by Travis Borne
“On the count of three we need to rotate her this way. I need to see where all of this blood is coming from. Carefully, slowly.” Her shirt was jagged and torn and completely soaked but he located the wound. “She’s been stabbed in the back. Oh no, we have to get her to the hospital now. You, hold pressure here and do not let go.” He placed a fat bundle of gauze and pressed it to the wound. “Someone track down Old Doc and make sure he’s at the ER, and ready!”
“Doc, her leg,” said a woman who was helping. She had so much blood and mud packed onto her it was hard to be clear of anything.
Jim looked below—his minded raced, but his physical self, everything, was in slow motion—and he noticed the back of her leg was bleeding the most, six inches above the knee toward the inside of her leg. He tore her ripped clothing to see a large puncture wound pouring out bright-red blood, pulsing slightly in response to her faint heartbeat. Instinctively he ripped off his shirt and wrapped it above the cut then tied it tightly, causing the blood to spurt one final time.
Amy made a noise in reply to the squeeze. All looked. A sliver of hope stabbed Jim’s spine like a hot knife, unstabbing it as though it had barbs. She’s regaining consciousness! He moved closer. She uttered a few words: “I—I saw…him.” Her eyes fell into her head. She went limp.
“She’s in shock. We need to raise her legs, she’s lost too much blood, and keep her arms above her body!” Young Doc’s orders were a general’s commands.
“They’re bringing a stretcher, almost here,” a man yelled, relaying the notice.
“Hang in there, Amy!” a woman yelled through the sobbing crowd.
Then, Big Bertha arrived, soaked in sweat, looking about rapidly. She burst through the crowd like a bowling ball, unbiased, flinging others aside like dolls. And then she saw. She paused for a second. She took in the gruesome surreality. And her eyes about came out of their sockets! The big black planet plowed her way forward. She heedlessly knocked Rob and another two off their feet. “Aim! Ameeee!”
“Bertha, please! Let them work,” Rob yelled.
Abell. The only being larger and more powerful than Bertha. He stepped forward like a wall. But she was explosive, hysterical, something that would not help the dire situation. She was forced to halt by the giant, yet still, blubbering uncontrollably.
“How, how could this happen?” Bertha’s words were bombs. “We’re supposed to be in this together. All of us! Not Amy!” She managed to get enough of a grip on herself, just enough to see clearly through her tear-filled eyes. And she noticed George. Then she returned her look to Amy. She saw her robotic hand. A large chunk of flesh in it. A long and dangling, bloody vacuum hose. It was George’s throat! His entire, fucking, neck!
“YOU! You did this!” roared Bertha. Her rage inflamed exponentially and she was the Big Bang. She barreled toward George’s lifeless body, ready to rip it limb from limb, and she well could have. Abell attempted to hold her but she had become a juggernaut. It took him and all of four other very powerful men from the crowd to restrain her. Tears and sweat had her drenched and she was slippery, clawing, snarling. They finally managed to stop her just short of George’s body. The look on her face could end a war, or start one. And she rose up to deliver the smash…
“Bertha, STOP!” Rob commanded. “Don’t do it. We need the evidence to find out what happened. Control yourself, please—Amy is alive.”
“She’s—” With that Bertha settled, lamenting still, but now with a glimmer of hope. “She’s—” She couldn’t talk and fell to her knees in front of Ted, who’d arrived exhausted shortly after she did.
Everyone watched as they lifted Amy to the stretcher. Ted stood, surveying the gruesome scene, wondering—about Jessie.
“We need some strong men to carry her into town, quickly but smoothly,” Young Doc said. And there was no lack of volunteers. Jim stood up to lead, taking fierce charge.
“Abell, you, and you—quick,” Jim said. “Easy, easy. Bring her up. Okay, let’s go!”
They began the long run to the hospital as fast and as steady possible. Doc sprinted ahead, seconds mattered and he knew he had to help ready the long-neglected surgery room. Jim carried the stretcher on the front left edge, running with more determination and passion than he’d ever had. His every muscle was tensed and he looked to her while running—and he said, “You are going to make it, Amy. You hold on! Do not give up. Don’t ever. We love you! I—”
59. Jessie
Her heart stopped. They rushed her into surgery. Without delay Young Doc began CPR and three nurses assisted. The doors were open wide and many watched.
