by Tim Meyer
Clamping his hand over the bullet hole, Bob screamed.
Brenda told her husband to stay inside; something was off about the way the cop was speaking to them. It didn't sound right. He didn't sound right. And although Bob didn't exactly disagree, he left anyway.
“It'll be fine, honey,” he had said. “He's a cop. Maybe he's here to help.”
It was wishful thinking on his part and if he had been locked in Malek's cage with her, he might have read the situation differently.
“We can't trust strangers,” she had told him. “Not even cops.”
He waved her off and told her, “trust me” and now he was shot, writhing on the sidewalk, bleeding out through a hole in his shoulder. If he survived, she vowed to never let him talk her out of a gut feeling again.
She slammed through the front door and sprinted to his side, screaming his name and ignoring the cop's request to “stay the fuck back.” Quickly, she located the bullet hole, above his right clavicle. The bullet went straight through, and Bob wasn't bleeding too badly. Nothing cotton and tape couldn't fix.
She glanced up at the cop, who hadn't moved from behind the cruiser's door.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she said, her voice strained with anger.
“Ma'am, you need to get the fuck away from that man, and put your hands where I can see them, or I will open fire on both of your candy asses!”
He didn't act like a cop. At least no cop Brenda ever met. He acted more like a cop on television or “reality” TV. Society's version of the ultimate bad-ass police officer. For Christ's sake, the man was wearing sunglasses at night.
“Ma'am? Don't test me.”
She rose to her feet, her upper lip trembling. Her contemptuous lip motion pleased the officer, and he let her know this with a sly grin. She could almost hear his voice: Damn right, bitch. I'm in charge here and you will obey.
Brenda didn't have much of a choice other than to meet his demands. Her son was inside the pharmacy, along with his girlfriend, and the only other person she could rely on was Tina, who wasn't her biggest fan, nor she of her. In that moment, she pictured Tina on the rooftop, peering at the officer through the scope of a sniper rifle, readying herself to peel back the cop's scalp with one trigger pull. But Brenda waited and waited and the officer's head remained intact, not peeled, exploded, or disappeared behind a firework of blood and brains like she imagined. The man simply laughed as he stepped away from the car door, pointing the gun at her head.
“Now,” the officer said, capturing high-pitched giggles in his throat. “Why don't you go ahead and call out those renegade fugitives?”
Before she could speak, bright blinding lights filled her eyes. Brenda threw her arm over her head, protecting her eyes from the burn. Blind from the action around her, she heard honking, sounding far away at first, but closer as the seconds ticked. Another gunshot sounded and she expected to feel her own head explode before finding herself in Heaven or Hell, or wherever her soul was destined to reside. Glass shattered behind her and she knew the brights had caused the cop to miss. She had the driver to thank when this was all over, whoever he was.
Brenda heard the cop yell, “Oh fuck!” before the tires squealed and the metal on metal collision deafened her ears, and bits of glass showered her face.
-8-
“Fuck!” Sam yelled, smashing his fist against the dashboard. His wrist throbbed, his hand half-numb from the adrenaline kick. Mickey stood several football fields away, outside his car, gun in hand. Bob stood less than twenty feet from the psycho cop, shoving his hands in the air, surrendering peacefully. Whatever words the two men exchanged went unheard, and Sam watched the gun buck in Mickey's hand, a sudden thunderous boom joining the moment. Bob's body whipped backward and he landed on the sidewalk, back first, feet up in the air. A second later, Bob was writhing around the sidewalk, his eyes clenched together, screaming in agony.
Jarvis accelerated.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked.
“Driving,” Jarvis said, concentrating on the road. Cruiser #3 gained speed as he slammed his foot on the pedal. Sam didn't like the look in Jarvis's eyes; it reminded him too much of Sargent Mickey's.
