When he reached the front entrance of the place he almost kicked the door in without looking inside first. He stopped for a brief second, the need for caution overwhelming his own need to get everyone under cover. The place only had two rooms from the look of it and was empty, but there was no sign of an entrance to a cellar.
He could have wasted more time if he'd try to enter it. He ran away from the front door, making his way down the near side of the house and still saw no cellar door. He moved around the back, hoping against hope, wondering if they could survive in the house if it had no basement.
"Over here!" Buddy yelled, only ten or fifteen feet away from Richie. He'd gone down the other side of the place and had found the door.
"Okay," Richie said when he reached the door.
"Gotta pick it?" Buddy asked, still catching his breath as their other two friends joined them.
Richie nodded, shedding his pack. He thought about breaking the lock with the butt of his shotgun, but didn't know if it would release under the assault or not. None of them carried a crowbar due to the weight and they didn't have time to find one. He hurried through his pack, looking for the picks.
He had a bad moment when the tension wrench slipped out of his fingers and fell to the charred ground, but Elvis was there to pick it up and hand it back. Richie went to work on the lock, trying to take his time, trying to feel the thing out. His friends didn't urge him on. They knew that he had enough motivation.
"It's gettin' real hot," Elvis whispered to himself. He didn't want to rattle Richie, but he couldn't help but say something.
The tumblers on this lock were loose, the key hole wiggling under his picks. He didn't have time for finesse, so he began raking the pick across the tumblers and adding tension to the lock. More tension. Rake faster. The sweat from his forehead was running fast into his eyes as he worked. The heat was almost unbearable. They needed to get in.
"Come on you cock sucker!" Richie finally shouted in frustration and yanked too hard on the tension bar, snapping it in two.
He stared at the remnant of the tool held between his index finger and thumb. His eyes were wide and beginning to fill with tears.
"Fuck," he whispered, pulling the pick from the lock, "Oh fuck."
It was Buddy who noticed that the lock had come partially free when Richie pulled the pick out of it. He reached for the body of the thing and yanked it downward. The lock popped open.
"Shit," Elvis said, laughing, "Get in!"
They pulled hard on the doors, getting one of them to open on the first try, and began squeezing into the space they'd opened. Amanda slid in easily, followed by Elvis. Buddy dropped into the opening and had to wiggle his way in. Once Buddy was clear, Richie dropped into the doorway feet first and began to tug the door back into place.
The damned thing wouldn't come easily from this position. He had to get back out and kick the thing until it was nearly closed. By now the heat was so bad that Richie felt the burning on his bare skin. Finally, he was able to get into the doorway and pull the door almost back to closed. It was jamming with a few inches left to go. Richie pulled as hard as he could on the handle, but the door wouldn't budge. He'd have to push it open part of the way to get it to slam shut. He braced his feet on one of the top steps before using his shoulder to open the door part- way.
Just as he was about to slam the thing home, two things happened. First, a bead of sweat poured into his right eye, stinging badly, and causing him to close it, leaving him with just the left. The second thing was sunrise.
Richie saw it for the briefest of moments, thought that it was beautiful in the back of his mind. It was pure and strong in a way that it had never been when people could gather to watch.
He felt the first ray of the day's light hit him full in the face. He fell, screaming, as the door slammed shut, blocking out the sun.
***
Richie woke up to the sound of birds chirping and the warmth of the sun on his face. He struggled away from the light, falling out of bed and onto the hardwood floor. He was tangled up in the sheet he'd pulled over himself when he'd gone to bed, so it took him a moment to get out of it and stand. He was amazed at what he saw.
It was his apartment, the studio that overlooked his imperfect horizon. He was at home and safe. He spun, slowly, around. He took in every detail of the place.
His head was killing him and it hurt more when he looked into the light, but he really was home. Dishes were in the sink. The drapes hung partially open allowing natural light to flood the place. The glass of water he'd taken to bed still perched on the nightstand.
"Is this real?" he asked the room, "Is this home?"
The place answered with silence. He could actually smell things in this place. None of them were charred burnt things. They were the smells he'd taken for granted in his life, but he smelled them now.
There was the scent of the oil soap he'd used to clean the floor so many times. He smelled the sweat left behind on the bed after his nightmare. He took a deep breath and held the odor of the left over take-out he'd brought in and forgotten to put in the refrigerator.
Richie smiled. This was real. Wasn't it?
He walked around the efficiency apartment, touching the curtains to feel something soft, touching the back of his favorite chair. He felt the coolness of the material because no one had sat there in a while.
He listened to the refrigerator humming off and on, the compressor cycling to make things cool and good. He walked over to it, opened the door, stood in front of it. He felt the air rush out at him and basked in the simple coolness of it. Had there ever been such a feeling as this? Had there ever been a lovelier word than "cool"? It was made even better due to the fact that the sun was warming his apartment a little too well. It was getting hot in there.
Richie almost laughed at the idea. In his dream it had been really hot. It had been so hot that it was dangerous. He was so glad to be awake now.
"Get some water! Oh Jesus! Look at his fucking eye!" a voice shouted from nowhere.
