Meals from Mars

by Ben Sciacca

  Jim’s heart was racing. He fumbled with the seat belt to attempt an escape. But before he could do so, Malik revved the car into action again.

  Sheriff Jefferson watched the Lexus turn onto the highway and then snatched his radio off his dash. “Suspect is heading west on County Road 63,” he spoke gruffly. “I repeat: Suspect is heading west on County Road 63. Over.”

  Another voice crackled over the radio. “Sheriff, this is Officers Smith and Lenoix. We’re heading east on 63 now. We’re two miles from your position. How should we proceed? Over.”

  The sheriff slowed his vehicle to a halt and then cautiously drove out onto the highway. “Set up a roadblock in one mile. I am still in pursuit.”

  Malik felt sick. He had run from gangbangers before. He had fled from two parties where gunshots were fired. There was the time he raced away from the police after he stole some candy from a convenience store. There was something dreadful and yet thrilling in each of those moments. But this present moment was filled with nothing but terror.

  Jim was praying under his breath. He gripped the handle on the ceiling with white-knuckled hands. Cold clouds of breath emerged from his mouth as the icy air rushed into the car. He watched with fascination and horror as Malik navigated the treacherous road, his head still hanging out the window. They were going no more than forty miles an hour, but it felt like eighty. The car fishtailed, and Malik moved to the middle of the road to give himself as much room for error as possible. Jim spun around in his seat. Through the semi-frosted back window, he could see swirling blue lights in the distance.

  Malik cursed angrily as he spotted the police car and orange cones in the distance. They had wedged themselves perfectly—he could not get around them without driving on the shoulder of the road.

  “We got you now, boy!” Sheriff Jefferson said as he slapped his dash victoriously. “Hey—what in the world is he trying to do?” The Lexus had angled off toward the left. The sheriff stared in surprise as the Lexus attempted to straddle the shoulder and the road. “He isn’t gonna try it, is he?”

  Malik could feel and hear the car slipping. It was a miracle he had made it this far. The officers ahead were out of their vehicles and waving their arms for him to stop. Suddenly the car felt like it was lifted into the air. Malik could tell that he was no longer in control.

  The Lexus went into a free skid on a patch of ice and slammed violently into a large tree. It spun ninety degrees before bouncing back out onto the road, just thirty yards from the blockade.

  Malik’s seat belt was unbuckled, and his face and torso collided viciously into the airbag. His head and neck were lashed backward. He heard the sound of crunching metal and broken glass.

  Jim’s face was thrown into the passenger side window with a thud. Syrupy, warm blood began to trickle from the gash on his face.

  Together, Jim and Malik sat in the crashed car, stunned.

  Sheriff Jefferson watched as plumes of steam rose out of the crumpled hood of the car. He carefully decelerated his vehicle on the precarious road and reached for his radio again.

  “Suspect has crashed his vehicle. Requesting immediate medical assistance. Over.”

  He put his SUV in park, stepped out, and pulled his pistol from its holster. “Get out of the vehicle with your hands in the air!” he bellowed.

  Officers Smith and Lenoix also removed their guns and trained them on the Lexus. The sheriff proceeded to holler instructions. Steam continued to rise from the Lexus. But there was no movement inside until, slowly, the front door opened. A young man stepped out in front of them.

  Malik took a moment to look at all three officers. Their faces appeared angry, and the guns pointed in his direction looked decisive. He could see the sheriff shouting at him. His mouth opened and closed, but the words were dissonant, indecipherable to Malik’s ears. Suddenly he heard Jim’s voice and felt him tugging at his sweatshirt. He turned his head to look back inside the vehicle.

  “Come on, Malik!” Jim pleaded. “Just do what they say! Get your hands in the air before they hurt you!”

  Malik looked down at Jim and noticed the blood streaming slowly from above his eye. He turned back to face the police. It was up to him: His arms would initiate the process of either surrender or suicide. He could reach for the sky or for his gun.

  Despite the overwhelming weight of despair, Malik did not wish to die. So reluctantly and slowly, he raised his hands above his head. A wave of regret passed over him, followed quickly by a wave of relief.

