by D. L. Koontz
Nathan moaned and bent over, grabbing his head and posturing severe pain, which was mostly true anyway. Sensing that Andreii hadn’t expected such a move, he grabbed the knife with his right hand, and bounded up and forward in one fluid movement. His intent was to stab Andreii in the chest, but his opponent was too fast, stepping back and kicking Nathan. The knife entered Andreii’s knee and they both fell to the ground struggling. Nathan heard the pistol fall, but Andreii got to it first, rolled over, and aimed at Nathan, still prone beside him on the ground.
The gunshot was so loud Nathan felt the ringing in his ears before he felt the pain. Due to the way he’d been lying, one bullet pierced his left hand and entered his belly. He screamed in agony and curled into a fetal position, pressing his other hand against a wound that he had learned, from having spent time in battle, generally proved fatal.
Andreii struggled to his feet, his leg now bent at an odd angle. “You fool,” Andreii glowered, pain etching his face. He spit grass from his mouth. “I was going to shoot you in the heart so you would die quickly. But with that stunt, I will let you here to die the slow death you deserve.”
Despite Nathan’s blurred vision, he watched as Andreii removed his rifle and jammed the stock one hard and fast thrust into Nathan’s wounded stomach.
Nathan wailed in pain.
Andreii limped to the horses, grabbing the reins of one and hobbling onto the other. Blood covered his damaged leg.
Nathan vaguely heard Andreii ride off with the horses, then everything went black.
Chapter Five
2016
After escaping the restaurant, Libby learned over the next few days that there’s an obscure and intimate chasm of anger and denial one must cross between accepting the horror that one’s life is going to end, and embracing the hope that life can start anew somewhere...sometime...else.
After climbing off the ladies’ room floor at the restaurant, she had exited through the back door without saying goodbye to Andrew. By one a.m. he tried calling for the sixth time, each, she ignored, before leaving a final message saying he understood she needed time alone to come to terms with what he’d said.
With Colette already gone, Libby was left alone to prowl through the apartment, pacing then sitting, and pacing again, her eyes searching the ceiling, the walls, the floor, as though she were a caged animal seeking escape.
You are going to die. The words echoed again and again like a dominant chord.
She plopped onto the couch and bounced back up, repeatedly. By candlelight, she poured wine, brooded, and paced some more. She wandered into the kitchen, stood staring into the refrigerator for a moment, decided she couldn’t bear food, and closed the door. Drifting to the bedroom she opened her jewelry box and pulled out the few items she owned that had any value. To whom should she give them if death truly were imminent? With a burst of anger, she grabbed the pieces in one fell swoop from the dresser top, plunked them back into the box, and slammed the lid.
Preposterous! Andrew was wrong. He’d gone mad. His story was impossible. Asinine. Pure science fiction.
And yet, through the sulking and indignation and denial, Libby waited.
For 7:21 a.m. ...at 7:21 a.m., he will die.
She glanced at the clock on the wall for the thousandth time, and, for the thousandth time, followed it with verification on her cell phone. Each change of the digits taunted her, as though the numbers held on out of stubbornness, or fear of being replaced by the next ones.
At 7:02, she stepped onto the balcony and breathed in the familiar odor of exhaust fumes and distant garbage. Ugh, city life. Why had she settled for a profession that hadn’t fulfilled her, and which required her to live in a city? She looked east and watched daybreak arrive slowly, nudging through the gray pallor of tall buildings, one begrudging sunray at a time as though toying with her, knowing she was anxious for time to pass. She eyed the eighteen pots of herbs and medicinal plants that adorned her balcony. Her passion and hobby. The plants needed to be pinched and deadheaded. But, what would be the point? Fat lot of good they had done for her health.
At 7:18, she stared at her laptop, willing herself to turn it on. That emotion warred with the determination to wait, knowing the news media needed a few minutes to compose and dramatize a story. She counted, a thousand-one, a thousand-two, and so forth, a game, to see if she could count more slowly than the seconds ticked by. An effort to control her sanity.