Richie looked around the empty room for the source of the sound. Had he left the radio on in the bathroom, or something?
He went there, to the bathroom, and saw that he had, indeed, left the radio on. That was kind of a weird thing to hear on the device, but he dismissed it. Who knew what people would say when they had their fifteen minutes of fame?
He closed the door, walking naked through the place until he reached his chair again. Richie picked up his sketchbook and sat down on the cushion without putting anything on his body. He usually slept in sleep pants or at least sweats, but he'd been nude upon waking, so he went with it. It was strange, though, because he usually liked to wear something comfortable when he drew.
Weirdest dream ever, he thought, deciding to draw the last thing he remembered from it. Richie closed his eyes to concentrate on an image.
He immediately saw Amanda (who's Amanda? Do I know an Amanda?) covering one of his eyes with a wet bandana, telling him that it would be okay if he just held on it'll be okay jesus buddy look at his skin it's burnt and we can't do anything for it we need burn cream or something elvis get me-
Richie opened his eyes, now seeing with both of them. His headache was getting worse. It was one of those that you got from looking into the light for too long. It was like a spike was being driven into his left eye. He stood, leaving the sketchpad and pencil on the table beside his chair, and went back into the bathroom to check for some Excedrin or something to kill this headache. The radio was on again, for some reason. Hadn't he just turned that off?
"We can't leave until he wakes up," the radio broadcasted, "We'll just have to hope nobody comes."
Richie kept listening to the voice. It was familiar. He thought it might be one of the people from his dream.
"They live here Buddy! If they come back, they'll kill us. We have to take him somewhere else."
"Where? Where the fuck can we ta-"
He turned the radio off, almost threw it
against the wall for good measure. The voice, one of the voices, sounded like Buddy, but a Buddy who'd started smoking three packs a day. His throat sounded like it was full of gravel. It couldn't have been him, though. How would Buddy get on the radio?
Richie looked at the medicine cabinet, thinking that he would have to open it to get something for his head, which was pounding like a real bitch now. It was getting so bad that the vision in his left eye was blurring. The eye, itself, was even beginning to hurt.
He rubbed at it, looking in the mirror at his short, well styled blonde hair and clean shaven face and his roughly shaved head and thin patchy beard. He closed his eyes again, turning his head from the mirror. He was seeing things now. When he opened his eyes his reflection was normal again.
"It must be the headache," he told his mirror image, pulling the mirrored door open and reaching in for a pill or two.
That would do the trick. He'd take a couple of Excedrin and life would be good again. Maybe he would go back to bed. Maybe he could catch a nap and rid himself of this horrible (sunburn?) headache. He closed the cabinet and the mirror was in front of him. His reflection was gone. In its place was his friend Elvis, leaning down close to his face, telling him to be quiet don't make no noise cause buddy says they might be comin' he's gonna help amanda make em go away but we got to be so quiet be okay richie just-
Richie turned away again, stumbled out of the bathroom and into the main room without looking where he was going. His eye felt like it was going to fry in the socket and he just wanted the headache to go away.
All of the things he was seeing and hearing reminded him of the dream, but that was a very odd thing. He didn't normally remember his dreams. He'd told Amanda that when she asked-
What in the hell was going on? Was he still half-asleep or something. His mind was mixing things up between the world of dreams and the one of waking. Amanda had been a figment of his imagination, part of the dream.
Bed, he thought, I just need some sleep.
Richie lay down in his full size bed, lying flat on his back for some reason. It wasn't comfortable. He liked sleeping on his side (They're carrying me) or stomach. He tried to turn, but was restrained by nothing more than the air. He tried to sit up and couldn't. He'd just have to sleep like this. It must be the headache. It was getting better now that he was laying down. He'd just have to ride it out and everything would be fine. If not, Richie would go straight to the doctor.
What time was it? He'd have to check and see because the doctor's office wouldn't open until nine or so. He raised his wrist a few inches from the bed before he remembered that his watch had stopped (we need to pick up another watch) in the night. They sold batteries for them (we'll have to get a pocket watch if we can find it, the kind that doesn't need a battery, the kind you have to wind every day) at the drug store. He'd have to replace his.
"We need to stop and take a break. He's too heavy to keep going all night," a voice said.
"We can stop here for a little while, but we can't stay the night. We have to get further away from them," another voice replied.
The fucking radio was going crazy today. Any other time it might have been amusing, but he just didn't feel good at all. He was starting to shiver in the coolness of the room.
He felt like he was being carried, the ceiling becoming the sky from time to time, but it had to be a dream sky. He could see stars and the moon, but it was daytime. He'd just woke up and it was morning. His head was killing him and he really wished it would just go the fuck away.
"He's going to die if I don't go out and find some kind of antibiotic, Elvis. We can't all go. You've got to stay with him for me. He's going to be your responsibility. You take care of him"
That was probably the goddamned radio, again. He wanted to get up, go in there, and smash the thing to pieces but he couldn't get up because (I'm hurt really fucking bad and I need to wake up so that I can tell them not to get penicillin because that'll kill me faster than the injuries) his head was killing him and he just wanted (Wake the fuck up! You're going to die! Wake the fuck-
***
"Up!" Richie yelled, suddenly, just as Buddy was clearing the exit of a basement that Richie wouldn't have recognized.