  “Now step away from the vehicle. Slowly . . . slowly . . .” The sheriff was hollering directions to Malik, waving him to the side with his gun.

  Malik did as he was told and moved out from behind the car door. He squinted in the midday sun.

  “Get down on your knees!” the sheriff barked.

  Jim remained in the vehicle, watching Malik, praying that he would continue to cooperate. The young man dropped to his knees, his hands still high in the air. As he did so, the gun jostled loose from his waistband and fell to the ground in front of him.

  For a moment everyone looked at the gun. It lay there, awkwardly and menacingly, settled in an inch of glistening powder. The police stiffened and leaned in with their own pistols.

  “He’s got a gun!” Officer Smith yelled hoarsely.

  “Listen!” Sheriff Jefferson shouted. “Slowly . . . slowly . . . slide the gun away from you. Do it! Do it now!”

  Malik looked down at the gun and then back at the police with their guns trained on him. Each breath that he took felt strained and required a concerted effort. He was nearly paralyzed with fear. He leaned forward to do as he was told.

  “He’s going for it!” Officer Smith cried out.

  “Careful!” the sheriff instructed again through clenched teeth. “Slide it slowly!”

  Jim felt like a helpless spectator to this drama. He wanted to do something—anything. Suddenly he burst forth from the passenger door and stood to his feet.

  Jim’s abrupt decision startled the police. They turned their attention toward him. Meanwhile, Malik had placed his hand on top of the gun. His hands were so cold he could barely even feel it at all. He flexed his arm slightly to shove it away from him.

  Two sharp shots rang out along the county highway.

  Malik felt a fiery pain in his right shoulder. The pain in his chest was different. He sensed breath and life itself seeping from the hole the bullet had created. His body fell backward onto the icy road.

  “Shots fired! Shots fired!” Sheriff Jefferson shouted into his radio. “Suspect down. I repeat: suspect down. We need immediate medical attention.”

  Jim raced around the Lexus toward Malik, who lay on the ground clutching his chest. Short, ragged breaths emerged from his mouth. Officer Lenoix kicked the gun off to the side and knelt down beside Malik. A dark pool of blood was painting the snow beneath him.

  “He was going for the gun!” Officer Smith said resolutely. He looked at the sheriff and his partner for confirmation. The sheriff glanced at Jim, but he just stood there wide-eyed, his hands on his head. From down the road they could hear the shrill wail of ambulance sirens.

  23

  THE BEGINNING

  Eight hours later

  JIM WINCED SLIGHTLY as he struggled to put on his coat. “Careful, honey,” Mary Beth said softly as she tried to help him. “I don’t understand why you won’t just stay the night and come home in the morning. You need to rest.” Her father sat in a chair in the corner with his arms folded stiffly across his chest.

  “I’m fine,” Jim said, and he offered a reassuring smile. “Stitches and a mild concussion are not enough for me to want to spend the night in a country-hospital bed. No thanks!”

  “It’s more than that. You’ve been kidnapped at gunpoint. Held hostage. Nearly frozen to death. And then a terrible car accident. You need your rest, honey.” She gave him a long hug and nestled her face in his chest. Grateful tears emerged in her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. She ha
dn’t stopped hugging him since she had arrived at the hospital three hours ago.

  Jim pulled her close. It felt nice to have her warm body in his arms.

  Just then there was a knock at the door. The three of them turned. “I’m sorry to interrupt.” Detective MarQuan Cole introduced himself to Jim and nodded to Mary Beth and her father. “Mrs. Dawkins . . . Congressman . . . It’s good to see you again—this time under better circumstances.” He turned again to Jim. “I’m glad to see that you’re up on your feet, Mr. Dawkins.”

  “Yeah, I feel fine,” Jim said. “I’m thankful.”

  “I’m going to need to ask you a few questions,” Detective Cole said.

