by Brad Meltzer
Royall arched his arm back, swinging harder this time. Zig again tried to move, but even as he blocked the full weight of it with his forearm, the baton collided with his throat, near his windpipe.
A burst of liquid flooded Zig’s throat. In his mouth…that coppery taste. Blood. Zig was bleeding and gasping for air. No, if he crushed my larynx…
Royall wound up again. Zig curled in a ball, fighting to cover his own head. If the trocar were a baseball bat, Zig would be dead. It was hollow, but still enough to do damage.
“You know what you cost me!?” Royall roared, unleashing another hit, then another—spit flying from his mouth as he swung the trocar like a club, pummeling Zig in the arm, in the ribs, then a ruthless shot in the jaw, which sent Zig’s head spinning.
Blood flew from Zig’s lips. He was coughing now, choking on…ppttt…a dislodged tooth. He spit it to the ground in a phlegmy wad of blood.
Royall still didn’t let up, winding up yet again.
With each swing—each impact—it was harder for Zig to breathe. His ribs…the sharp pain…his lung was punctured, no question about that.
Krkk.
The metal baton hit him in the forearm. Ulna broken.
Zig was breathing in shallow gasps. Blood filled his mouth. And then—time itself began to churn, Zig knowing all too well the limits of what the human body could take.
Zig was curled in a ball. From the corner of his eye, he saw Royall standing over him, the wintry glow from the skylight framing Royall from above, making him look…angelic. That was the only word for it, even with the bloodlust in Royall’s eyes.
When Zig was younger, like most kids, he thought he’d have a spectacular death, an ending where he went out in style, wrestling a giant squid or leaping a rocket cycle over the Grand Canyon. As he got older, Zig realized that the very last thing you want in life is a spectacular death. Indeed, the more mundane your closing chapter is, the luckier you’ll likely be.
Still, even as a child, deep down, Zig knew his ending would come too soon. In the life he chose—he was always attracted to Death, and Death was attracted to him. For years, he could feel Death there, standing two steps behind him and watching. And of course, there was that day when Death followed him home. In recent years, as more and more souls came through Dover, he felt Death take another step closer, perched there on his shoulder, his ever-present raven, just sitting there, anxious to be fed.
Zig’s eyes rolled skyward. Above him, Royall was still in slow motion, adjusting his grip on the metal trocar. Royall held it up like a spear, aiming its metal tip toward Zig’s chest. Though Zig’s mouth wasn’t moving, he found himself saying the prayer he always said, the prayer for his daughter.
Usually, Zig prayed that one day, he’d see his Magpie. Today, lying there across the cold concrete, his face a purple pulp, he knew that part was assured. He’d see her for sure. What he prayed for now was that he’d see her quickly, so they could—
Pop. Pop, pop.
Gunshots. Zig tried turning his head, tried following the sound as slow motion sped back to reality. The noise…it came from the end of the aisle.
There. Down on the ground.
Nola was on her stomach, propped on her elbows. Her leg was bleeding, a long smear of blood curving behind her. She had army-crawled around the corner, holding a gun in her shaking hands. Pointed right at Royall.
“I told you, I’m gonna write your death in fire,” she warned, a wisp of smoke twirling from her gun.
88
Nola had pulled the trigger.
Royall froze. He looked down at himself, patting his chest. There was the old blood from the wound in his shoulder…but other than that— He started to laugh.
“You dumb shittard. You missed!” he hissed. He looked up, like he was about to take off.
“Don’t! Not a step!” Nola warned, her voice not nearly as strong as usual. The color was wiped from her face. To crawl all the way here, she lost so much blood. She was down on her stomach, her hands quaking. But no way was she letting him go free.
Fifty feet away, halfway down the aisle, Royall stood there, catching his breath and eyeing her like prey. The only thing between them was the shallow puddle of embalming fluid, the skylight reflecting off it, adding an odd serenity to the dark warehouse.
“Nola, if you think you have the balls to pull the trigger—”
Pop.
Nola fired again. There was a ping and a spark. The bullet ricocheted off something in the distance.
