by James Bee
The third room was large, the biggest that he’d been in so far. Must have been used for conferences or something, he thought, though Jason had only seen them in TV and the movies. Though this one was lacking any desks, only more boxes. Where the other room had shown evidence of a hasty search, this room bore witness to pure desperation. Cardboard had been tossed everywhere, torn apart and discarded. It was chaos. Yet the longer Jason looked, the more be began to notice something. A pattern of sorts. Only half the room has been searched. The next door is also closed. Is this as far as Hank made it?
Stepping gingerly, Jason scanned the room again. Hardly any of the floor could be seen beneath the piles of cardboard and what had been spilled out from inside them. Yet there were still a few piles that would be big enough for Hank to hide under. A small voice in the back of Jason’s mind whispered that Hank wouldn’t be hiding. It whispered the real reason that he would be on the floor. Jason ignored it. They’d been going without sleep for too long. Maybe he was resting? Could be all the pills he’d been taking had made him pass out. Certainly the booze and the blood loss were starting to wear Jason down. His brain was growing sluggish and his eyelids heavy. It wouldn’t be too long before he had to stop, sit down, and rest.
Jason walked into the room, cardboard slippery beneath his feet. Each step he took felt wrong, that he was moving slow when he should have been rushing. Hurrying to find his friend. But he didn’t. There didn’t seem to be any reason to. It’s too late. The first pile was empty underneath, but the second wasn’t. As Jason stepped toward it, his foot hit something hard. Stooping, he snatched it and held it in front of his face.
The gun! It was the same weapon Hank had taken off the policeman. He’d never leave this behind, Jason mused, examining it. The gun was cold, though why wouldn’t it be? He hadn’t heard any gunshots. Slipping the pistol into his waistband, Jason stepped forward and pulled the rest of the cardboard aside.
Hank was huddled underneath it. He looked asleep, and Jason would have been able to fool himself that this was the case if not for the blood that had leaked out and pooled underneath the older man. Numb, Jason knelt down beside his last and best friend. The man who’d taken him under his wing, shown him that there was another way, a chance at a better life. How many hours had they spent together? Picking fruit, hanging out, shooting the shit. He’d been good to Jason, better than anyone had in a long time. And he’d failed him. He’d left Hank alone, abandoned. He’d suspected him to the end, despite everything. He’d allowed it to push them apart, and because of it, Hank had died alone. Or had he?
The thought slowly washed through Jason’s brain, like coffee through a filter. As softly as he could manage, he brushed the last of the cardboard off of Hank. Three gunshots. He said to check him for them. One in the arm, one in the spine, and one in the heart. Jason lifted Hank up so that he was slumped in a seated position. He weighed less than he should have, as though he was diminished somehow. With no small amount of difficulty, he managed to slip Hank’s jacket off him. Underneath, his friend was only wearing a light undershirt. Immediately, Jason found what he was looking for. On Hank’s left arm there was a small wound. Jason’d seen enough gunshot wounds to recognize one. Pulling Hank’s shirt up, he saw the next one. Under the blood and the matted hair, another wound, right over his heart. Scalp tingling with anticipation, he gently rolled Hank over. His spine. The third bullet hole was where Hank said it would be.
Jason sat back, stunned. What did this mean? How could it have happened? There hadn’t been any gunshots. He would have heard them. Who shot him? Did Hank do it himself? It didn’t seem likely. It would be impossible. Once he shot himself in the spine, he’d collapse. Wouldn’t be able to finish it. If not Hank … then someone else must have. Which would mean we were wrong. That someone else has been in here this whole time. Jason shook his head slowly back and forth. No way. It wouldn’t make sense. They would have had to be in the perfect place and the perfect time in order to off everyone like they did. To do it without any of us seeing or finding them. We searched everywhere. How could they have been up here without us knowing? The door is locked, no one could get in. But if there isn’t someone else, then what? Could Mac really be right? What if he wasn’t talking crazy? Is it our ghosts? Our past catching us up and getting revenge?
Jason stood up suddenly. The urge to escape the room was too strong for him to resist. To put some space between himself and the corpse. Stumbling and slipping over cardboard, he walked back the way he came. He knew that forging ahead and checking the other rooms was the smart thing to do, but he wasn’t feeling like doing the smart thing anymore. One swig, and he finished the last of the booze. He flung it to the side, and the bottle smashed on the wall behind him. He was alone, and he was drunk, alone save for the voices in his head, growing louder again. Perhaps death gave them strength, inflamed their fury. Jason didn’t care. He wasn’t listening. They’d led Stu and Mac to their deaths, most likely Hank as well. He wasn’t going to give in. He wasn’t going to give them what they wanted. And Jason knew what they wanted now.