  “Now?” Mary Beth asked. She cocked her head to the side and raised her eyebrows. “Couldn’t that wait a while?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the detective replied, shaking his head. “An awful lot has happened over the last twenty-four hours or so. There are a lot of different details swirling in the wind right now, and a young man’s life hangs in the balance in more ways than one. We need to get this information together while it’s fresh. We—”

  Mary Beth’s face soured. “Excuse me! That young man put my husband’s life in danger. Whose side are you on here? That boy—”

  “That boy,” Congressman Lawrey roared as he stood up from his chair, “should be in jail! He’s lucky just to be alive after all of the ridiculous and asinine things he’s done. He’s the one you should be interrogating!”

  “I intend to talk to him, sir,” Detective Cole said calmly. “But the young man is unconscious right now.”

  The old man’s face was red and twitching. “He nearly killed Jim in five different ways. My daughter and my wife haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours because of him! My wife is so weak and ill from all of this nonsense that she couldn’t even make the trip here to the hospital. Jim is battered. He’s bleeding. He’s tired. Hasn’t he been through enough? Haven’t all of us been through enough? Do you really want to add to all of our pain right now?”

  Detective Cole raised his hand. “I know your family has been through a tremendous ordeal. And I don’t want to pile on more, but I’m just doing my job. Mr. Dawkins, your testimony is very important. I can’t overstate that.”

  “This is unbelievable!” Mary Beth said, her nostrils flaring. Jim grabbed her hand and gave it a slight squeeze. She shot him an angry glance and locked her jaw.

  The detective continued. “We need to make certain we know what happened last night—all of it.” He held out his hand. “Mr. Dawkins, why don’t you take a seat?”

  Jim glanced at his wife and then at the detective, then sat down on the edge of the hospital bed. Mary Beth frowned and sat down beside him. The congressman just stood there, glowering. Detective Cole pulled out his notepad and removed the pen from behind his ear. He offered up a smile. “So, let’s start from the beginning. What happened at that gas station last night?”

  Wilma dabbed her eyes with the shredded piece of tissue balled in her tiny fist. She sat beside Malik’s hospital bed, his hand in her own. His eyes were closed, and his face betrayed a weakened agony. A tube was in his mouth, and various wires were fixed to his body.

  A colleague from the college had brought Keith to the hospital. He sat in his wheelchair at the foot of the bed, staring at his nephew. LeKeisha was leaning against the wall, stirring a straw in a foam cup of coffee. Malik’s mother, Sobrina, was slumped in a seat with her head in her hands. Her eyes were bloodshot as she stared blankly out of the window. Aside from some chatter in the hallway, the only sound in the room was the dull chirp of the bedside monitor.

  A short, fat doctor entered the room, holding some paperwork in his hands. A large red nose, propping up a pair of thick black glasses, dominated his face. With his eyes fixed on his charts, he started speaking to no one in particular. “Hello everyone. I’m Dr. Patterson. So, our friend Malik is in pretty bad shape, but he was lucky. The bullet grazed one of his lungs, ricocheted off his ribs and narrowly missed his heart. We aren’t out of the woods just yet though. He’s lost a ton of blood. We were able to remove the bullet from his shoulder, and we’ll try to fish out the other one once his condition stabilizes.”

  “When will he be conscious?” Uncle Keith asked tersely.

  The doctor looked up from his chart and offered Keith a slight shrug. “It could be soon . . . or it might be a while. He’s weak and exhausted—”

  “I’m looking forward to asking my nephew how and why those bullets ended up inside of him in the first place,” Keith replied.

  Dr. Patterson awkwardly cleared his throat but said nothing.

  “That question can wait a minute, Keith,” Wilma chided her scowling son.

  “Why is he here?” Sobrina asked icily. She pointed to an armed white officer standing just outside the doorway, his back to the room.

  The doctor blushed slightly before he spoke. “He’s here for everyone’s protection.”

  “Whose protection?” Keith snapped. “Ours? Yours? Malik’s? Whose?”

  “Look,” the doctor stammered. “We’ll be monitoring Malik’s situation very closely and give you some updates as we get them. In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay here with him. It would be good for him to see loved ones when he wakes up.” The doctor moved quickly to the door as he spoke.

