I’ve just been shot.
12
I descend into darkness, sliding and spinning, the light quickly becoming a pin prick before vanishing altogether.
I have a few seconds to reflect on my gunshot wound as I’m racing towards the great unknown. I haven’t seen it yet but, damn it, I can feel it. It’s a sharp burn that rapidly switches to a throbbing pain and then back again.
My mind is racing, picking up random, disconnected thoughts and dumping them just as quickly.
I’m bleeding out.
I hope I don’t land on Alisa.
Are there alligators down here?
There’s no drop off at the bottom, just a gradual end to the descent that leaves me lying on my back and staring up into the darkness. It’s damp and its cold, except for my shoulder; my shoulder feels like it’s on fire.
“Dad?” Alisa’s voice is small, but close; I can feel her breath on my neck.
“Yeah, sweetie, it’s me. Are you hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so; just really dirty.”
“We’re definitely going to need to go shopping for some new clothes after this.” I go to push myself up. I try to use both arms, but I can’t get the left one to move. It’s paralyzed. They fucked me up good. “Okay, I don’t want you to be scared, but Daddy is hurt, I’m going to need your help.”
“Oh, no,” she starts crying, trying to crawl into my lap.
I push her back with my good arm. “Alisa, stop! I need you to be strong here, okay?”
“Okay,” she sniffs, “I can be strong.”
“I know you can, you’ve been strong all day.” I’m propping myself up on one arm. “My left arm isn’t working at the moment—”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I got shot.”
“No—”
“Remember what I said about being strong?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to just listen to me.” I’m hit bad. I can feel the blood rushing down my back and chest. If we don’t hurry and try to find a way out, this tunnel will be my grave.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not going to be very good with this.” I remove the pistol from my pocket. “You remember how to work this, right?”
She fumbles with my arm until she feels out the pistol.
“Careful, keep your fingers away from the trigger.”
“I got it.”
“Good, now help your old man up.”
She props a hand under my elbow, pushing with all the might her little body can muster; it’s almost not enough.
I grit my teeth all the way to my feet, doing my damndest not to cry out; I don’t want to freak her out more than she already is.
“Do you know where we are?” she asks.
“Can’t say I do, but this thing has gotta come out somewhere. Our best bet is to just walk straight.” My hearing is growing muffled, the pain in my shoulder has started to numb out, and the temperature feels like it’s dropping by the second.
Fuck, I think I’m going into shock.
Alisa, without any prodding, takes me by my hand and starts leading us through the darkness. The only sound is our breathing and the echo of our footsteps splashing through shallow puddles of water. Every now and then we can hear the scurry of mice. I’m beginning to slow down. I’m getting dizzy spells that seem to be getting stronger each time they hit. The world is spinning off its axis, preparing to dump me into the abyss. I’m clinging tighter to Alisa, just doing my best to hold on.
She notices my sluggishness and my stumbling. “Dad, are you okay?”
I have trouble forming the words, jumbling them up as they leave my lips. “Imfine…can’t…bemuch…furth—” My sentence is sliced in half by a coughing fit.
“Dad—”
“I’m fine…just…keep…go…”
I can’t see shit, but I close my eyes anyway. Something about it seems to still the spinning. I walk like that, my little girl pulling me along, eyes closed. For the first time in this shit storm, I feel like a spectator. From the jump off, I’ve been go-go-go, refusing to bend to the winds of the storm, no matter how strong they got. Even after I failed and lost my Tasia, I still kept my fragmented shield up for my daughter. Now she’s holding what’s left, doing her best to defend me; no twelve-year-old girl should have to protect her father.
“Light!”
I open my eyes. Everything is a blur, but I can see the strips of light peaking around the next bend.
“We’re almost there. You’re going to be okay, Dad. Tell me you’re going to be okay!”
“I’m…going…tobeokay.” I’m not going to be okay. My arm is a dead weight, dragging the left side of my body down. The bottom half of my coveralls have more blood on them then I’ve got left in my body. My teeth are chattering. I don’t know much medically, but I know I’m dying. And not in that philosophical, we’re all dying, bullshit sorta way. Nah, it’s more like, my ass is gonna be dead in the next few minutes and my little girl is going to be crying over my corpse.
What can I do?
What can I say that’s not going to send her into a full-blown panic?
I’ve just gotta let this thing run its course.
Hopefully, she’ll understand.
Hopefully, I’ve given her what she needs to make it once I’m gone.
The entrance blooms before us. For me, it’s like a pane of foggy glass; I can’t make out details, but I can see light.
“Dad, we’re almost there!” She’s pulling a little harder.
“What…do you see?”
“There’s grass…there’s buildings…I can hear cars.”
We’re really close. I can feel the wind on my face now.
She stops dead. “Oh, no, Dad, you’re hurt!”
“I told you baby…I’ll…I’ll be fine, just be strong.”
“No!” I see her outline backing away from me towards the light, the shape of her arms curved up, her hands cupped across her mouth. “No! It’s bad! You need help! I’m getting you help!”
I can hear the cars too…engines…roaring.
But not car engines. Too throaty. Too aggressive. Getting closer.