At 7:30 she logged on, and there it was. The headline she’d denied, yet somehow anticipated, would appear: “Breaking News: Senator Woodbine Dead Following Car Crash.”
She read the story, word for word.
Three times.
Then, logged off. After pacing the room twice, she logged back on and saw new headlines: “Senator Succumbs to Injuries.” “Woodbine Dead After Georgetown Accident.” “Woodbine Dies at 54.”
Time of death: 7:21 a.m.
Libby reached for her cell phone, returned to the balcony to gulp in heaps of stale air, and called Andrew. “I need more,” was all she said, her tone cold.
As though he had anticipated this, he was quick to answer, never questioning her or asking to see her. He intoned: “At 8:24, two construction workers die from a building collapse near Dupont Circle. At 10:11 an earthquake hits Nepal, killing 65. At 11:14 a freight train jumps the tracks in northern France and crashes into a government building. Six people are transported to the hospital; two of them from South Africa.” He cleared his throat. “Babe, I could give you more. Things pertinent to the bureau. An agent’s death in—”
She blanched and clicked off the call. Within seconds, her phone sounded. Fearing Andrew had called back, she read the caller ID. Colette. Despite wanting to ignore the call, she took a deep breath and answered. She didn’t want Colette to think anything amiss.
“I made it to the Eastern Shore. Thought you’d want to know,” Colette said, her voice chipper. “I decided to stay through next week so the place is yours. How was dinner last night?”
Libby forced a normal tone into her voice. “Uneventful. Did your mom like the gifts?”
“What? Oh...yeah. Loved them. Hey girl, I gotta’ go. Mom needs me. Take care.”
Libby clicked off and called her doctor’s office. He couldn’t fit her in until next week. She fumbled through her purse to find the card Andrew tucked there. Dr. Kuzmich. She secured an appointment for three p.m. Next, she called in sick, and laid down to await the first event, the minutes ticking by with agonizing slowness.
After seeing coverage on YouTube about the building collapse, she waited for the second calamity, then the third.
Once she verified all three online, she turned on the television and there was proof again, before her eyes: descriptions by witnesses who saw the collapse at Dupont. Families searching for loved ones among the ruins of Nepal. Twisted train cars buried beneath what was left of a building near Rouen, France. Still in denial, she switched on the radio. Again, verification proved swift.
She blamed Andrew, wanted to hurt him. Because in telling her all this, he’d hurt her. Besides, it was probably his fault. He was a computer expert; somehow, none of this was true and he was manipulating cyberspace. He was involved in some vast conspiracy, or he worked with one of their enemies overseas powerful enough to create an electromagnetic pulse that had disturbed electronic equipment.
Desperate, she tucked cash into her jeans, grabbed a sweater to ward against the crisp early summer air and walked to the closest convenient store. Halfway there she realized she was wearing bedroom slippers, but kept going anyway.
She traipsed through the store and stopped at a display near the checkout counter to study the man behind the cash register. He made eye contact with customers and smiled, the entire lower half of his face changing with the effort. Deciding he looked genuine, honest, and couldn’t be an operative stationed here to deceive her, she stepped forward and asked for a pack of cigarettes. They sat on the shelves behind him, and this seemed like a g
ood way to open communication. When he asked which brand she wanted, she stopped short of confessing she didn’t smoke.
“The ...” Libby swallowed and raced her gaze across the packs on the metal shelving. “The red ones.” She pointed at the cartons.
Despite her impression of his veracity, she eyed him warily, as though he were part of an alien race that had taken over the earth, having placed themselves strategically to deceive her.
“Sad, isn’t it?” Libby said as she fished in her pockets for the money, never taking her gaze off him. “About the Senator, I mean.”
His shoulders dropped and he shook his head in dismay, his reaction too genuine to be denied. “Very sad, Miss. The country needed him. He was a good man.”
She blinked, breathed slowly. “And...and the earthquake.”
He bobbed his head in agreement. “Terrible. The world is falling apart. Over sixty dead. So sad.”