Sam spotted Brenda. She dropped to her knees next to her husband. Once she realized he was going to live, she turned on the cop, screamed at him, pointing her finger vehemently, a lot like how Sam remembered. He didn't need to open the window to hear her shout; Sam witnessed this particular rage a thousand times before, and had committed her wide range of insults to memory. He waited for the cop to exceed his boiling point, and for Brenda's head to explode in a cloudy mist of blood, for her body to hit the sidewalk lifelessly while remnant brain matter splashed the street. Sam knew she was asking for it, pushing the man to his limit. Each second the cop's finger remained off the trigger was a blessing.
Mickey's face twisted. His eyebrows climbed higher, stretching toward his forehead. His bullshit meter neared capacity. His finger squeezed the trigger.
Sam reached over and pounded the center of the steering wheel, over and over again until he snagged the bastard's attention. Mickey whipped his head toward the noise, and Jarvis clicked on the high beams, lighting the pharmacy parking lot up like a Broadway show. They watched the cop shield his face with his arm. He fired blindly at Brenda and the two shots sailed past her head, shattering the pharmacy's glass facade behind her, reducing them to dancing, glittering granules.
“Slow down,” Sam said to Jarvis.
“No,” he replied. He continued to accelerate, pushing the cruiser above sixty-five.
“You're going to crash into—”
“Exactly!” Jarvis yelled, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Buckle up!”
Sam nearly ripped the seat belt out of its home, buckling himself in record time. Grabbing the oh-shit bar, he tucked his knees against his chest and braced for impact.
The crash was worse than he imagined. The airbags deployed, preventing their heads from smashing against the dashboard and keeping their brains inside their skulls, but the experience was far from pleasant. Sam immediately ached all over, his neck taking the worst of it. He'd feel like death tomorrow, stiff and unable to flex a muscle.
He'd deal with that later.
Now, he had a family to save.
Jarvis scrambled out of the cruiser first, looking like the crash had zero effect on him. How he felt was a different matter, one Jarvis didn't pay much attention to. His focus was on the cop, the evil bastard who had already found his feet and his .38 Special. It seemed like crashing the car had been an unnecessary risk, one that had played out better in his mind.
Sargent Mickey stumbled. Blood poured from a gash above his right eye. He fired his .38 and missed whatever he was aiming at. The bullet sailed into a brick building behind him, kicking up red chalky dust on impact. He pulled the trigger again and obtained similar results. A leaky cut above his eye impaired his vision and the crash had damaged his right leg, throwing off his balance. He limped toward Jarvis, pulling the trigger, the gun roaring with each vicious squeeze. Bullets sailed past Jarvis and the brick storefronts absorbed them. The last bullet came close to finding its intended target; Jarvis felt the breeze brush against his ear.
“Someone needs practice.”
Mickey wiped the blood away from his eye. He aimed at Jarvis, steadying his hand, summoning his complete concentration. Jarvis stared into the insane man's eyes, and the cold gaze told him he wouldn't miss again.
Oh shit, Jarvis thought. This is it. This is game over, man.
“Wait!” Sam shouted.
The cop froze. His eyes shifted toward the sound of his voice.
“It's me you want,” Sam told him. “I'm the drug kingpin here.”
Mickey chewed the inside of his mouth while he tried piecing the information together. None of it seemed to make much sense, and he didn't enjoy the struggle his brain was giving him. “Explain,” he said, keeping the gun on Jarvis, waiting for Sam to give him a g
ood reason not to blow the back of his skull out.
“You're right. We raided the rehab facility for drugs and we fully intended to sell every last pill, and make a bank load off our discovery. Until you came around and fucked everything up.”
Mickey still wasn't convinced. Things weren't adding up. He didn't know exactly what Sam was talking about, but to his ears it sounded like trickery. He kept his attention on Jarvis, the gun steady in his hand.
“See, I'm like... Heisenberg,” Sam said. “And he is my Pinkman. And the pharmacy is our lab. There's a ton of drugs in there!” A panicky laugh escaped through Sam's lips. “And you found it! You're a hero. All you gotta do is bust us. Rally us up, take us down to the station, book us—”
Jarvis mouthed the words, What the fuck are you doing?
“Judge Fayden will sentence us to a nice long trip up at the statehouse, with no parole mind you—hell, he might even issue us death by fire? Wouldn't that be nice?” Sam asked, grinning as wide as his mouth would travel.
