if reading his mind, Phil asked, “Where’s Marie?”
“Here,” she said.
When Phil saw her, his features softened.
“You’re awake,” she said, and went to him.
Awake is available from Amazon here!