  Once the family was alone again, Keith cracked his knuckles and shook his head. “This is absurd. They’ve got an armed guard posted outside the room like Malik is some kind of terrorist. Unbelievable!”

  “They’re the ones who tried to kill my baby,” Sobrina snarled.

  “Everyone needs to hush.” Wilma’s voice was trembling. “All of that can come later. Right now we need to pray that Malik will just open his eyes. He’s all that matters right now. He’s the reason we’re all here. Let’s just focus our attention on our sweet boy.”

  “Well,” Detective Cole said, closing his notebook. He had taken nearly three pages of notes. “I think that’s all of my questions for now. Is there anything else you want to add to your statements?”

  Jim looked at his wife for a moment and then shook his head. “No. I think that’s about it.”

  The detective pursed his lips and nodded slightly. “Okay then.” He tucked his pen behind his ear. “Thank you for your time. If I need anything else, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Any word on Malik?” Jim asked.

  “I’m on my way to see him now,” the detective responded. “I heard they moved him from the trauma unit to a room about thirty minutes ago.”

  “I think I’d like to see him too.”

  “Come on, Jim,” Mary Beth said, trying to reason with him. “Tonight? Now? Let’s just get you home—please.”

  Jim placed his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll go home shortly, honey. I want to see him.”

  The detective nodded as he headed toward the door. “Then you can follow me.”

  Mary Beth looked hopefully to her father. “You coming, Daddy?”

  The congressman waved his hands in disgust. “You go on without me. I have no desire to see that boy. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  Detective Cole led Jim and Mary Beth to the elevator. They rode in silence to the second floor. From there the detective led the way to Malik’s room. His cell phone rang, and he glanced at it for a moment before answering the call. “Hello?” He held the phone to his ear. “Really? . . . Is he able to speak? . . . Okay. Okay. I’m heading that way. I’ll be there shortly.” He turned to face Jim and his wife. “I’m afraid I need to run. The store owner from the gas station has regained consciousness.” He walked backward toward the elevator. “I need to speak with him. Malik’s room is right around the corner. Room 297.” With that, the detective turned and left.

  Jim and Mary Beth stood for a moment before Mary Beth broke the silence. “Jim, why do you want to see this kid right now—after all that’s happened between you and him?” She shook her head. “I don’t feel comfortable with this at all.”


  Jim sighed. “I don’t really know. I just want to see if he’s all right, I guess. Come on. I won’t stay long. I promise.”

  Together they continued down the hall toward Room 297. An armed guard was posted at the door. They could hear voices inside. “Is this Malik Thompson’s room?” Jim asked.

  The guard nodded.

  “May I see him for a moment?”

  The guard studied Jim’s bruised face and his stitches for a moment. “And you are?”

  “I’m Jim Dawkins. I was with him through most of this . . . ordeal . . . I’d just like to see him for a second, if that’s okay.”

  The guard turned and let Jim and Mary Beth pass. Jim drew a deep breath and took one step inside. He spotted Malik’s battered frame attached to the wires and the machines. He noticed Wilma sitting beside him, cupping his hand to her face. There was Uncle Keith in the wheelchair. He guessed that the other two women were his aunt and his mother. In an odd way he felt as though he knew each of them.

  They were staring at him. He could see in their eyes a wide-ranging jury of emotions. Anger. Curiosity. Contempt. Pain. He wanted to say something, but the ability to speak betrayed him.

  Mary Beth stood in the doorway, fidgeting with her gold necklace. She was unwilling to enter, but now that they had all seen her, she was unable to leave.

  Wilma mustered a warm smile and spoke softly. “Hello, Jim.”

  He slowly raised his hand and attempted a smile of his own.

  As soon as Wilma spoke Jim’s name, everyone in the room knew who he was. In a small space where almost everyone felt like a victim, silence ruled the room.

  Jim and the family maintained their weighty stillness for nearly a minute. Jim felt a bit as if he were on trial. He dropped his eyes to the floor.