Libby plopped the money on the counter and left, forgetting the cigarettes and hurrying outside, then around the corner before doubling over to gulp in deep breaths of air. After a few moments, she stood and backed up to the wall of a building, trying to steady herself. It was then she found herself rubbing the scar that marred her chest, a memento of another particularly bad time in her life. She wondered why she hadn’t run in the opposite direction that day. She wished she could run away now.
She staggered home, her thoughts dwelling on how chance changes everything, how it can work for or against you, and when it’s against you, how it shifts your entire universe from one that had been orderly and workable, into one that prompts you to see everything around you as dark and threatening.
And yet, hope is a clinging, clawing sentiment that desperately holds on. She needed something more than secondary confirmation, despite it being available on multiple communication devices. Back at her apartment building, she climbed into her car and drove, in her slippers, for thirty minutes through heavy traffic to reach Dupont Circle. Pulling the car over, she parked illegally and climbed out, walking right up to the crime scene tape that designated the perimeter. Dazed, she stood there with a mute detachment, staring at the flattened building for almost an hour while streams of people eddied past.
That was when her internal switch flipped, moving from denial, to expectation. Everything after that happened in a haze. She began to see events, even herself, in more of a series of images, as still-shots, rather than as a moving flow of life. A shot of an event. A shot of her verifying it.
Somehow, she returned home, changed her shoes and made it to the doctor’s office in time for her appointment. She must have looked healthy because he contented himself with age, weight, and vitals. She lied, describing horrific headaches that landed her in several emergency rooms. No, she couldn’t get those records because the incidents occurred while overseas. More lies. He sent her for blood work and an emergency MRI. His office would call when they got the results.
Back at the apartment she stepped onto the balcony, called Andrew and asked for more. As before, there was no discussion of feelings, no questions of well-being. He fed her four more events, all destined to occur by 10 p.m. A flood in western Mexico, a chemical explosion in India, a Jet Ski crash in Panama City, Florida that kills a prominent Broadway star, and a huge drug raid involving a massive underground tunnel south of Phoenix.
In a rush, he added, “One of our agents is killed on assignment in Spain—”
“No!” She didn’t mean to be harsh, just to stop him. She couldn’t bear learning about those tragedies happening to fellow co-workers when she was on a track to prove, then probably remove herself from, her own demise. “This is enough,” Libby murmured and disconnected the call.
Sometime around 10:30, after verifying each development, she acknowledged to herself that the events were varied, not just involving technological disasters. They included manmade and natural tragedies. Despite her anger at Andrew, she accepted that he was innocent. He could not have manipulated or orchestrated these events to occur. And why would he? He loved her enough to be painfully honest. Overcome with exhaustion, she grabbed a blanket and reclined on the couch, giving in to the pull of sleep.
She dreamed she stood in a sea of fog when a voice called out. Turning to it, she saw him, running out of a distant wooded area. She’d had occasional dreams of this mysterious man through the years, but he was always faceless, shapeless, a murky unclear presence. Almost a phantom. A suggestion of reality. But this was different, and it jolted her. Now, he was clear and vibrant and alive. She drank in this phantom man as he moved to her side. “You’re my life. Please,” he urged, “come back to me.” Libby choked with the intensity of his emotion. Her eyes misted and she blinked. And in that blink, he disappeared. She cried out in despair, shooting upright into a sitting position, her blanket tangled and twisted around her legs and torso.
She drowsed in the dark for hours, all the while wondering: why is the past calling to her? What does it want from her? The questions hung in the silence of the room as darkened shadows shifted and changed with the movement of the moonbeams that stretched in through the glass doors to her balcony—the same moon that in mere days would watch with a front-row seat as the water claimed her.
For good measure, and from her balcony refuge, she repeated her verifications the next day. First, she called work and lied about having the flu, describing in detail alleged warnings she’d been given about how contagious she was. Next, she called Andrew. He offered more events, their times and locations, and she verified each through every means possible.