“We’ll do our best! Now, everyone must wait outside,” the head nurse said. She shut and locked the double door.
Jim didn’t budge. He owned the small glass window and stared into the cobwebbed emergency room that hadn’t been used in years. I’m with you, hang in there, Amy. You saved me, pulled me out of my…DAMN IT! He wanted to die, and his recently abandoned hatred stirred once again. His thoughts raced and his body felt detached as if he was behind himself looking in. He turned from the door, weakened, exhausted, mind on overload with feelings so new they terrified him and twisted his thoughts.
Much of the town had crammed into the waiting room or stood nearby outside. Plenty knew Jim had partnered with Amy at the JCDC. They made way as he moved toward the door like a thousand-pound grey statue that’d come to life: powered by rage and misery, anguish made his stone face unrecognizable, sadness was a sharp pain in his heart, and all of it led to madness, confusion—then, questions.
Ted stepped forward and put a hand on Jim’s shoulder, but really there was nothing he could say. For so long he’d been obsessed with science and his critical calculations, endless data-crunching for 18-20 hours per day. Perhaps he’d lost touch and lacked the ability to assemble the right words. But the truth was, there weren’t any—and nothing came out. Likewise, everyone was in shock and the room was oddly quiet. Surreal, insanity—especially after years without crime.
Jim moved his eyes to meet Ted’s, slowly, then turned away. Then he heard the words through the door.
Clear!
It took him even lower. Bertha heard, too, and obliterated the silence with a wail that could be felt through the walls.
Clear!
The frantic calls and shuffling continued but there was nothing she or anyone could do but wait. Defeated, she turned from the window after the nurse blocked it with a sheet.
Clear!
Five minutes later the yelling stopped. The urgent shuffling continued but changed to a more rhythmic struggle. Bertha slid down to the floor, glossy with tears and sweat, grayer than her usual healthy black. Jim pulled away from wordless Ted, not really knowing where to go, and his pessimism returned with a vengeance.
She’s just too skinny to lose that much blood. The stab wounds were too deep. The middle of her back. Will she ever… She, has to survive. But, why did this happen? Someone must’ve snuck up behind her. That narcissist George, but why? Wait… Jessie!
He suddenly knew where to go and what to do; the purpose revived him. Hot blood shot through his veins like a drug, reanimating his muscles. Jessie, George’s longtime partner and lover, was also missing. The scenario played out in his head.
She never wanted to, wasn’t going to let it happen. Amy was lured by Jessie who was supposed to log in with her today. They took a different path to work. George lay in wait with the knife.
Jim thought of how she’d been stabbed in the back; his blood pressurized.
But she managed to, yes, grab him in the struggle. And she gave it to him good. Oh, she surely fucking did.
Evil sadistic glee fermented: George and his sculpted face; Jim yearned to go back in time and witness his demise.
He got his. If I could’ve been there to see your face when she ripped your fucking throat out.
Hate was black sludge on his thoughts. His imagery was popping: a brain falling into a boiling tar-pit, and he redirect
ed all of it onto Jessie.
Undoubtedly, she ran away in a panic after seeing what Amy had done. We're gonna find you, you superficial snob, George’s pet whore.
Jim cursed her and his face became torrid as if backlit by molten steel. From a slow and depressed slumber, his pace accelerated as his thoughts pounded, harder and harder, more focused. His feet stomped the floor with furious and resolute steps.
But, he was a new man and aware of it, he could see himself objectively. He used the old disgruntled feelings, the malcontent and the hateful primitive ego he’d once so easily hidden, and focused everything not onto the world, not this time. He focused it onto one person, one mission. His slumbering walk had gradually turned into an all-out sprint. He was a bullet. Renewed to one—hundred—percent—power he exploded through the glass doors—cracking the glass on one—and plunged onto the street. He stopped center amid wondering onlookers. Like a wild beast, he’d blasted a hole through the crowd. He turned around and made the world spin, huffing. Do this right, Jim—think. Shredding pavement, he bolted toward town hall. People made way, his resolve was a runaway train.
