I shove the pliers into the hole and I scream instinctively. I instantly rip the pliers out and look for something to bite down on. There’s a wooden spoon in the kitchen that is used for spaghetti or pasta or something like that. I grab it and stick it between my teeth and lay down on the couch again. It stinks of old beer, cigarettes, and dust. It doesn’t matter, I grab the pliers and push them into the wound again, screaming against the pain as the pliers push deeper and deeper into the wound. It feels like they are all the way inside of me, soon to be scraping against my back, but when I look, they’ve hardly gone half an inch. I close my eyes and feel the tears as I try again, pushing deeper, praying to God that I feel contact with something hard that happens to be a bullet stuck inside of me. I twist the pliers around again and again, feeling the blood coming up and spilling out of the wound and across my stomach, all of the soaking powder gone and the wound bleeding fresh again. I can feel the blood on my thumb and index finger, but I can’t stop. I keep trying to reach deeper and deeper inside of me, but I can’t find anything. I can’t find the damn bullet!
“Fuck!” I scream, tearing the pliers out of me as I stand up and put them on top of the table again, instantly reaching for the remaining powder packets. I tear one open with my teeth and dump the contents out over my bleeding hole and wait for a moment, applying pressure and praying that the bleeding will stop again. I sit down in one of the wooden chairs and look at where the box cutters are, knowing what has to happen next. I want to throw up. I think I’m going to throw up. God, I wish that I had a shot of whiskey.
I close my eyes and wish that I could hear someone’s voice. I don’t care right now. I want to hear Tiffany. I want her to be here with me, to put her hand on my chest and to kiss my lips and to tell me that everything is going to be alright. I want the girls here to tell me that they believe in me, that I’ve done right by them, to encourage me to keep fighting. I want Lindsay here to tell me to get my ass in gear and that I’m not dying here, not in this little shit hole. I close my eyes tight and I try to remember her. God, I can’t help but think about that night in the home improvement store. I remember how we’d had each other again and again, going at each other until the sun came up. It had been the best night of my time here at the end of the world. I have to give that to her. She gave me what I didn’t think was possible. She gave me pleasure in this hellish waste. I will forever be grateful for her and all she did for me. That woman was a foul-mouthed angel from Columbus, Ohio.
Opening my eyes, I look at the box cutters and know what needs to be done. Reaching out, I take hold of them and feel the rubbing alcohol running over my bloody fingers. Reaching for the wooden spoon, I hold the box cutter and extend the blade as far as I think I need to. I don’t know how deep the bullet went, but I hope that this will be enough. I can’t imagine cutting into me anymore than this. I hold the blade close to my face, it’s an inch, maybe a little more.
I don’t want to cut into my core, I want to cut out. I’m afraid of hitting something more than I want to. Gripping the box cutter awkwardly, I ready myself, biting down on the spoon and feeling the spit running down my lips and chin. Gripping the handle of the box cutter, I push it outward, cutting across my side, screaming in agony as the blade rips into me, slicing more and more of me as I push. Tears burn against my will, welling in my eyes as I feel my sinew and muscle separating and I choke against the scream. I’m afraid that I’m going to pass out. I’m not going to stay alert. I’m going to pass out. I’m going to pass out.
Pulling the blade out, I look at the incision, which is just a few centimeters long. I can’t do that again. I can’t. I look at the extension that I’ve made and I know that it’s not going to be enough. I have to go out farther, maybe even deeper. I think I’m going to throw up as I choke back bile. I set the box cutter back down on the table and I unscrew the top of the water gallon. I take a drink and lean back my head, huffing and puffing as I try to get a grip. I’m not going to be able to continue this. Holding my breath, I look at the wound. The painkillers haven’t kicked in yet. They’re not going to. Not in time. Gritting my teeth upon the wood of the spoon, I snatch up the box cutter before I can doubt myself further and I go at it again.
This time, I don’t wait. I make it hard and I make it quick, cutting myself open a few more centimeters as I scream through my teeth, against the pain. When I’ve gone far enough, I throw the box cutter across the room and sob in agony, gripping my bleeding wound and screaming at God to just kill me. I stay that way for a few moments, restless, suffering, and delusional.
