Bottom Feeders

by John Shepphird

  As they continued through the trees, she remained silent, figuring it best not engage him in conversation so he could find rhythm in his breathing. She could tell he was pushing through pain, enduring it. When exertion won out, he set her down again. By now his pants were soaked in her blood.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “I’m good,” he said with an unconvincing nod.

  “Maybe I can walk for a bit.” She tried but lost her balance.

  He caught her. “If you walk, your heart rate will speed the bleeding.”

  “You learn that in film school?”

  “Boy Scouts. Look, I’ll be all right. I just need short breaks once in a while, no biggie.” He reached into his pocket and checked his cell phone, said, “Still no service.”

  “I bet the fire took out the cell phone towers.”

  “Or maybe those heartless bastards at AT&T cut me off because I forgot to pay my bill.”

  “Seriously?”

  He shook his head. “Joking. Let’s go.” He picked her up. Sheila locked her arms around his neck and they again continued downhill. She doubted that Roland would have gone through all this trouble. Roland was the kind of guy who never opened a door for her and made her carry her own luggage when they traveled. Chivalry was dead in him, or never there to begin with. She accepted it then but now she hated him for it, hated that he was so self-centered.

  Her adrenaline spent, Sheila was getting tired. She yawned and buried her head in his chest.

  Something stopped Eddie and he set her down again.

  “What is it?” she asked, leaning on a tree for support.

  “Bonnie.”

  Sheila steadied herself on a tree and could see Bonnie sitting upright against a stump, as if she’d sat down for a rest. Her eyes were wide open and she had a perplexed look on her face. Eddie kneeled down to examine.

  “She alive?” Sheila asked.

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “She made it far, didn’t she?”

  “So maybe … Diane carved up Connie and Bonnie before she went out to the road, then Don picked her up when he was coming back for us and that’s when she slashed him. But Bonnie wasn’t dead, so …”

  Sheila finished his thought, “She made her way downhill but eventually bled out.”

  “Apparently so.”

  Sheila wondered if this would be her fate, to bleed out and die with her eyes wide open and a look of total loss and despair on her face. She averted her gaze, trying not to think about it. The shivers returned and she felt incredibly thirsty. Eddie was in the midst of picking her up again when she heard the distant noise and trained her ear.

  “A car,” she said.

  Eddie pulled the rifle from his back, ready for battle. The sound of the engine grew louder and it became apparent that the vehicle was much larger than a common pickup, and it was coming from below. Bright headlights illuminated the road before a fire truck appeared.

  Eddie ran from the trees and yelled, “Help!” but the fire truck sped past, not seeing him. He hoisted the rifle on the air and fired, levered the weapon, and fired again but the truck continued up the hill without stopping. “Shit!” he screamed in frustration before the truck disappeared from view.

  “They must have not heard it,” Sheila said as he returned.

  “Probably had radio headsets on or something.”

  “They’ll find the bodies and send for help.”

  “Unless she kills them too.”

  She could see him fumble with the rifle. “What?” she asked.

  “Out of bullets,” he said.

  Sheila felt suddenly light-headed and had to sit down. Her eyelids grew more and more heavy and she really wanted to take a nap. Eddie knelt down and picked her up again.

  “I’m going to bleed to death,” she feared, her voice quivering in his embrace.

  “Ain’t gonna happen, sister.”

  Sheila bit her lip to stay awake. She buried her head in his chest, and they continued downhill. Pressed against his chest, the sound of his beating heart was amplified in her ear.

  She drifted off and lost sense of time and place.

  Her mind took her to a memory with her mother, before the wheelchair, when she was still healthy. They were making dinner together. Sheila was cutting vegetables and her mother was stirring the pot on the stove. There were no words spoken, didn’t have to be, simply a quiet moment of mother and daughter working together.

  Then Sheila was back in the hospital room watching as her mother’s skin tone changed color, the image she couldn’t get out of her mind, that transition to the other side.

  Sheila wanted a daughter someday but was convinced she wasn’t going to survive. She began to cry in Eddie’s embrace, then let the tears flow.

  She felt Eddie set her down again. “We made it,” he said, gasping for air.

  She squinted through tears to see the Gold Strike through the trees. All the lights were out and the parking lot was barren. Rising smoke behind the building reflected the fire’s amber light. “Where is everybody?” she wondered aloud.

  “Gone.”

  “The electricity is out,” she said, scanning the darkened lodge for any sign of life.

  “My car is around back,” Eddie said.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “You’d think they would have come back for us.”

  “Don did.”

  “But he didn’t return.”

  “Maybe the fire crew forced everyone to evacuate,” he said.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe that fire truck we missed was sent for us. Let’s go.” Eddie picked her up again and Sheila could see he had newfound energy. Through the acrid smoke drifting eerily through the trees, he carried her down to the hotel.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Eddie set Sheila down on a wooden bench in the lobby of the Gold Strike Lodge. He checked her wound. Blood had soaked her entire backside and his crude paper-towel bandage had all but dissolved. He found bath towels behind the counter and a pair of scissors. He cut her pullover top back to get to the wound and used bottled water to clean it, a quick fix for now.