“Another miss?” Royall asked, a thin grin lifting his cheeks. “That’s gonna cost you your life.” If he wanted, he could’ve darted to his right, back toward the halogen lamps, and cut over to the aisle that ran parallel to this one. Escape. Instead, he stood his ground, readjusting the metal trocar in his hand.
Behind him, Zig was slumped across the concrete, unmoving.
Nola wanted to pull the trigger again, but the way her vision was darkening, the way the world was tilting—she’d lost so much blood. She wanted to get up, wanted to put her hands around his throat, but right now, she couldn’t feel anything below her waist. And no matter how hard she tried, she still couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.
“Always such a stubborn bitch, aren’t you, Nola? I can see the pain in your face. You can’t even see straight, can you?”
Nola stayed silent, refusing to tell him there were three Royalls staring back at her. Aim for the one in the middle. But every time she lifted her head, she felt woozy, like she was on a life raft and the room was bobbing. Her heart raced, fighting to compensate for the blood loss. If she fired again—he was too far—wouldn’t be a direct hit. Still, Nola held tight to the trigger, her eyes struggling to stay on the man who buried her all those years ago.
“C’mon, Nola, take your shot. I’ll give you a free one,” Royall said, sticking his chest out, spreading his arms wide, like he was up on the crucifix.
A thin line of mucus ran from Nola’s nose. She fought to keep her head up. The gun felt like an anvil in her hands.
“No? That’s it? You give up?” Royall asked, lowering his arms, still holding the metal trocar. He gave a quick glance behind himself to make sure Zig was still out. Unconscious.
“That’s the part I want you to remember, Nola. In the end, despite all your pushy interference, when you finally got to the finish line, you’re the one who surrendered. Like always, you gave up. Never able to finish the job. The same lazy nigger you’ve always been.”
“G-G-Go fu—” Nola began, though the words wouldn’t come. Her head bobbed low again, but she could still see Royall, could see that satisfied smile on his face. He was having fun now, especially as he took his first step toward Nola.
He choked up on the trocar. Then his foot made a small splash as his heel hit the puddle of embalming fluid.
Now Nola was the one grinning.
Royall could’ve avoided the puddle, could’ve walked the long way around to make sure he didn’t come into contact with the flammable fluid. But that was Royall’s flaw. It’d always been his flaw. Ever since he took her home as a child, Nola knew, she was the one who was Royall’s greatest weakness.
Nola tipped her gun forward, aiming it diagonally toward the ground, straight at the puddle of fluid. Even now, with her head bobbing, it was the one shot even she couldn’t miss.
Royall froze. His eyes became saucers. “Nola…DON’T!”
Too late.
Nola’s finger curved around the trigger. Royall tried running. He looked terrified, then enraged, then terrified again, all in the span of half a second as the two of them shared a long final glance. The angle they were at—him looking down on her, like he was standing at the door of her bedroom—it was as if Nola was seven years old, and he was her dad, and he’d just brought her home on that first night, tucked her into bed, and all might be well in the world, even though young Nola, even back then, knew it wouldn’t be.
She wanted to say something vengeful, wanted to te
ll him how long she’d waited for this moment, wanted to tell him how much pain he was about to be in, and of course how much he deserved every bit of it. Instead, she pierced him with a dark glare, staring unflinchingly into Royall’s now-wide eyes.
“Nola…!” he pleaded, his voice cracking.
She squeezed the trigger.
Pop.
There was a spark as the bullet hit the embalming fluid. Then a deafening boosh, like a gas main being lit. Royall was still in mid-run, frozen with one foot in midair, as a thick column of fire rose from the puddle, swallowing him whole.
“Nahhhhhhh!” Royall screamed, his clothes, his hair, his face, all of it engulfed in bright blue flame.
Nola knew what was coming next.
Down on the ground, she tucked herself into a ball, covered her head, and turned away from the puddle.