When I’m done sobbing and have a grip on my emotions, I look at the hole in my side and figure that it’s large enough for me to do what needs to be done. Looking back at the pliers, I press my stump back down on my gaping wound and pour water over the pliers on the table before dunking them back into the rubbing alcohol. I swish the pliers around for a moment or two before pulling them back out. Rubbing alcohol drips across the wet table and onto my stomach as I hold the pliers above the hole. Every time the pliers drip, I wince as the burning acid chews and claws at my wound. That’s fine. I’m getting used to the pain. I’m going into shock. I need to hurry. Gripping the pliers, I take a few sharp breaths and then one more, holding it in and keeping it there for a few seconds, thinking back over what needs to be done.
“Oh, God! Fuck!” I scream as I plunge the pliers into my stomach, opening them and going deeper than I had last time. The needle nose sinks into the wound, the incision did the trick, but it hurts so fucking much that I know I’m close to passing out. The edges of my vision grow dark. I pause, not pushing any deeper as the acidic burn of the rubbing alcohol feels like it’s cauterizing the entire wound. No, that comes later. I look down at my trembling hand and wonder how much damage I’m doing to myself just trying to get the bullet out. Taking another series of breaths, I hold them for a second and then let them out slowly. I’m light-headed and I don’t want to pass out. I want to keep even, smooth breathing. That’s the key right now. Keeping awake and alert.
“Alright,” I say with staggered, quivering breath. Speaking into the wooden shaft of the spoon. “One last push.”
I scream into the spoon, biting so hard that I’m afraid that it’s going to snap and cut open my mouth with the shards. I press the pliers deeper and deeper into the wound, feeling the bloody, tender flesh, screaming from a thousand different nerve endings, crying out in horror as I continue to hurt and maim them, as if they have not suffered enough in the passing day. I keep pushing deeper and deeper, until finally, as if God had finally heard my prayers, I hear the click. I open my eyes and I take another deep breath. Found the bastard, now I just have to get it out. I close my eyes as I open the pliers, screaming against the pain and instinctively opening my eyes to see a blurred, quivering world all around me. I’m going to pass out. “No!” I roar, pressing deeper and clamping the pliers down over the bullet.
Now just pull it out, I tell myself. Easier said than done. I scream against the pain as I feel the bullet being exhumed, ripping open and pushing back the tender, savaged flesh until I see the bloody copper bullet appear from the wound, twisted and mangled all to hell. I pull it free, glistening with my blood and stare at it. I’m sweating like a pig, with my chest heaving and gulping down breaths as I stare in wonder at the thing. I’ve never been shot. That’s one thing that I can say is a first. I’ve never been fucking shot or ripped the damned bullet out with a pair of needle nose pliers.
Pressing my stump against my wound, I push myself up, feeling a renewed explosion of pain in my abdomen as I drop the bullet into the rubbing alcohol before dropping the pliers and slumping heavily into the chair next to the table. Every move is vomit-worthy, such is the pain. I have to admit, the hard part is done, but I am nowhere near getting out of the forest yet. I look at the bullet in the rubbing alcohol and try to figure out what kind of bullet it is. I hope it’s a twenty two, but it looks too large. It probably did more damage to me than I want to
know. Looking at the spoon now, I feel blood spilling out over my stump. I’ve lost too much. I’m feeling weak. Time to end this.
I tear open my second to last packet of the powder and pour it all over my wound, trying to clot the blood a little more. Lindsay has a dozen different pills in her bag, but I don’t know the difference between any of them. I don’t know if they’ll kill me if I take the wrong ones, so I stick to my guns. I stick to just enduring all this shit.
Grabbing the lighter with trembling, shaking hands, I hold it in my bloody fingers and flick it, staring at the flame before I hold it out to the duck cup of lighter fluid. “Aloha, you son of a bitch,” I tell the duck as the liquid ignites and blue flames fill the cup like some sort of warlock’s elixir. I stare at it for a second, feeling faint and woozy. I snap out of it, reaching for the spoon and holding it over the flames. I have to get it hot, really hot.