  He went into the bar and came back with a bottle of vodka.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sterilizing.” Eddie gently poured it over the wound. He blotted the puncture with the white towels. The scent of vodka hit his nostrils and it made him crave a drink, just to set his mind right. “It may be crude, but it’ll do the trick for now. You okay?”

  “I’m really tired.”

  “Probably getting anemic.” It appeared the wound had congealed and was not bleeding as much as before. “Hang in there. My car keys are up in my room. I’ll get them and we’ll get out of here.”

  “Hurry,” she said.

  Eddie could see tears in her eyes. “You’ll be okay,” he said.

  She gave him a nod, more tears flowing.

  “Hold on,” he said then bounded up the stairs.

  Eddie found his room in the darkened hallway. He grabbed the car keys off the bureau next to the bottle of scotch he’d shared with Sam Carver. This was too expensive a bottle to leave behind, but Eddie realized he couldn’t carry both it and Sheila. He felt like he needed a drink so he took a moment to gulp straight from the bottle. The liquor burned his parched throat and he immediately regretted it. Surely Sheila would smell it on his breath. What was I thinking?

  Self-loathing, he swigged another shot and tossed the bottle. Fuck it. He coughed as he moved through the darkened hallway, could see the fire engulfing the trees out the window.

  At the top of the landing, Eddie could see Sheila had fallen from the bench. “Sheila!” he rushed down.

  He stopped on the stairway midway. Diane, half of her face covered in blood, was standing in the
lobby pulling the string of her bow back, about to release an arrow on Sheila. Instead she spun and aimed the weapon up at him.

  “Diane, don’t …”

  There was a jolt.

  Eddie knew he’d been hit, heard Sheila scream. He looked down at his belly but there was no shaft. Where had it gone? He staggered back to see the arrow stuck in the wooden banister behind him. Eddie realized that at such a short range the arrow must have gone straight through his body.

  The next arrow struck him in the chest. He heard ribs crack.

  Eddie fell forward and rolled down the stairs. He was trying to get up when Diane approached. She kicked him then went to pry the first arrow out of the banister. Enraged, Diane said, “Look at this disgusting place, innocents killed and stuffed for some kind of fucked-up amusement.” She pressed her foot onto his chest and yanked the second arrow out. Fireworks of pain exploded in Eddie’s head. Whiskey-tainted bile sprung up into his throat.

  Diane stared down at him with a look of disgust.

  * * *

  Sheila stared at the pickax.

  It was plain as day. It had been there hanging on the wall the entire time among the vintage mining tools that decorated the wood paneling, shovels, gold pans, crude lanterns—and a black iron pickax.

  The rusty tool had a sharp point on one end and a flat chisel on the other.

  With Diane’s back to her, Sheila managed to climb to her feet. It was a struggle but she forced herself up. She willed it. Sheila then pried the pickax from the wall brackets. The thing was heavy. She decided the pointed end would work best and grasped the wooden handle.

  Sheila knew she’d only have one shot. Raising it over her head was incredibly painful. She clenched her teeth, pushed through it.

  Diane sensed Sheila behind her and turned around.

  For a split second, Diane’s eyes registered a look of confusion—then there was brief a glimmer of panic.

  Sheila swung the tool down with all her might.

  At impact, she felt the vibration through wooden handle—much like splitting a log, but this, this was the feel of a skull cracking.

  Eddie saw Sheila behind Diane the second before she turned. He saw the pickax come down. When the ax sliced into the top of Diane’s head, it made a hollow, crunching sound.

  One last act of defiance, it took everything Sheila had, and she fell to her knees.

  Diane cried out and staggered back. She managed to reach up and grab the embedded ax with both hands. Miraculously still on her feet, Diane staggered and twisted around in some sort of spastic dance, and then crumbled to the floor, writhing in misery, still clawing at the pickax.

  Eddie lay back on the stairs, his blood covering his feet. The wave of nausea came on strong. Then he passed out.

  All Sheila could think about was that she’d just killed again.

  Last time it was the ballpoint pen. She’d signed her mother’s life away. This time the weapon was a rusty ax. She could see the tool lodged into Diane’s head and there was a look of shock on her face, and her were eyes crossed. Illuminated by firelight, Sheila could see Diane’s skin turn ashen, just as her mother’s had, and Tami’s for that matter. The brink of death.

  She watched as Diane crossed the threshold.

  This is what I’ve done.

  She felt a presence and raised her head, expecting to see the angel of death over her shoulder, the same celestial spirit that came for her mother. But nothing was there.

  The raging fire was visible out the window, angrily licking the trees, the porch now aflame. She could hear the sound of windows breaking. Sheila could hardly move and wondered how much time she had before the structure was engulfed entirely. She’d surely burn to death.