They neared the steps of town hall only two blocks from the hospital on Main. Rob Price walked somberly with his love, Kim Mills, his long arm holding her tight. Both turned, startled. They felt someone rushing up from behind.
“Rob, get the word out,” Jim exclaimed. “George. He wasn’t alone. It was Jessie who set her up. There’s a murderer out there!”
“Whoa. Jim, hold up. A setup? Amy? Jessie…Star?” Rob said. “Why in the world—”
“Trust me, Rob,” Jim interrupted, panting heavily. “Assemble a security team. Have them meet me at JCDC housing. We must find her and everyone should remain on high alert until we do.”
Kim’s real eyes met Jim’s new ones. She and Rob were longtime secret lovers—secret barely—due to panel rules, but many turned a blind eye because of their extreme professionalism. Thanks to Jim she knew more than she was supposed to, and, she knew Jessie quite well. If George had done something so atrocious there was one person who would have been glued to his side like no other—Jessie. And she also knew Jim, more than Rob would ever find out, although this new side of him was a far contrast to his old self. She wondered, why doesn’t he come by anymore? Why doesn’t he—she stopped herself before she became warm. She wished he still needed the drug. She wished she’d left in more of its addictive attributes. Damn, he’s just so, good—even better now. Looking into his faded blues she could feel the truth like a ray of light piercing a dark world.
“I’ll alert security,” Kim said. Their one-second exchange was a surge of information both relevant and not. She believed the new Jim and slapped Rob’s blind face with a strong eye. Jessie’s innocent charm and exquisite beauty had that effect on men—she was revered as an angel throughout—and Kim, and every other woman, even and especially Jessie herself, knew it.
“Okay, Jim,” Rob said. “We’ll organize the search—wait—Jim!”
He sped off. “Just send them at once, eighth floor!”
Ted had seen Jim explode from the hospital and he’d followed as best as his old self could through the dispersing crowd. Now, Jim was sprinting back toward him.
Speaking quickly, Jim slowed but kept his resolute vigor, “Ted, get some men. I’ll be on the eighth floor, Jessie’s apartment.” He thought of Abell and his strength and turned back before entering. “Abell. Ted, get Abell and tell him to meet me there, now!”
Jessie and George lived together two floors below him. Jim scorched the stairs, swinging up and around, leaving a trail of blazing determination in his wake. He arrived at her door, and stopped himself—from knocking on it, or pounding it down altogether. She might try to play it off. Might just open the door if I ring. He composed himself. I mustn't do anything I’ll regret. He lifted a finger, controlled his breathing, then pressed the button. Lifting his head, letting patience calm his rage, he waited. A few seconds. He rang again. Still, nothing. He put his ear up to the door then touched the knob; it was wet. He looked at his finger. Blood. And inside he could hear breathing and faint whisper-like cries. He stood back, ready to kick the door, but once again stopped himself. He knew the doors in his building were some of the strongest in town and he couldn’t just kick it in, no way. He looked around and saw the bench and thought he could use it as a battering ram. Then he heard more footsteps coming up the stairs.
Perfect! Abell. Obscured like moons behind a planet, three members of town security followed: Tim, Mitch, and the most recent member, slender Joey from Amy’s graduating class.
“Abell,” Jim called, “can you get this door?”
Not saying a word, Abell gave a single firm nod. He knew exactly why Jim wanted the door open and began to rev his thoughts and breathing. He was large and quiet, but not stupid; contrarily he was among the smartest on the team, regarding standard IQ that is. Many who knew him well attributed his laconic silence to deep thought or everlasting meditation, tranquil silence in a world gone mad.
Abell lived directly across from George and Jessie with Lia and her caretaker. He looked around, then turned his back to them. He opened his apartment door and entered, calming old Betty, who was sitting quietly at the window looking at a magazine. “Okay,” he said, easing his hands outward in an assuaging gesture.
The security team wondered if he was ignoring Jim. “Abell,” Mitch said, “are you—”
Jim hushed them, realizing exactly what Abell had in mind, and said quietly, “The doors throughout these apartments are solid, even for a huge person like Abell to kick in. He’s not gonna kick it, he’s gonna plow right through it. Stand back.”