They want me dead. They want me to remember. Remember that night, remember what I did. I told everyone that I was too drunk. That everything was a blur. That nothing remained in my head of that night. It’s not true. I do remember. I remember his face. I remember the way it felt when I hit him. When I put him down. The sound when his head hit the concrete. The memory flooded back, swamping him. Jason swayed and had to lean against the wall for support. The smell of puke and beer on the floor, the whiskey burn in his throat from the shot he’d slammed moments before, and the man standing in front of him, fists in the air. Little more than a kid, really. Drunk as all hell, just like him. All he probably wanted was to get drunk, get in a fight, maybe pick someone up and go home. He didn’t ask for what he got, what Jason gave him. How could the kid know that he’d had the steel knuckles hidden in his hand? It’d taken hours and hours and hours of practice to flick it over so that it covered his hand without anyone seeing. He’d always kept it in his pocket, never used it. Why was that night different? What would his life have been like if he’d just kept it hidden like all the other times? Would he be here now?
The guilt was starting to overwhelm him, rising up in his throat like bile, choking and painful. It had been years, decades, since he felt this way. The first nights in jail, after he’d sobered up, after they’d told him what he did. Once the realization filtered in. He’d killed someone. Someone’s son, brother, was gone because of him and his need for violence. For his itchy knuckles. It hadn’t been hard to push the blame away, to bury the guilt deep inside of him, as deep as he could. The excuses were always there for him, easy and accessible. He’d been drunk, he hadn’t meant to, he hadn’t started the fight, it was just bad luck. That was what he’d told himself every night, just so he could sleep. Eventually it had become the truth, and he’d believed it. Only now the lie had worn thin. The voices were whispering the words, though he’d tried to block them out. Whispering that he was a murderer, that he’d killed and he’d liked it. That he was just like Hank and Mac. Worse, maybe. They’d meant to take the lives that they did. He was just sloppy, an angry young man looking to fill the pain inside of him with blood.
Jason collapsed down the wall onto a pile of empty cardboard boxes. Why keep going? Why bother trying to get up? What would it accomplish? He was going to die here, and maybe that was okay. Maybe that was what it should be. Second chances weren’t for people like him. Hell, this was more like his tenth chance anyway. Maybe I should just sit here and wait. Wait for the police or whatever killed Hank and the others to get to me too. Jason’s hand slid out to support him and bumped into something cold and hard. Grasping it, he held it in front of his face. It was a bottle, identical to the one he’d smashed the moments ago. Except it was full. Unscrewing the lid, he let the odor waft into his nostrils. Whiskey. Jason stared at the bottle, trying to think through the voices and the alcohol haze. Where did it come from? Was so
meone leaving these around for him to find? First the one in his room and now this. Bottles didn’t just appear. Yet this one had. Should he drink it? It could be laced with something. There could be poison or a drug to make him hallucinate.
All these misgivings were driven away by the smell and the hunger for it. Jason put the bottle to his mouth and drank deep. Alone, drunk, sitting in a pile of cardboard waiting for death. That’s how I’m going to go? But what else can I do? It doesn’t look like there is a way out. Once the police break it, it’s over. I can’t fight them. I won’t fight them. No one else is going to get hurt because of me.
The pain in his side caused Jason to shift uncomfortably. The alcohol was helping to dull it, but it was still an uncomfortable reminder of how his time was running out. What’s going to get me first? The gunshot, the police, or the ghosts? Jason sputtered a laugh before slowly, painfully rising to his feet. As appealing as just sitting and waiting for the end was, he decided to make a go of it, at least. For Hank and the others.
31
Chapter 31
I wonder what they’ll say when all of this is over? What will the headline of the news report be? Jason thought idly as he stumbled through a doorway into yet another box-filled room. Who will the blame fall on? What will the official report find? Shit, I lived through it, and I still have no idea what happened. Might be better if I don’t make it out. That way I won’t have to explain all of this shit. ‘No, Your Honor, I swear it wasn’t me. It was demons from the past, drawn by their guilt. They shot Hank. They ripped Mac’s stomach open, they buried Stu’s cleaver in his head. I’m innocent, though. Wasn’t me. Jason snorted and took another swig. Most likely it would all get blamed on him, if he survived. Hank’s death, at least. He was the only one up here with him, and there was no way that Hank could have shot himself, not like that. Not to mention that he’d gone and picked up the gun and gotten his DNA all over it. They’d say he killed him. His best friend. Shot him down. Would they put the pieces together, like he had? Would they notice where Hank had been shot, the exact placement of the bullets? What would they make of Billy’s body? All mangled and torn apart?
What does all of it matter? Doubt I’ll be here to find out about it, hear their accusations and defend myself. Either the police will get me or the … others will. Jason knew what the rest had been feeling, what had driven Stu and Mac mad. It had its claws deep in him as well. The feeling that something was out there, that something was coming for him. A specter standing in his path, no matter where he walked. It was like eyeing someone in a crowded bar, like he’d done so many times in his youth. You’d see each other across the room, and you’d know. No words would be needed, no jawing or posturing; you just knew that there would be a fight. Only that thought used to bring him joy, excitement, and anticipation. He’d slam shots and beers and wait. Now it was different. Something had changed. The fight was coming, that was beyond doubt. This time, though, he didn’t think he could win.