  Stuffed animal carcasses stared back at her.

  This is hell. I’m in it now.

  A swirling blur came over her before all went black.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Eddie sprung awake to the thundering roar of the fire. The heat was unbearable, singeing his eyebrows. He lifted his head and could see the inferno was burning everything outside the lobby, support beams now falling. The flickering light from the flames cast strange shadows across Sheila’s prone body.

  Eddie hoped she was still alive.

  He checked his stomach wounds and could feel the warmth of blood on his fingers. Eddie summoned the strength to get up and went for Sheila. He couldn’t remember when he’d lost control of his bladder but it must have been when he passed out—his ravaged innards betraying him with every step.

  It didn’t matter.

  She was unconscious, but he could still feel her pulse. “Let’s go,” Eddie said and pushed through the pain to pick Sheila up.

  He felt something inside his stomach pop before he struggled to balance himself, piss, blood, and stomach acid running down his quivering legs.

  Eddie got his bearings and headed for the door.

  The image of John Wayne carrying Natalie Wood in The Searchers came to mind. He’d seen the John Ford classic many times, a tale of obsession, of redemption.

  Outside he could feel the heat from the blaze so much stronger. The smoke burned his eyes and he could barely see. He heard glass breaking from exploding windows, turned back to see the raging fire behind him.

  Keep going.

  Eddie heard Sheila whimper. She opened her eyes to look at him. He couldn’t make out the words she was saying but nodded as if he understood. He kept staggering forward.

  Press on.

  The fire truck came around the bend. Its windshield reflected the golden light of the blaze behind him. The truck’s lights blinded Eddie and all was a wet blur.

  The truck slowed and came to a stop as he squinted, blinded by the high beams. He heard the truck doors open and saw cloaked figures emerge in heavy fire gear. They came to him and he carefully passed Sheila off. “She’s been shot,” he said.

  There was an ambulance behind the fire truck and his next sensation was being placed on a stretcher. They were tending to his wounds and asking questions. When Eddie couldn’t move his legs, or make out what the men were saying, he realized his time was near.

  He wasn’t afraid.

  He’d given life his best shot.

  No regrets.

  He figured he’d go out like he was in the final reel of a Bogart movie or a Western. He didn’t get the girl, wasn’t supposed to—the gunfighters, gangsters, and private eyes never do. But he’d saved her life.

  Love doesn’t need to be returned to be real, does it?

  Eddie saw the light, a warm and inviting place. It was someplace safe and welcoming. He was standing at the threshold. Eddie let himself go.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-NINE

  Sheila awoke in the hospital and wondered how she got there. She could only remember snippets of what happened—Eddie carrying her from the fire, the banks of fluorescent lights on the ceiling of the ambulance. Then she had images of the hospital and surgeons behind masks who worked above her.

  Then there was a deep sleep without dreams.

  Now she was awake, incredibly thirsty, and only after the nurse poured her a paper Dixie cup of water from a small plastic pitcher was she able to speak. “Where am I?”

  “Riverside Medical,” the nurse, a no-nonsense woman in her fifties with short hair, said. She marked something on the chart.

  Sheila noticed there were tubes connected to her arm and bandages around her chest. They had put her in a green hospital gown. “What happened?” she asked the caregiver.

  “You’ve been shot and lost a lot of blood.”

  “Where’s Eddie?”

  “Who?”

  “The one I was with.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. He and I … the fire …”
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  “Let me look into it,” she said, set the clipboard down, and left the room.

  When the nurse returned she was with a doctor, a dark-skinned man younger than Sheila, probably Indian or Pakistani, she figured. He glanced at the displays of the various machines she was connected to before asking, “How are you feeling, Sheila?”

  “I need to know what happened to Eddie.”

  “He’s in Intensive Care.”

  “I have to see him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Only family are allowed to—”

  “I’m his fiancée,” she lied.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have to let me see him. We’re engaged … that’s family, right?” She could see wheels turning in the doctor’s head and she hoped he wouldn’t look down at her hand for an engagement ring.

  He nodded and said, “Understand that he is not in stable condition and won’t be able to—”

  “I don’t care. I need to see him.” She stared at the doctor’s dark eyes, pleading, “You don’t understand, he saved my life.”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  Twenty minutes later the nurses and techs released the wheels of her bed and rolled her out. They pushed her through the hallways and through automatic doors. They told her he’d be unconscious and to prepare her expectations. That didn’t matter. Sheila needed to see him.

  They wheeled her into his room and up beside his bed.

  She could see he was intubated with a tube in his mouth and a machine automating his breathing. He shook slightly. For a second she thought he might wake up but then realized the movements were involuntary—his body fighting a battle somewhere deep inside.

  Sheila sat up. “Eddie?” She reached out and took his hand. It was cold but there was warmth when she squeezed. She could see a hint of rosy color in his face. Good. Stay that way.