“Fuck Fayden,” Mickey said.
“Huh?” Sam asked.
“Sargent Mickey is in charge. And I will do the sentencing from here on out.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “And I'll start with you,” he said to Jarvis. “Guilty. Sentence: death by firing squad.”
The gun roared and everybody gasped.
Sargent Mickey's calf muscle exploded into a glob of blood and shredded sinew, splattering against Cruiser #3 passenger side door in rough Rorschach fashion. Crying out, the man crumbled to his knees. He abandoned the .38 and used both hands to cover the gory mess once part of the leg he worked out every morning at the precinct's gym. Mickey winced in agony and rolled on his back, cursing the “motherfuckers” and “cocksuckers”, wishing they'd all “burn in hell” with the rest of the drug-abusing sinners.
Sam looked up from Mickey and saw his son standing a good thirty feet away, lowering the rifle away from his eye, wisps of smoke unfurling from the muzzle.
“Holy shit,” Matty said. “I shot him.”
Tina rushed down the street, stopping at Matty's side, her stone-cold face hiding her true feelings about what had just happened. Together they walked closer to the injured man, stride for stride. Tina aimed her handgun, ready to blow him away if he reached for the .38 on the ground next to him.
Jarvis approached cautiously. Sam grabbed the rifle he had nabbed from the office and directed it at Mickey's head. With the others he approached, until the foursome formed a tight square around him. Brenda tended to Bob; the bleeding had stopped, the ebbing pain reduced to a dull throb. Bob watched the crazed cop's actions along with his wife, asking her with his eyes to leave the wound alone until after Sam resolved the situation and guaranteed their safety.
“Holy shit,” Matty said again, watching the gore dangle from the cavity his rifle created.
“It's okay, Matty,” Tina said, grabbing his shoulder, pulling him close. She could feel Brenda's eyes burning a hole in the back of her neck, but she didn't care. “It's okay.” She turned to Sam. “Where's Chuck?”
“This fucker killed him,” Jarvis answered.
“And I'll fucking kill you too, boy!” Mickey cried. “I'll kill all you motherfuckers!”
Jarvis kicked the man as hard as he could in the head. His jaw snapped, twisting to the side of his face. Matty turned away. Tina put a hand on his back and ushered him over to his mother. He sat down and lowered his reddening face into his palms, refusing to look his mother in the eye.
“Take that, bitch!”
With his jaw rearranged, the cop would never say another word. He squirmed around, trying to worm his way out of the situation, but Sam placed his foot on Mickey's back, squashing the feeble escape attempt.
Sam glanced over his shoulder; Matty was crying into his hands, his mother rubbing his back and whispering into his ear, trying to comfort him, ensuring him everything was okay, that he didn't do anything wrong. He wasn't sure she believed it herself, but it seemed to help. Matty's loud sobs diminished, replaced by quiet sniffles. He looked to Tina next; she fixed him with that what-choice-do-we-have expression he came to adore. He shrugged and turned back to Jarvis, who continued kicking Sargent Mickey in the head, but with less force than before. The cop had lost his fight, lazily punching the space between them. Matty's aim left Mickey's leg a mangled mess and if ignored, he'd die of infection; or the smell would attract a pack of carnivorous animals, happy to finish him off; or he'd survive the night and the day would take care of him, end his suffering in fire and smoke. Either way, it'd be the slow death he deserved.
Sam knew they couldn't take a chance. Suppose another group came along. Suppose they were nice people; good people; innocent people. Suppose they took good care of Sargent Mickey, nursed him back to full strength. He'd be back to his tricks in no time, slaughtering people who simply want to survive. He couldn't risk it. He wouldn't be able to sleep knowing that plausible scenario existed.
Sargent Mickey reached out for Jarvis's leg, one last effort.
Sam put the rifle to the back of Mickey's head.
“Sam, don't.”
The plea came from Brenda, but it was too late.
He pulled the trigger and Mickey's brains spewed through the exit wound, splashing across the pavement like a broken jar of raspberry jam.