"What?" Amanda asked, turning back toward Elvis and Richie.
"No," Richie choked out, "No fucking... I'm allergic. No pen... Shit!" he screamed, the pain in his face and eye like being stabbed over and over.
"Calm down, man. I got you. I hear you," Buddy told him as Elvis soothed his face with the damp cloth.
"No pen-"
"No penicillin, Richie. I got it," Buddy said, thanking God that Richie had come awake in time to tell him that.
If he hadn't, they would've surely used it to try saving him. He'd have died in minutes.
Richie nodded a shaky nod. His good eye turned toward Elvis and then back to Buddy. Only part of him knew what was going on. The other part, the frightened one, wanted only to sleep, to dream and be so cool like he'd been in the fantasy.
"Elvis is going to stay with you. He's going to take care of you while we go get you some medicine," Buddy told him, taking the rag from Elvis and soaking it again, "We'll find something for the pain. I promise."
"The lock... The lock piiiick! Oh God it hurts, man!"
"I know Richie. We'll take care of all of it. Sleep man. Just go back to sleep."
Amanda shook her head at Buddy. She pointed to the food and water that would be left behind for Richie and Elvis before pointing to Richie. Buddy nodded. He reached for one of the water bottles and spun the cap, putting it close to Richie's lips.
He was nearly out again, his good eye closing. His bad eye would never open or close again. Buddy looked at the blistered skin on his friend's forehead and left cheek, where the sun had caught him the worst, and cringed.
There wasn't much they could do for him until they found what was needed. Amanda had taken care of some relatives and knew more about medicines than the rest of them, so it was up to Elvis to care for their injured.
"Drink this, Richie. You got to drink," Elvis said, taking the bottle from Buddy.
Richie drank, but refused more than a few swallows. He hadn't drunk much in the last two days and that could be just as bad for him as the wounds. Elvis was persistent, though, making him try again and getting a little more in his stomach. When Elvis turned to Buddy, there was a smile on his face.
"I'll take care. You go. Just get back soon," Elvis told him.
"The King has spoken," Buddy said, turning to leave.
"Long live rock n' roll," Elvis imparted as they walked out into the world.
***
Richie stumbled along the road between the hellish world of reality and the quiet one of dreams. The two came together for him from time to time, but over the next three days and nights he began to know which was which.
Though he'd have rather dreamed all of this away for eternity, he knew that his friends needed him in their world. He tried to keep a small piece of the dream with him at all times, but it was fading with the pain. Elvis had been the only one at his side during the worst of it, listening to his friend scream and consoling him when he woke.
Buddy and Amanda had come back just after sunset on the next night. They'd found a small grocery store with a pharmacy attached. They started him on Vicodin for the pain, which didn't do as much for it as Richie would've liked, and vancomycin to treat the infection that had probably already set in. They couldn't be sure how bad it was, so only gave him four of the antibiotics throughout the night.
Elvis was always with him, forcing water down his throat and trying to feed him when he was awake, giving him his pills at the right time. Now, instead of a damp cloth, Elvis was spreading aloe over his wounds, carefully, and making sure that his injured eye was clean and clear of contaminants. Amanda had tried to take over the duty only once, and Elvis had balked.
"You need rest, honey," she'd said to Elvis.
"I get rest. You leave us alone,"
he'd stubbornly demanded, "I can take care of Richie."
"You can come right back, after you sleep."
Elvis had simply looked at her, deciding that the subject was closed and that he didn't need to say anything more. She didn't get angry. She didn't try to help him again.
There were times when everyone would be quiet, eating or drinking, and Richie would say something unintelligible. Amanda and Buddy would try to get closer and Elvis would wave them away. He'd tell them that Richie was in his apartment and talking to the radio. They would agree with him and back off, knowing that Elvis had made the decision to bring their friend back by himself.
"He listens," Buddy told Amanda when she asked why Elvis was acting this way.
"No he doesn't. He won't sleep. He won't eat if Richie won't. He's obsessed."
"I told him that Richie was his responsibility. He listens. Elvis won't leave him until he gets better or dies."
Richie was awake on the fourth night, finally able to sit up and eat voluntarily. He took small sips from a water bottle and got used to the idea of only having one eye. Elvis was there with every request, giving Richie the things that he needed and talking about his old apartment, asking questions about where he'd been in the dream.
It was as if he were trying to ease Richie back in to the world of the living. Richie was thankful for that. He'd been mostly gone during those three days, but was coming back quickly. His eye was gone and his face was a mess, but he would live. When he asked what had happened after he fell, Elvis allowed Amanda to tell him, finally relinquishing his responsibility.
"You fell hard and the door closed. We couldn't see anything until Buddy found the lantern. When he turned it on, we figured out that we hadn't made the best choice of lodgings for a long term stay. There were supplies in one corner of the basement and sleeping bags piled everywhere," Amanda said, as if she were setting a scene.
The Dark Roads Page 13