"What the hell did you do?" the heftier man asked, his voice trembling in panic. "What the hell?"
Patches was standing a few feet away with a small pistol in his hand. A thin tail of smoke swirled from the barrel and I could see the shock painted all over his face.
"I... I, I didn't mean to. It...it just went off," he stuttered.
"Let's get out of here," the chubbier man declared.
"Randall," Mike moaned and reached out to me.
I grabbed his hand and knelt beside him. "Somebody help, somebody help me!" I screamed, every word dripping with trepidation.
"I didn't mean to...I'm sorry," Patches pleaded to deaf ears.
He stuffed the pistol back into his pants then looked around. His two anxious friends had already started retreating. With one last glance, they tore off the way they came.
Mike's face was pale and his breathing seemed difficult. His eyes were hazy, but I could see the despair in them. He had the look of a man that had seen death face-on and had crumbled beneath the morbid gaze.
I'd never seen anyone injured like that before. No one that had gone from alive and vibrant to clinging to life in a snap. I'd seen plenty of scary movies, twisted, demented tales, but this was what pure horror looked like. Only when faced with our mortality could we ever truly embrace real, palpable fear.
"I don't want to die," Mike said in an almost childish voice.
His words snapped me out of my daze and my brain started working in overload.
"You're not gonna die Mike," I replied.
I jumped up and ran to the cart that had thankfully been left by the band of murdering assholes. I rummaged around until I found the package of gauze and some disinfectant.
"Don't you fucking leave me!" Mike yelled after me.
I took his belligerence as a good sign and felt that just maybe he'd make it out of this. "Nobody is leaving you. I'm gonna fix you up crybaby."
Honestly, I had no clue what I was doing, but common sense told me I needed to clean it and try and stop the bleeding. Both of those goals ended in failure.
"Hold still," I instructed as I poured the disinfectant over his wound.
As soon as the liquid hit him he let out a wail that damn near busted my eardrums. He reeled and squirmed in pain, kicking up mulch and other debris that landed on top of him.
With a handful of gauze, I pressed down on the little hole in his side. The white mesh quickly turned red and was rendered useless by the amount of blood oozing from him. I grabbed another box and ripped it open then stuffed the gauze on top of the old one.
"Fuck!" Mike yelled in agony.
I tried to hold him down, but he was throwing a fit squirming and twisting on the ground. More blood gushed from his wound and I knew if he didn't get help quickly he was going to die.
"Come on man, we've gotta get you home. Those chicks across the street are nurses or something."
Mike grunted and I took that as agreement. I grabbed his free hand and pulled him into a sitting position. I looked back at the cart and figured I could cram him in there if I moved the grill to the bottom shelf.
I left him there and moved a few things around to make room. Once I had a little pocket that I thought he could fit in I wheeled the cart over and started to pull him up.
"I'm cold man," he said as I grabbed his hand.
He shifted a bit to the side and I could see the puddle of blood that had been pouring from the hole in his torso. The entire back of his shirt was stained with the deepest, darkest shade of blood I'd ever seen. It was almost black.
"What?" Mike asked as my extended pause alarmed him.
"No... nothing. You're gonna be fine man."
I hoisted him into my arms and sat him into the cart as gently as I could. He groaned and cursed, but finally settled in. It looked uncomfortable being crunched up between jugs of water and canned foods, but we had little choice.
"You're gonna be okay Mike, just hold on," I told him. With trembling hands, I grabbed the buggy and started to push it toward home.
CHAPTER 7
THE BEARER OF BAD NEWS
It was a little past midday and the warm muggy air had only gotten worse. Pushing the cart full of supplies and Mike had become quite a chore and I was sweating enough that I worried about dropping dead from dehydration.
"You okay up there Mike?" I asked after a solid five minutes of silence.
"Yarghh, yeah!" he garbled out.
His head was slumped back on a roll of paper towels and his legs were dangling out of the cart like spaghetti noodles. We were maybe half way home and I was praying that help would be waiting once I got there.