Within seconds, the fire spread across the top of the puddle, snaking its way back to the original metal drum of embalming fluid. Nola counted to herself. Three…two…
There was an earsplitting roar—a thunderclap two aisles away—as a massive explosion sent a black-and-orange fireball mushrooming to the roof. The warehouse rattled and shook. It felt like a mortar hit, the metal drum taking off like a bottle rocket, zigzagging toward the front of the warehouse.
The onslaught of heat came so fast, even two aisles away, Nola thought her back was burned. By the time the heat receded and she finally looked up, Royall was on the ground, thrashing frantically, rolling back and forth as he tried to put the flames out. “Please…someone…my eyes! It’s in my eyes! Nola…please!”
Nola didn’t move.
Royall kept rolling, twisting along the concrete. Behind him, the puddle was still burning at knee height. Then he was just lying there, a black charcoaled brick, flat on his back and barely moving as steam rose off him.
Twelve seconds. That’s all it took. The skin on Royall’s face bubbled and boiled. Parts of his hands were bright white, other parts were black and charred. His chin took it worst, a mess of bloodied, melted blisters. Plus, there was that smell, of burnt hair and skin. Still on his back, Royall was moaning, making a noise like a kicked dog. He was alive, though. No longer a threat, but alive.
Nola’s reaction was instantaneous.
“Ghh,” she grunted, army-crawling on her elbows, straight toward Royall, her hand still shaking as she pointed her gun at his head. Time to finish the job.
On her left, all the bookcases were on fire. Some furniture too. Small campfires burned all around her from the rusted drum’s explosion, but since the warehouse was filled with mostly porcelain and metal, she wasn’t worried the place would go up in flames. Even if it did, she wasn’t sure she cared.
A few feet away, Royall’s chest rose and fell. He was still breathing. Not for long.
“Nola, don’t do it,” a familiar voice called out.
She looked to her right. On the opposite side of the burning puddle, Zig was awake, curled on his side, his face a purple mess from Royall’s beating with the trocar.
Stop talking, she thought to herself, crawling forward on her belly, her arm outstretched, the barrel of her gun getting closer to Royall’s head.
“Nola, don’t let him turn you into a killer!” Zig added. “It’s over. He’s done. He’ll pay for his crimes.”
No. He won’t, Nola thought, throwing her elbow forward with a grunt. He’d escape again, take on another new name, disappear into yet another new life. It was his specialty. The room was still swaying and bobbing. Her breathing was heavier than ever. She was a fool to keep moving. But as she stared at the rise and fall of Royall’s chest—for this piece of shit?—she didn’t mind being a fool.
“Nola, listen to me,” Zig begged. “Those people on that plane—that woman Kamille—she wouldn’t want you to do this!”
This isn’t for them, Nola thought. It’s for me. She was less than two feet away. Almost there.
Her outstretched arm was quivering so much, she put the butt of the gun on the ground, pressing it down into the floor, just to keep it steady.
“It’ll haunt you forever, Nola! Whatever pain he caused you,” Zig added, “when you take someone’s life—you can’t take that back!”
Nola pressed the gun against Royall’s head. Wisps of his burnt, smoke-colored hair curled around the barrel. It reminded her of a painting…she wanted to do a painting of this moment, of the shiny barrel against his charred skin. She was memorizing details, saving them for later as her finger slowly slid around the trigger. She gripped it tight. Pull, she told herself. Just pull.
But she didn’t.
There was a crackle and a loud pop a few aisles away. The fire consumed yet another lost piece of military history. In the distance, outside, she could hear the faint sound of an approaching siren. Fire alarm must’ve gone off. Help would be here soon.
Nola let go of the gun, which clattered to the floor.
“Nola, you made the right choice,” Zig said, still lying there on the opposite side of the low-burning puddle.
In front of her, Royall’s body twitched, like he was lost in a dream—or when she used to sneak past his room, praying he wouldn’t wake up when he was drunk on Tuesday and Saturday nights. At that, she remembered their old car and how it smelled of cigarettes and Armor All on those nights when she’d sleep in the backseat. She remembered the burnt steaks. The screaming. The shoveling and all the dirt. Dooch the skunk. And of course, that first night, being dragged from the LaPointes. Most of all, she remembered the promise she made to herself all those years ago. If she ever saw him again. The promise that brought her here today.