The flames remind me of how much fire I’ve seen in the past few weeks. It started with Detroit, watching the whole damned city burn because some people wanted to play king of the hill with a dying, abandoned city. What a waste. I’m glad it burned. The place was a giant tomb for all those who had suffered and died for the sake of the local law enforcement and the government, feebly trying to keep ahold of something that had slipped out of their grasp long ago. Then there was the bastard that had stuck his beaten metal sword through Lindsay’s stomach. If we had the time, I’m sure I could have saved her, could have cauterized the wound and she could have kept going. That is, if there wasn’t massive and extensive internal bleeding, the thing I’m fearing most right now. But that guy had killed the one person I still had in my life. He had killed the one friend I had, and he had expected me to what? Just let him get away with that? No, not even close. I remember watching him burn alive, flailing and screaming as his clothes ignited and consumed him. And who could forget the encampment, watching the Zombies storm the zealot camp, tipping over their bonfires and their campfires, burning their tents and people? It had been the most wondrous, perfect form of revenge for their kind. But that hadn’t been enough for me, not nearly enough. No, I had to burn the whole god damned city down around them. They couldn’t have ruins and ashes left to rebuild with. No, I wanted to wipe the earth of them, like God during the times of Noah. Rebuilding was not an option, everyone had to die. But a few escaped. A few stupid bastards who thought that I would roll over and submit to their twisted, perverse form of justice. The blazing flare in the man’s chest burns brightly in my mind. I will never forget shooting it into him before he could call Lindsay a whore. I knew that it was coming. Better to shut him up before I beat him to death, before I did something stupid.
I look at the blue flames and know that the spoon is hot enough. It’s time to do this. I don’t want to, but it’s time. I keep the spoon there for a moment longer, knowing that this one has to be fast. The second the spoon leaves the flames, the temperature is going to decrease rapidly. It’s going to drop so fast that it won’t be able to do what needs to be done. I have to do this fast, no thinking, just action. I push the chair back from the table and look at the blue flames. I’m going to definitely pass out from this one. I’m going to pass out from the pain and I don’t want to knock over a cup full of lighter fluid and let the whole damned trailer burn down around me. I remember that the truck isn’t locked. Someone could just steal the thing while I’m unconscious. Doesn’t matter. I need to survive this to worry about the truck.
I pull the spoon away and slam it down on my gaping wound. The pain is so severe, so intense that I only see white before a sudden and merciless darkness takes hold of me and I’m falling into oblivion. I am nothingness. I am death. I don’t know if my eyes are closed or open. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
Chapter Thirteen
I’m awake, again. I open my eyes, flickering my eyelids a moment, trying to distinguish if I’m alive or dead. If I’m dead, then it all looks very similar and that’s incredibly disappointing. I move my head and see that I’m on the floor, looking up at the ceiling of the trailer. Once more, this just proves that whatever is up there in the heavens, he’s a sadist. He likes to watch me suffer and when I’m at the brink of death, toppling over the ledge and into the great beyond, he gives me a little push back to the side of the living, just to see how much more I can endure before I’m finally dead. I hate whoever it is that is up there taking such a marveling delight in my suffering and my agony. Fuck this.
Craning my head, I look down at the spoon laying on my stomach and the dried, bloody mess that covers me. I look like a corpse. I feel around my tender stomach, my flesh is pale, pale enough to make me look like a cadaver on a slab. I reach out to brush the spoon away and realize that the thing is firmly stuck to my stomach. It hurts at the slightest touch and as I grip the handle, I realize that this is going to hurt like a bitch. Tightening my grip, I know that the spoon has to come off. I take a deep breath and relax, leaning my head back on the floor and knowing that this has to be done. How long have I been out? Am I really going to knock myself out again so soon? So what, it needs to be done. Closing my eyes, I take in one last deep breath and rip the spoon out and off of me and scream as loud as I can.
Thankfully, I don’t pass out. I’m beginning to worry about how often I’ve been knocked unconscious the past few weeks. It can’t be good for my brain. The pain is excruciating, but I now live in a world where the overwhelming pain that I inflict upon myself is becoming more and more normal, or at least, expected. Groaning and sucking in a series of sharp, agonizing lungfuls, I clamp my hand down on my bleeding wound again, trying to figure out what to do next. Deep down inside of me, I already know, but I’m scared to. It hurt so damn much last time. Picking the spoon up, I clamp my stump down on the opened wound and slowly try to inspect the damage from what I can see.