"Stay awake Mike," I ordered.
He was slipping in and out of consciousness and it was really starting to scare me. Whether the gauze was working or he'd run out of blood, his wound had stopped bleeding. But now his condition had taken a nose dive and I started trying to come to terms with the idea that I might have to tell his wife that he'd died.
Mike's face was peppered with beads of sweat. His lips had turned a light shade of blue and he was constantly mumbling under his breath in gibberish.
I pushed the cart as fast as I could, even running a bit with it when the sidewalk was smooth enough not to jolt him about. I could see the gates to our neighborhood coming up and I felt the slimmest of hope that Mike might make it out okay.
The sun beamed above me and every trace of clouds had been burned away. My forearms ached and the little squeaking wheels of the cart were driving me mad. My legs felt like lead and wobbled sporadically with every step I took, but I kept pushing, Mike needed me to keep pushing.
"You still with me buddy?" I asked as I reached the gate and started to punch in the code. "Mike?"
There was no answer. I took a deep breath and swallowed, trying to prolong the time before I turned around and saw what I already knew. This was Schrodinger's cat taken to a whole new level and I was willing to stand in limbo forever than be the one to open that box.
"Mike," I said and the crackle in my voice shocked me. "Answer me man."
With a heavy heart, I turned around. Pain stabbed me like needles as I stared at Mike's lifeless face and I felt a rush of emotions that I couldn't comprehend.
His eyes were dull and cloudy. His mouth hung open, his blue lips dry and cracked. It was obvious he'd taken his last breath, but I still wasn't ready to accept it.
"Mike!" I yelled. "Mike get up!"
I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him vigorously. His head bounced back and forth and I shivered from the morbidity I felt. The sting of tears down my face was like a slap that brought me crashing to my knees.
This was someone's husband, someone's father. How was I gonna explain to Jennifer that Mike had been killed over a jug of water? How could I explain to his sons that their father was never coming back?
"Oh my God," I wailed.
With my face buried in my sweaty, bloodstained hands, I cried. I cried until the tears ran dry and my head beat like a drum. I cried until there was nothing left for me, but action. I cried until I had no choice, but to face reality and put one foot in front of the next. I cried for Mike, but more importantly, I cried for what his absence would mean for those that were left behind.
Mike and I were casual friends at best, but he loved his kids. He loved his wife and somehow, I felt responsible for stealing him from them. It was wrong that his last moments were spent with a man he only kind of knew. It was wrong that his sons would have to bury him long before he could ever teach them to shave, before he could teach them to be men themselves.
It was my fault we were even at the store. My idea to take all of the water. I hadn't pulled the trigger that killed Mike. But I'd put him there in front of the bullet.
I don't know how long I sat on the ground next to the cart that carried Mike's body, but at some point, a gentle rumble in the sky got my attention. The sun was gone, tucked behind a swatch of dark gray. The wind had picked up and it was fitting that
some kind of apocalyptic storm would come and wash us all away.
With a heavy breath, I pushed myself to my feet. Swallowing the regret in my throat, I found some sort of resolve and moved forward like a zombie. I opened the gate and cringing, I pushed the cart through it.
Mike's head was leaning back. His empty eyes, staring up at a bleak sky that they would never see again. His hair moved slightly in the wind, giving the impression that there could still be life inside of him, but his bloodstained shirt told a different story.
As I neared my house I slowed down. I was thankful for the empty streets and shut windows that kept prying eyes from seeing me. I didn't know what to say, I didn't know how to explain what had happened and in a few short minutes I'd be face to face with a grieving wife and heartbroken children.
I stopped the cart one house away, out front of Jake's place, and took several deep breaths. Jennifer didn't need to see this alone and I immediately thought of her dad, Mr. Spintz.