In one quick movement, Nola grabbed the gun, pointed it at Royall’s head, and pressed it to his temple—
“Nola, no!”
Pop.
A burst of blood sprayed across the concrete, hunks of Royall’s skull scattering in every direction.
Finally.
Promise kept.
Zig was yelling something, louder than ever. Nola didn’t hear it. The room was bobbing up and down uncontrollably now, the world again shrinking around the edges. Her heartbeat was deafening, pounding and thumping in her temples, in her fingertips, in her tongue, blood still pouring from behind her twisted knee.
I just need to put my head down, Nola said, though her lips never moved. Just a little rest, a little nap, right here, she added. Then she did just that. As half a dozen fractured fires continued to burn around her, Nola put her head down on an overstuffed, fluffy pillow, not even realizing it was the cold hard concrete.
89
Nola woke up after the surgery.
It was a full day later—the following morning—though the way a wave of nausea pulled from the inside of her throat, it seemed like it’d been a week.
All at once, she heard the beeps and boops—the chorus of droids—from the half a dozen electronic monitors she was hooked up to. A TV on the opposite wall was already on, with an old episode of Family Feud.
“—elcome back, sleepyhead,” said a black nurse with a wide oval face and crooked teeth. She was standing at the far side of the bed, checking the dorsalis pedis pulse in Nola’s foot. The nurse asked a question. Nola barely heard it.
On Nola’s right, a beige recliner was pulled close to the bed. Like someone had been visiting. On her left was a dry-erase board with the logo for Kent General Hospital. Delaware. She was still in Delaware.
The board also had Nola’s name, blood type, birth date, and an emergency contact, with a number Nola didn’t recognize. 202 area code. Washington, DC. She read the number three times, unable to place it. Her brain wasn’t working right. That tug in her throat. She was dizzy again, nauseous.
“Here, if you need to throw up…” the nurse said, placing a plastic yellow bedpan on Nola’s chest. “Our barf bags don’t hold squat.”
Nola nodded, like it all made sense. Her right leg was immobilized, numb, wrapped in gauze. Surgery. She’d been through surgery. That explained the nausea,
the drugs.
Yet what Nola noticed more than anything else… Outside. In the hallway. There was a man. Tall forehead, thick neck, military build. Skin the color of bronze. He was in full military dress, standing guard. Single silver bar on his shoulder board. First lieutenant.
Not a soldier. An officer.
He looked over at Nola, not saying a word.
It made no sense, Nola thought, but the world was again being squeezed at the edges, the room tilting and starting to spin. W-Why…Why would they send an officer?
90
Where’s his body?”
“Still at Dover,” Master Guns said.
“They’re not transferring him to Torbert’s?” Zig asked, referring to the local funeral home where Dover sends most civilians.
Master Guns made a noise, like a grunt. “You want the bad news or the bad news?”
“Like I have a choice?” Climbing out of his hospital bed, Zig headed for the bathroom in the corner, lifted his medical gown, and took a long, frightfully satisfying piss. As he washed his hands, he caught his own reflection in the mirror.
“Don’t look in the mirror,” Master Guns called out.
“I’m not,” Zig said, staring straight at himself.
Busted lip, two black eyes, a severe orbital rim fracture, fourteen stitches between his forehead and chin, plus a ruthless dark bruise that turned his cheekbone into a purple pillow.
Zig had seen worse. This would heal. Or at the very least, could be covered up.
“Gimme the bad news first.”
“I spoke to Dino’s sister,” Master Guns said. “She’s devastated, of course. Making flight arrangements now. She should be here by tomorrow.”
Heading back to the hospital bed, Zig picked at the cast on his broken arm and took a long look at his friend. Standing at the center of the room, posture forever perfect, Master Guns was silent.
“Tell me what you’re not saying,” Zig added.
“Listen—”
“When you say Listen, I’m already listening. What else did she say?”