I fall to my knees. “Alisa, please,” I keel over onto my good hand and drops of my blood begin to litter the pavement beneath me, “help your old man up.”
A shadow leaps the embankment behind her; a devil springing up from the bowels of hell.
Alisa turns as the beast comes crashing down on its four oversized tires. She screams and sprints towards me. But instead of jumping into my arms for comfort and protection, she stands in front of me, turns, and draws the pistol.
“Alisa…don’t…”
The Humvee skids to a stop. The engine dies. Doors open. Voices begin shouting.
“Drop the fucking gun, kid!”
“Drop it! Drop it now!”
Alisa is fearless. “You will not hurt my dad! I won’t let you hurt him anymore!”
“We will kill you, drop the gun!”
“Give us the word, sir!”
“Alisa—” Another coughing fit cuts me off at the knees. I fall facedown. I have no more strength to hold myself up. Breaths seem to be coming further apart. Everything is drifting away. Voices are echoing down some great hallway. Perhaps this is for the best. I don’t have to watch my daughter get cut down…no parent should have to watch their kid die…then again, no kid should have to watch their parent die.
Guess we can’t have it all.
“Lower your weapons! All of you, lower them now! Can’t you see that you’re scaring her?” I can’t see the man, but I can tell by his voice that he’s the one running this shit show; it’s old and wise, the words flowing with an unwavering confidence. “You see, honey, no one is going to hurt you or your dad.”
“I saw you hurt him! You’re the ones that hurt him!”
I hear his footsteps closing in. My face is flat against the pavement; each breath is filled with dirt and loose grave
l.
“We didn’t. We’re here to help. We’ve got a medical kit in the back of the vehicle. We’ve got men at the hospital nearby that can save him. You’ve got to trust me. Here…hand me the gun.”
Don’t hand him the gun…whatever you do…don’t hand him the gun.
“Come on…hand it to me.”
Alisa is silent, apart from her panicked breathing, but I can almost hear her wrestling with her instincts.
“There’s a good girl.”
Everything goes black.
13
High-pitched beeps fill my ears. My eyes fight me, trembling as I force them open. I’m attacked by white: white lights, white ceilings, white walls.
Heaven is altogether unpleasant.
I still feel very much alive; tired and in a lot of pain, but alive.
It rapidly dawns on me that I’m not in heaven. I’m not dead. I’m in the hospital. It’s the uncomfortable bed, the 200-thread count sheets, the oppressive chemical smell, and the tubes and lines coming out of my body that really give it away. There’s a television situated in the left hand corner on the other side of the room. Below it, on the wall, is a watercolor picture of a farm…at least I think it’s a farm.
Alisa? Where the hell is my daughter?
I go to push myself up and get no assistance from the left side of my body. Then I remember getting shot, the feeling of being paralyzed; guess they haven’t gotten me back to full working order yet. I guess it’s time to see how bad it is.
I turn my head and find nothing but empty bed.
Where the fuck…what the fuck happened to my arm?
My heart jumps into my throat.
The monitor by my head starts going crazy.
The door to the room bursts open and a team of people in scrubs come rushing in; some are barking orders, others are trying to comfort me.
“Calm down, Markus, you’re okay.”
“My…arm…” Every time my tongue hits the roof of my mouth it feels like I’m licking sandpaper. I’m bucking against their grasp. It’s pathetic. I don’t think I even budge them.
A needle appears and gets inserted into one of the lines running from my body.
Everything fades to black.
***
When I wake up this time, I know where I am. I remember not having an arm, losing my shit, the people in the blue scrubs, and the needle.
I take a deep breath, ready myself, and look again.
Still no arm.
Goddamnit.
Even worse, still no Alisa.
I’m having a hard time freaking the fuck out, the thoughts are all there, but the emotional gears won’t spin up—like my insides are wrapped in some sort of straitjacket.
“Your daughter is fine, Markus.”
To my right, in a high-backed, blue recliner, is a white man with salt and pepper hair. He’s got a sour-looking face and big ass ears, but behind the goofy appearance are hard eyes that cut through me like a pair of freshly sharpened blades. He’s got on a perfectly pressed set of brown and tan fatigues. The collar is folded open at the neckline revealing the top portion of a dark, green undershirt. Lining the body of the collar, on both sides, are four stars. This isn’t just some guy. This is top tier brass sitting at my bedside.
He stands. “They did everything they could to save that arm. Unfortunately, the damage was just too severe.”
“Who…the fuck are you?” My mouth is desert dry.
“Can’t you see my name tag?” He points to his chest, there’s nothing beneath his finger except tan fabric.
“What?”
“Exactly, my name isn’t important; I’m just a little cog in a big fucking machine. What is important is why I’m here.”
“To finish the job?” I start feeling around with the one arm I’ve got left, looking for the call-button.
“No need for that. They’ve been ordered to stay out of the room until we’ve finished our conversation. I’ve got two men outside that door, with very large guns, to make sure they do just that.” He pats me on the chest. “Relax, you’re in good hands.”
I notice the pistol holstered on his thigh as he walks around the end of the bed, eyeing the television and the painting.