The final call that day was to the doctor’s office. Yes, they’d just gotten the results back, but could she please come in to discuss them in person? Following repeated no’s and pleas from her that they cut the crap and tell her over the phone, she was put through to Dr. Kuzmich. His voice was gentle, the typical doctor giving bad news. Yes, it was a tumor. Inoperable. And, by the way, she had tumors in her lungs as well. No, he wasn’t surprised she felt fine. Yes, the prognosis for individuals in this situation depends upon how early treatments begin. It’s not good, but there is radiation therapy. Perhaps chemotherapy. She really should give treatments a try; fight this, he urged. Give herself a chance for another few weeks of life. Besides, there are experimental treatments and medical breakthroughs every day. Blah, blah, blah.
Libby could take treatments, live a few more weeks, face the pity and goodbyes from friends and co-workers. All those pained, awkward looks and words. She toyed with the possibility one heartbeat before vetoing it. That decision made, exhaustion and darkness overcame her, and she accepted she was going to die.
The next morning, she woke up on the floor with no idea how she’d gotten there, despite being wrapped around her bed covers, her pillow cushioning her head. Sunlight spilled in through the angled slats of the window blinds, falling in patterned rectangles across the floor and interior walls. She ran a hand over her forehead and hair. It left an oily film on her fingers. She couldn’t remember when she’d last showered or eaten.
When had she ceased to care?
Within minutes, she found herself lying on the plush rug in Colette’s bedroom, with no memory of having gone there or why. As she pushed herself up, she noticed a familiar-looking bag under the bed. Curious, she pulled it out, pushed it back, then pulled it out again. Sure enough, it was the bag into which Colette had stored her mother’s wrapped birthday presents.
Why would her best friend lie about something so minor? Was she truly in the Eastern Shore? Now that Libby thought about it, Colette had been unusually curious about Libby’s comings and goings lately. With a small whine, Libby shoved the bag back under the bed and left the room. Anger raced through her. Was there nothing reliable and trustworthy and honest in her life?
Her next memory involved being balled up in a corner of the bathroom, her face moist and no idea how long she had been there. She began to sob, welcoming the release. She breathed in torturous gasps, as tears flowed in endless streams
down her cheeks. She was powerless. Without options. She’d lost control of everything that mattered, even the thoughts in her head.
Once Libby emptied herself, she experienced a hardness surrounding her heart, and an enmity entering her brain. Climbing to her feet, she looked in the bathroom mirror. Her face appeared contorted as though the ghost of death had already begun seeping into her being. She’d never felt so empty in her life. So devoid of purpose. People who feel like that die, don’t they? Isn’t the will to live everything?
She touched her brows, her cheeks, her lips, and accepted that denial had to end. The tragedies Andrew told her about on the first day had barely been repeated by the news media on the second day. By the third day they were gone. Each misfortune elbowed aside for the sake of a newer one. She was running out of time. History would close over her absence even more seamlessly than it had over those tragic events.
Would she cling to her anger at Andrew, at life, at God, even in the face of her own inevitable death?
With a surprising surge of spunk—and with no idea from where it had come—Libby decided she wanted to live, and she was running out of time.
She called Andrew, this time asking, “When can we meet?”
Chapter Six
2016
When she’d heard her shaky voice on the phone, her apartment suddenly felt stale and oppressive, like a crypt. Ironically, in order to confront the details of her death, she needed the warmth of the sunlight to buoy her, to bolster her to full life. So, she suggested they meet at the True Grounds Café, on the corner of King and Patrick streets, about eight blocks and countless head-clearing opportunities from where she lived.
They had first discovered the quaint 24-hour café after their third date, a Friday night spent soaking in a series of performances by jazz bands from dusk till dawn, at the river park. They’d left the concert pavilion after immersing (him explaining, her struggling to understand) themselves in what she’d considered to be random, haphazard tunes. As they headed back to her place in the limited pre-dawn light, she admitted to herself that she didn’t like the improvised, polyrhythmic sounds of jazz, but she certainly liked the man who liked it. So, when he’d spotted the café and suggested they get a cup of coffee, she was only too willing to prolong their date. They had agreed to a quick cup before entering, but once inside, the eclectic décor of chrome and burlap mixed with the rich infiltration of a variety of brews proved so pleasant, they’d wandered through the café’s five rooms seeking out their own corner hideaway. They had stayed for three hours.