I wheeled Mike closer to my porch where he was obscured by the landscaping, then headed next door to Mike's house. If I was lucky, Jennifer would be busy with the kids and Mr. Spintz would answer the door, but my day had been anything but lucky.
I tapped my knuckles against the door then stepped back. After a few moments, I heard rumbling inside and the door swung open. Standing in front of me was Zach, Mike's seven-year-old son. He was the spitting image of his father and looking into his eyes sent a jolt to my heart that was almost debilitating.
"Hey Mr. Williams. Is my dad back yet?"
I choked up and tried to blink away the tears that burned with shame. "No," I grumbled in a rough voice. "No not yet. Can you get your grandpa?"
Zach nodded with a smile, then skipped away without a care in the world. This was going to be much harder than I imagined.
"Randall, where's Mike?" Jennifer's voice called as she headed toward the door.
"Um...I, I just need to see Mr. Spintz real quick."
"Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, everything is..."
"Randall," Mr. Spintz announced his presence.
He stopped behind Jennifer with a welcoming smile that was about to be ripped away. I looked up at him and stared into his eyes. His jaw tightened and his face changed.
Mr. Spintz was a military man, a Vietnam veteran, and perhaps experiences like that gave you the ability to see the shadow of death on someone's face. Whatever it was he seemed to understand the severity without a word being spoken.
"Jennifer, can you grab Zach a cupcake? I need to have a word with Randall."
Jennifer looked a bit confused, but didn't question it. "Sure, but don't go too far boys."
Mr. Spintz smiled then stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind him. I took a few steps back and dropped my head. I couldn't stand to look at him, I couldn't stand to tell him that his son-in-law lay dead only a few feet away.
"What happened?" Mr. Spintz asked in a serious tone.
"Mr. Spintz...I, I..."
"George," he interrupted. "Call me George."
"George, I don't know where to begin."
"Is he dead?" George asked as if he needed confirmation.
My eyes answered him before my words ever could. His face pained and wrinkled, aged before my eyes. He too, thought of what the news would do to the family and I could see it tearing him apart.
"Did you, did you bring him back?" he asked.
I nodded then moved toward the steps. I motioned at the bushes and he followed after me. As Mike's body came into view he paused and stared at him from a distance.
Shaking his head from side to side, he collected himself. He walked next to the cart and placed his hand on Mike's leg.
"What happened?"
"It's bad out there George. A lot of looting at the store," I started.
I knew it would be hard for anyone to understand that hadn't seen it. Before we'd left, we thought it was just a power outage that would be over in a few days. The reality was the world, or at least our city was falling apart.
"It's not like we thought it was. The shopping center was on fire, people were everywhere. We grabbed as much stuff as we could and tried to leave, but some guys stopped us. One of them shot him," I finished and my voice broke.
"I feared it would get like this. It always gets like this," George replied.
What an odd thing to say, I thought. It seemed like George was even more paranoid than I was. But with Mike dead in the cart in front of him, I guess he had every reason to be.
"I tried George, he just wouldn't stop bleeding. He died right before the gate."
"This is gonna break her. The boys, the boys might not understand and good if they don't, but this is gonna break Jennifer. She'll never come back from this."
I didn't know how to reply. My heart ached for their family and the guilt that amplified inside of me was more than I could bear.
"Dad," Jennifer suddenly called from the porch. "He's right there boys."
Suddenly, Zach and their younger son, Max, hurried down the steps of the porch and ran toward us. Jennifer was a little ways behind them and had already started to twist her face, trying to figure out what George and I were looking at.
"No!" George shouted as he tried to head the boys off. "Jennifer keep them back."
Jennifer's face shown that she'd already recognized the lifeless mass that jutted out of the cart. Before words could leave her lips, she tore off toward us with her mouth gaping wide and her eyes beaming disbelief.
"Michael!" she screamed in a guttural, harrowing voice.
George tried to step in front of her, but she blew past him and charged toward the cart. I didn't know what to do so I just stood there in shock.