“You’d think for all the price gouging they do here that they could at least set you up with a flat-screen and a fucking Monet.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Of course you don’t. You don’t really strike me as the art type. You’re more the blue collar type, right? Sports and beer?” He’s at the foot of the bed, leaned over, hands flat against the mattress. “My father was an art appraiser and my mom dabbled in charcoal sketches; she did a few local shows, nothing major, but it was enough for me to catch the bug.”
“I don’t—”
“I know, you don’t give a fuck.” He continues circling the bed, coming up on my left side. “I’ve got to say, I’m a bit let down. For a man that’s as tough to kill as you are, I guess I was hoping for a bit more witty banter than what I’m getting, you know, like Bruce Willis in Die Hard. But, as they say, only in the movies, right?”
“I couldn’t tell ya…I don’t watch too many movies.”
“Of course you don’t.” He runs a well-manicured hand up the bedrail and uses the other to start turning the chirping monitor beside my head. “It’s humbling, isn’t it? Everything we are, reduced to numbers and beeps. Your pulse is a little high, are you feeling okay?”
“Never felt better.”
He laughs. “See, now there’s some of the wit I was looking for.”
“When do I get to see my daughter?”
“Well, Markus,” he grips the bedrail, hovering over me, “that all depends on how our conversation goes.”
“So, we gonna talk or are you gonna just keep trying to intimidate me?”
He frowns. “So it’s not working?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Damn it! You know, I never was any good at interrogation. No one ever takes me seriously. Is it the face? I’ve always been told, even in my old age, that I’m just too goddamn pretty to be a fighting man.”
I shake my head and turn away. “Man, bring in my daughter and take your bullshit on somewhere.”
I don’t hear his pistol leave the holster; I just feel the cold steel as he jams it against the side of my head. “This always gets them talking, though.” He drops the hammer. “A little yelling, a flaring of the eyes, some well-placed profanity…maybe tell them what I’m gonna do to their young daughter. Yeah, you better believe it got them singing like a bird on a clear summer day.” He releases the hammer and takes the gun away, holstering it in one smooth move. “But you, nah, you’ve seen too much. The threat of death doesn’t scare you. And, well, we both know I’m not about to hurt a young girl, not with this…face of mine.”
I can feel the anger rising in my chest. He’s right; he doesn’t scare me, gun or no gun. “I wouldn’t put nothing past you people, not after all the shit I seen you do.”
“Ouch, harsh words, I’ve got feelings too. You should be a bit more grateful, we saved your life. We saved your daughter’s life.”
“Bullshit! You tried to kill us! You killed my friends! You killed my wife! Innocent, unarmed folks, you shot em’ down in the street! I seen you do it!” My scream is more like a hollow croak.
“You should calm down. Your vitals are not looking so hot.”
“Fuck you, get out!”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Not until we get your story straight.”
“My story?”
“There are a lot of people with cameras that want to ask you questions. We need to sort out what you’re going to tell them.”
I meet his eyes, speaking through clenched teeth. “I just told you what I’m gonna tell them.”
He sighs and starts walking back towards the end of the bed, drumming his fingers across the top of the bed rail. “No, Markus, that’s not what you’re going to say.”
&nb
sp; “Then you better just go ahead and shoot me, ‘cause that’s the only way you’re gonna stop me.”
“Nah, I don’t think it’ll come to that.” He stands at the foot of the bed again, facing me, chin up. “This narrative can go one of two ways. The first way it can go—and I think you’re gonna like this is one—is that you’re a hero.”
“I’m not—”
“Hush, let me finish. The story goes like this. There was a terrorist attack. A biological weapon was released and chaos ensued. One man—you—rose above that chaos and fought to get his family and friends to safety. Tragically, during the fight, you lost your lovely wife—”
“You people killed—”
He raises a finger. “Let me finish. You lost your lovely wife and you lost many friends. As the battle raged between us and the terrorists, as we tried to contain the weapon they’d unleashed on you and your people, you lost your home; an airstrike was, unfortunately, the only way to contain the weapon. But, despite all that, you managed to save your daughter.” He claps his hands together and smiles, pleased with the web of bullshit he’d spun. “You’ll be a hero to the people of America. Movie deals, book deals, Oprah…you’ll be set. Your daughter will be set. Your grandchildren will be set. America loves its heroes; it takes care of its heroes.”
If I could spit in his face, I would. “You won’t get me to lie for you. The only terrorists out there were you and your people and I’m gonna make sure everybody in America knows it.”
“But you haven’t heard the second narrative.”
I avert my eyes and turn my head.
Despite my disinterested appearance, he knows that I’m hanging on his every word. “The second narrative is much shorter than the first. We take you from here with a black bag over your head and throw your ass in an unmarked van. We fly you to some third world hell hole and dump your ass in the deepest, darkest dungeon we have. We paint you as the terrorist mastermind behind everything that happened. We paint you as a radicalized Muslim with a disdain for America and Her love of freedom—people hate motherfuckers like you. Your daughter will be raised in some gladiator school, adopted by a pair of lazy assholes looking for a free check from the state; I guarantee they’ll have her sucking cock for rent money before she’s eighteen.”
Tower of the Dead: A Zombie Novel Page 10