Abell trudged to the end of his apartment and rotated like a globe. None recognized him. His face took on the semblance of a mad, swollen bull. His skin looked like he’d taken a bucket of boiling water to the face. He focused on Jessie’s door and let out a deep growl that reverberated throughout the room. Old Betty edged back. “FOR—AMY!” Abell launched through his apartment: a freight train. The men’s eyes rounded and they edged back too. He plowed forward, rotating like a curve ball, a mighty asteroid, and, it looked like he was going to miss the door. So much power, a top-fuel dragster, tires spinning, launching wildly, uncontrollably. His trajectory straightened after the power stabilized. The once gentle-eyed man became fierce and focused. He was a bowling ball and straightened himself out for the center strike. He rotated to make the hit and blasted across the hall, colliding shoulder to locked door, detonating a double-discharge SNAP. The door burst, CRACK! It rebounded crushing the kitchen counter and cabinets in a second CLAP. Abell was inside.
He stopped, huffing, letting his calm return so he could see straight once again. Jim and the others hastily followed.
The makeshift drapes were drawn, sealed-like; it was dark and musty—more like musky—a cave. The odor of flesh and—it smelled like a bedroom of a dozen pubescent, hormone-raging teenagers. Near pitch darkness, but all eyes went right, sensing the female; a quiet breath fluttered followed by a faint diminuendo of a weep. Jim ran over and ripped the curtains off the rod and light flooded in. Jessie was lying on her bed, daze-like, hardly able to acknowledge the intrusion. Her eyes didn’t even squint after bright light momentarily made the room a flash bulb. She could barely utter more cries, and her breathing was slowing. The sheets were blood-soaked; she had slit both wrists.
“Get the docs!” Mitch yelled, approaching the bed. Joey took off coughing and running and Tim opened the shades on the far side by the kitchen, letting more light in.
“No,” Jim blurted. “The docs are busy treating Amy. We should just let her—”
“What!” Mitch objected.
Likely they didn’t know to the full extent, what was going on, and they clearly didn’t understand Jim’s rage. His face was still red and his body tense like steel. He had an uneasy aura about him that said, contradict me and I’ll kick your skull in.
“Fuck,” he said, under his brea
th. He didn’t want to lose the two. “Okay, we’ll make a tourniquet.” With an apparent sudden change of heart, he grabbed some clothes from the floor and began ripping. Then he annihilated a wooden chair. Tim and Mitch were on pins and needles with his volatility.
The room was in complete disarray: stained underwear, unreturned movies, trash thrown everywhere. It was obvious, George and Jessie were an utterly unorganized couple, downright messy, complete slobs. There was molding food left out, the floor was a minefield, and the stench, not of rotten food as the obvious revealed but that of locker-room sweat, pungently-sweet nostril-burning sex, and most pertinent for the moment, blood.
He came around the window side of the bed with two wooden daggers in his hands, shards from the obliterated wooden chair. Rattled by Jim’s demeanor, Tim and Mitch became unnerved but exhaled mutually as he lifted her arm and wrapped it above the wrist with the cloth scraps. He tied it loose then inserted the wood and commenced to winding.
“Not another drop of blood is going to escape from your shell,” Jim uttered. “Poor excuse for a human being. You won’t get off that easy.” Angrily, he cranked the tourniquet even tighter. A pop could be heard coming from her wrist as he wrestled the last possible twist. “Tim, come here. Hold this. Use another cloth scrap and tie the wood straight to her forearm.”
Still recovering from the hit and shaking his head a little, Abell stood behind Mitch, who sat on the right side of the bed. “What’s going on, Jim?” Mitch asked timidly.
“It was her—” Jim said, pulling her right arm across then wrapping it the same. “—and George. They both tried to kill Amy.” He laughed, a short sadistic chuckle brimming with schadenfreude. “But, she saw Amy wasn’t quite as fragile and weak as she’d assumed.” He cranked it destructively tight. The bleeding stopped instantly. Jessie ran away after witnessing Amy tear that bastard’s throat out. She knew she’d be next.”