"Michael...what's wrong with him?" she wailed.
She fell forward on top of him and started crying uncontrollably. Her fingers found his face and she tried to lift his head. "Get up, get up Mike. Come on, we need to go inside. Somebody...call somebody. He needs me, he needs help."
As her emotions unraveled, she spiraled into a darkness that chilled my spine. Random words mixed with sobs and screeches of pain erupted like a popped balloon. The human mind couldn't comprehend death. It was an irrational aberration and the only response the brain knew was fear, anger, and malfunction.
George grabbed her and she flung and kicked her legs wildly. Zach and Max stood by with stone faces, their immature brains trying to make sense of the lie their eyes told. I vaguely remember trying to usher them inside, but suddenly Jennifer escaped George's grasp and her pain turned to venom aimed in my direction.
"Don't you fucking touch them!" she shouted so loudly that people from several houses down had started to peek outside. "What did you do...what did you do to him? I hate you, I fucking hate you!"
She slapped me in the face then dove at me. I did nothing to protect myself. Whatever she was feeling, whatever she needed to do, I deserved. I'd taken her husband and there was nothing anyone could do to bring him back.
The door to my house slowly opened and Melinda stepped out. She silently surveyed the scene, trying to comprehend the madness that was ensuing before her. Her eyes locked onto Jennifer and she rushed down the steps, but froze when she spotted Mike's body.
By that time, Zach and Max were at their father's side, pulling on his arm. They looked scared and confused, but what really stung my heart was that they expected him to get up at any moment.
"Dad," Max's soft voice called. "Dad, wake up."
With a pained face, Melinda walked toward them. "Come on guys, your dad isn't feeling well." As she led the boys away from the cart she glanced back at Mike's corpse and shuddered.
"Jennifer it's not his fault. You have to calm down," George groaned and grabbed her again.
As he pulled her away she swiped her hand and slashed me across the cheek with her nails. I felt the sensation of her fingers touching my face, but there was no pain. I was numb and having to watch a man's children plead over his dead body was mo
re than I could take.
"I hate you! I hate you!" Jennifer screeched as George led her back inside.
Melinda took the boys into our house and for a short time I was alone. I stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the sky, questioning everything that I'd thought I knew just a few hours before.
More dark clouds had gathered in dense clusters, ready to burst. Gusts of cool wind blew across my face, but I found no pleasure in it. The sky grumbled at me angrily, protesting against the wrongs I had done
"Randall," George's voice called.
I slowly turned to face him, trying to hide the water on my face that had nothing to do with the incoming storm. Our eyes met and he understood the pain I felt and nodded his head in acceptance.
"It sounds wrong...but, they have a deep freezer in the garage. It's still pretty cold and it's empty. We need to move him. We can't leave him out here. Tomorrow, I'll notify the proper authorities."
I didn't reply. He was right, it did sound wrong. What had our world come to that a dead man had no better resting place than a meat freezer in his own garage?
A few days ago, he'd cleared that freezer out to make room for the deer he'd bring home from his annual hunting trip up north. A few days ago, he was busy planning a menu for the upcoming Super bowl party. A few days ago, he would've slept next to his wife, in his own bed with his children crammed in between them, not in a cold metal box.
"Randall," George called again. "We have to do this."
CHAPTER 8
THE DAY AFTER
I'd fallen asleep on the couch, staring out of the window. The next day when I awoke Melinda was gently snoring beside me, balled up under a blanket.
I gave her a soft nudge and she slowly opened her eyes. I immediately felt the stab in my heart that I thought I'd left with yesterday. I groaned and leaned forward with my elbows on my knees.
"You okay?" Melinda asked.
"No."
"What...what happened out there?"
I knew that question was coming and I was happy to have avoided it yesterday. But now I had no choice, but to deal with it. It would probably be the topic of discussion for the next few weeks and I was certain the police would be eager to hear what happened.
Deconstruction- The Complete series Box Set Page 4