From what I can tell, it isn’t that bad. In fact, I think I might be okay. The gaping hole is now sealed, completely incinerated by the flaming spoon that had knocked me on my ass. I don’t think that’s something I should be ashamed of. Climbing back into the chair, I set the spoon on the table that has dried in my mental absence. Clearly I’ve been out for a while. Looking back at the wound in my side, it’s still bleeding and I need to finish the job. The majority of the hole has been cauterized, but I need to finish it off. Looking at the cup of lighter fluid, I see that it’s burned out in my absence. There’s only one thing left to do. Grabbing the lighter, I spark it to life and hold it over the rubbing alcohol I had used to disinfect my impromptu surgery tools.
It ignites instantaneously and I quickly drop the lighter and replace it with the spoon, holding it over the flames, watching the blue light licking at the metal spoon covered in my blood. It stinks, but I don’t care anymore. Infections be damned, I just want to patch myself up so I can fix the god damn truck and get moving. Part of me wants to just start walking, but every movement sends pain shooting through my abdomen. I don’t think I’ll make it all the way to Marineland if I go it on foot. I keep heating up the spoon until I’m ready to use it. I feel like I’ve been holding this spoon over a flame with my hands shaking for hours. Taking another deep breath, I stand up so it’s easier to make contact with the wound. Pulling the spoon away from the flames, I press it to my side. I scream in pain as my legs give out and I topple over onto the floor, smacking into the cupboards, but I don’t even notice. The pain is overwhelming as I scream until my voice is hoarse and bloody feeling.
I toss the spoon away and feel cold sweat breaking out all over my body. I’m still conscious and I don’t like it. Everything fucking hurts. My chest heaves up and down as I lean against the cupboard, panting and trying to get a grip on myself. My hand is shaking and I can feel my phantom hand shaking as well. I don’t want to look at the wound. I can smell burning flesh. It smells like a barbeque. I look away and grind my teeth against the pain.
After an eternity, I pull myself up cautiously and look at the burning rubbing alcohol in the cup. I decide to just let it
burn down, rather than try and deal with it and light myself on fire. I don’t want to be around fire for a while. I think I’ve had my fill. Instead, I make my way to the couch and lay down, wincing with every step. It hurts to move and breathe, but I can’t just lay around for too long. There’s stuff to get to. There’s work that needs doing. Slowly, I close my eyes and lay there for another minute, just resting for a second. I just need to get my strength up and I can get back to working on the truck. I’m good. I think I’m going to survive this.
When I open my eyes again, I have no clue how much time has passed, but it’s dark outside and I’m alone in the trailer, still alive. Taking a deep breath, I push myself up, feeling the pain rippling through my body with each movement. I don’t like being in constant pain, and right now, there’s a lot of it. I sit up and look around. The rubbing alcohol has burned down now as well and I’m alone with the pale light of the moon pouring in through the windows. I’ve always thought trailer parks were creepy, scary places, and right now, I think my fears are being reaffirmed.
Grabbing the supplies that I need from Lindsay’s bag, I wrap my wound and bandage it the best I can. Everything is super-sensitive and every move makes me want to puke. I feel so light-headed that I don’t think I’m going to make it if I tighten the wrap any more. I look at it and decide that it’ll have to do for now. I need to get to work.
I slowly and agonizingly make my way back to the room where the dead guy used up his last bullet putting himself out of his misery like a greedy fucking bastard. One day, I’m going to find a gun and it’s going to be fantastic and I’m sure as hell not going to use my last bullet on myself. I’m going to use my last bullet on a guy with more bullets so I can keep going around with a gun. Why don’t people think these things through? I suppose that hope plays a big role in all of this. So many people just don’t have hope anymore. I push open his door and walk to his small drawers and pull them open. I grab the first thing I find. It’s a black shirt that’s a little too small for me, but it’ll work. I pull it on slowly, every movement sending bolts of torment running through my side and abdomen. God, I hate this.
LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series Page 46