“WESTWARD”
EPISODE ELEVEN
-1-
The world before The Burn would always be remembered. Mouth was sure of it. Television, movies, the Internet, hand-held artificial intelligence, new music, PS4; all the things humanity loved to occupy their dull minds were lost in the past, artifacts future generations would one day marvel over. He didn't like to think the old world was extinct. Life could continue the way it was before. Humanity just needed some time to figure it all out. Sort through the madness. Take a few steps back. Recollect. Get back on the horse again. It would work out. Humanity would rise above it. They always did, didn't they?
It was wishful thinking. The sad truth was the world had gone to shit, and there simply wasn't enough forward-thinking people to pull it out of the toilet. Humanity now relied heavily on its primal instincts, the hopes and dreams of a stable and structured society abandoned. Mouth couldn't see why people weren't rallying together, trying to reestablish government and law and order, organizational methods of any kind. The world had simply given up. Waved the white flag. Cried uncle. It was easier to live like animals and become the primal, savage beasts everyone was, deep down.
As he drove down the coast, the tranquil black ocean waters to the east of him, he thought about Soren's Alaska and what it'd mean to them. He thought about the potential dangers and what might happen once they arrived. If there were people surviving beneath the surface, who was to say they'd let them in? Suppose they were crazy as the rest of the world. Suppose Soren couldn't guarantee everyone a safe place inside. Would it snow in Alaska now that the sun had obtained the unique ability to wipe out the human race? The sun seemingly had little to no effect on Mother Earth's climate. Mouth could see the evidence on the trees, their green hands being granted the autumn effect, curling in death and falling to the tall weeds below. He marveled over how unruly nature had become; weeds sprouted everywhere, some growing almost as tall as Dana. It was a wonder what six months could do to an unkempt world.
Everyone slept while he drove, thinking about the world and how much it had changed in a relatively short period. Sometimes it seemed like he and few others were the only sane people left. Soren was smart, but Mouth sensed he was a few tools short in the shed. Dana and Becky were still too young and easily influenced by their environment. He could see Dana drifting toward what he called “The Dark Side” and sadly, there wasn't much he could do or say to stop her. He'd watch over her like he promised Sam, but if she wanted to follow Soren like a lovesick puppy, that was her prerogative. Shondra was perhaps the only person he trusted as much as himself. Susan was a full-blown basket case, and the end of times seemed to have brought out the
worst in her, religious fervency fueling her bitter presence. He didn't know David well, but the guy seemed decent. He had been a victim of volatile emotions during Costbusters' early days, but he attributed those moments to the steroids he had abused, and as time progressed, so did he. He mellowed out. A few weeks ago, Mouth had struck up a conversation about sports and David joined in, arguing amiably about the future of the Mets' franchise, and what great shape their pitching was in. Mouth, a die-hard Yankee fan since ten years old, told him the Mets would always be the second best baseball team in New York, and no amount of solid pitching could change that. The conversation slowly died off when they realized they'd never see those young arms in action again. Never see them develop into the legends the experts had predicted. Never see them win the Amazin's a title. Saddened, they ended their sports talk and discussed things that mattered now. Food. Water. A safe place to stay while the sun reigned over them.
Soren stirred in his sleep. Mouth watched him closely, switching back and forth between the road and the man he wished he could kick out of the moving van. After about ten minutes of mumbling in his sleep, Soren's eyes shot open.
“Bad dream?” Mouth asked.
“How'd you know?” He rubbed his temples. They ached like hell.
“You were crying like a fucking baby.”
Soren narrowed his eyes.
“Just fucking with you.” Mouth was still bitter about what had happened in the tunnel and his expression showed. Anger seeped into his words. “I wouldn't expect you to cry over spilt milk. Because that's all Brian and the others were, right? Just a small tragedy? I hope you heard their screams in your nightmares, you son of a bitch.”
Soren rolled his eyes. “Mouth, please. It's too early for this.”
“It's never too early!” he said, pounding the dashboard. Shondra and the others shifted in their sleep, the noise not enough to wake them. Mouth adjusted his volume. “You sent those people to die,” he whispered.