Another pull from the bottle slid down his throat. Last one, he told himself, though he knew it was a lie. It was out of his power the moment the first sip touched his lips. Self-control was gone, his inhibitions and disciplines eroded and washed away by the flood of whiskey. A small voice was telling him that if he didn’t stop soon, he’d be done, incapacitated. Jason ignored it. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. He wouldn’t have to face whatever it was that was chasing him.
Yet he didn’t feel like he was in danger of collapse. The booze wasn’t affecting him as much as it should. Why hadn’t his tolerance gone down? He hadn’t had a drink in over a year. He should be puking his guts out all over the boxes, but he wasn’t. It was as if he’d not ever taken a day off, like he was twenty-four again, able to down two bottles a day and still fight at the end of the night. He could function, and function well, while drinking enough to hospitalize a small man.
Jason’s foot hit a box as he stepped forward, and he crashed down, landing heavily on his wounded side. The air crashed out of him as white-hot pain lanced down his body. The bottle slipped out of his hand and rolled away. Shit. That’s about done it then, Jason thought, lying unmoving. Getting back up seemed impossible, futile. Why bother? There was no way out, and only death and danger were waiting for him. He was drunk and had a gunshot wound that was slowly bleeding him dry. Why keep going? Why not just give up? Just lie here and wait for whatever was going to happen. He could find out who wanted to put an end to him more — the police or the ghost. Either way, it didn’t matter to him. It would be over, this ordeal. He was out of friends. There was no one else for him to watch die, to watch their dreams crumble into dust. Now there was only him. And he’d let go of his own dreams a long time ago. Hank had believed, really believed that they would be able to make it out, carve out a new life for themselves.
But had he? Or had he just gone along for his friends’ sake? Worked the job, gone to the meetings, done the programs with Mia. Had he ever really believed? That in a couple years time his life would be different. Maybe he’d be living in a quiet suburb somewhere, waking up in the morning, going to work. A woman to come home to. Now, lying on the floor drunk and bleeding, it seemed impossible, like a fairy tale. Something that never could have been real. Even if all of this shit hadn’t happened. The old Jason would have surfaced on his own, in time. Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe it could have happened. No harm in holding on to a nice dream, a pleasant thought. Good intentions don’t always lead to good results. No one can say we didn’t try. We might have failed, hell, for all I know we just killed each other. That’s what everyone will say. They couldn’t be rehabilitated, it doesn’t work. But I’ll know what happened here. I’ll remember, for as long as I live.
A sudden banging from behind him reminded Jason that his memory might not have to stretch very far.
32
Chapter 32
Weaving unsteadily, Jason hurried back through the rooms that he and Hank had first passed through. The banging was becoming more insistent, echoing painfully loud. Stepping through an open doorway, Jason came to the entrance. To his relief, the huge door was still locked and closed. Yet even as he stood watching, it shook, the result of some battering force on the other side. They’re trying to get in. They coming for me. Jason looked around for anything he could use to reinforce the door. After a moment, the futility of the idea became apparent. There was nothing he could do to make the door stronger; if the police could get through it, then they could push aside any barriers he could erect. Our barricade downstairs barely slowed them down.
Again the door shook under a loud blow. And again. And again. How long would it hold against that kind of assault? How many people were waiting on the other side, guns in hand, ready to blow him away, to bring the situation “under control”? As he watched, Jason thought that it looked like the door was slowly buckling. Once it fell, he probably would too. Was there anything he could do? Did it matter where they found him? When? Should he hide like a child, hoping that they would just walk past him? After what happened downstairs, they’ll be after blood, and there’s only me up here to satisfy them. Those men would have been their friends, probably, men they trained with, drank with, had barbecues with. Men that didn’t have to die, just like Juni and Robbie didn’t have to die. All caught up in this violent shitstorm. Maybe Kenneth had the right idea locking us all in here together. Should have just left us alone and seen who came out. Would have probably been nobody.
Another crash, and the door rattled worryingly on its hinges. It might not be long now. It certainly didn’t seem like they were going to give up anytime soon. Gotta make a decision. Stay put or go back. Jason stared hard at the door. He knew what was on the other side of it, more or less. His death would be at the hands of people just doing what they thought was right. There wasn’t much comfort it that, but there was a little. He could just stand here and wait. Accept whatever came. There was still a chance that they would try to arrest him. Not a large one, but a chance nonetheless.
Reaching into his pockets, Jason grasped his two weapons, the gun and the knuckle duster. Which should he keep? If the was some monster out there, looking to punch him to death, he would be a fool to leave the gun behind. Though he was drunk and hadn’t shot a gun in over twenty years. It just didn’t seem right. If he was to face his demons, he should do it the right way. Another crash at the door. Time was running out. He had to choose, quickly. Taking a deep breath, feeling like an idiot, Jason placed the gun on the floor just in front of the door. There was no point in bringing it with him. More than that, it felt wrong. He shouldn’t have taken it in the first place. It was a part of Hank’s journey, not his. All he needed was his fists. And this. Jason thought, taking the knuckle duster out of his pocket and slipping it on. If he were going to have to face what he thought he might, then the odds would be even. A fair fight.