by Daniel Parme
Devereaux turned to see. Synchek turned to see.
It’s important to remain calm because when God’s not opening a window, as they say, He’s opening a big fucking door, and you’d better be ready for it.
I wasn’t ready for it.
But Dick was. He lunged after Synchek and knocked him to the floor, the cleaver sent sliding across the tile and spinning to a stop right in front of Angela.
Devereaux, with those policeman instincts of his, spun and took aim, but the scuffle left him no shot, as he might have accidentally hit Synchek.
I don’t really remember getting to my feet, but there I was, standing behind Mr. I’m Gonna Fuck Your Girl And Then Kill Her, opening the nozzle of my little acid cannon and squirting him in the face when he turned back around.
If you’ve ever sprayed hydrocyanic acid into a person’s eyes, you’ve learned that first he’ll scream and try to shoot you. He’ll miss, of course, and by a happy twist of fate catch Conicella right in the eye. Then he’ll drop his gun, drop to the floor and convulse like an epileptic at a rave, and die. You’ve learned that this all happens almost immediately.
If you’ve ever researched the dangers of hydrocyanic acid, you’ve learned that it’s bad, very, very bad, to get it on your skin. You’ve learned that it will kill you, but thankfully not nearly as quickly as it has that poor bastard who just took a shot in the eye.
If you’ve ever woken up and had the distinct feeling that you’re not really a part of what’s happening, that you’re just an observer, you’ve learned that it’s no big deal to dive to the floor after that meat cleaver and lop off your own hand before the poison gets into your bloodstream. You’ve also learned that this involves an awful lot of blood.
I lay there on the floor, bleeding but relieved, and a big black shoe appeared in front of me, it’s reflection upside-down in my blood. I looked up to see Walter. He was a grinning, sweaty-toothed madman, and he had picked up Devereaux’s gun.
“I’m going to kill you all. And then I’m going to eat you.”
I was getting weak. I couldn’t stand. But I could speak. “You’re going to kill your own niece? And your best friend? What are you?”
“I am everyone who’s become a part of me. And soon I will become you as well, my young friend. This is what happens to those who betray me. You can say goodbye to Angela, if you’d like.”
I turned my head, but she was no longer in her corner. Synchek noticed.
“Pity when a man dies alone. I honestly thought she liked you, too.”
And then I saw it. That cleaver. The one I’d used to hack up my friend. It was next to his head, stump-side, and then it was under his chin. And then there was Walter, on his knees, hands around his slit throat, choking on his own blood as he looked up to see his niece, holding the blade that cut him.
“So much for living forever, you sick fuck,” she said. And then she looked at me and took a step to help me up.
“Come on,” she said. “I need to get some air.”
There was a voice saying softly, calmly, “Don’t get it on you. Don’t get any of it on you. Get out before you get any of it on you.”
I knew this voice.
“Don’t get it on you.”
I was tired, so tired, but I knew my voice.
“Stay calm,” I said, mostly to myself. “Stay calm.”
The story isn’t over yet. The story has time to change.
If you’re alive, you’re not dead.
Chapter 48
There were days of well-balanced meals; chicken, peas, rice, milk, juice, jello. There were days of sponge baths. There were nurses and orderlies, feeding and bathing me, asking me questions. They were telling me I was so brave. They couldn’t believe it, I was so brave.
There were the doctors and shrinks, another ton of questions. “How did you feel when you decided you had to kill them? When you poisoned them? When you saw them there, dead? When you awoke to discover you were missing a hand?”
Those, of course, are only a few of the questions. But my answers were – oh, fuck it. My answers weren’t honest. They were just a way to keep me out of the nut house, or out of prison (plea bargains and probation are two of my favorite things about this country). My real answer is I didn’t feel a thing. Not a thing. That wasn’t me, who did all those things. That guy, he doesn’t really exist.
There were visits from Dave, who’d quit the pot cold turkey. Dave, whose last memory of that night was meeting a “really big dude” in the parking lot of the diner and asking him if he’d seen a warehouse somewhere around here. He quit smoking weed because he knew that guy, but he didn’t remember it at the time. It affects the memory, you know.
There were visits from Dick, who’d managed to get some sort of immunity deal in return for turning in the surviving members of PEP. He lost his job, but was fine with it. “No more dead people,” he said. “I’m going cold turkey. I think I’ll write a book.”
If you’ve ever spent any time stranded and maybe dying in the mountains of Somewhere Near Alaska, Canada, you’ve learned that you can survive this, but only mostly. You’re not dead, you’re alive. But you’re not the same. Your story has changed because your story has changed you. That guy from before, you can forget about him. He’s gone.
If you’ve ever spent any time with an underground group of murderous cannibals, feasting on unclaimed bodies, sipping fine wine, pretending to be interested in mergers and acquisitions, being afraid for your life and the lives of those close to you, and plotting mass murders, you’ve learned you can survive this, too. But only mostly. Again, you’re not dead, but you’re not you. That guy, ancient history.
If you’ve ever spent any time touring the talk show circuit, the magazines, the newspapers, you’ve learned that these people, they don’t really care that you survived, even if it is only mostly. You’ve learned that you can make jokes like, “Oh, come on. Give me a hand here,” and you can wave your stump in the air, and everyone in the audience will laugh. The hosts will laugh. And then they’ll hand you a basket full of useless shit and send you on your way.
They’ll send you on your way, home to your little blonde angel, the only person in the world who doesn’t need to hear about what happened then. The one who understands best who you are now, because she’s someone different now, too.
If you’ve ever done any of this, you’ve learned to remain calm. The story changes, you change, the other characters change. You’ve learned to remain calm because it either all goes on, or it doesn’t.
You’re either dead, or you’re alive. And it’s amazing the way the story keeps changing when you’re not dead.
