by Amy Cross
"You want me to do something about her?" Joe asks from the doorway.
"Like what?" I ask, trying not to let him hear that I'm scared.
"I know what you're like," he continues. "You're always banging on about doing the right thing, and I reckon this is right up your holier-than-thou creek, isn't it?" He pauses. "You want to put the old bitch out of her misery, but you don't know if you can actually do the deed. You talk the talk, but you can't actually do anything, can you?"
"We can't just leave her here," I reply, turning to him. "We have to do the right thing."
"Which is?"
"Ending her suffering."
"In other words, cutting her throat."
"No!"
"Then what?" He stares at me. "Come on, Bambi, enlighten me here. Tell me exactly how you reckon we can resolve this fucking situation in a way that doesn't hurt, upset or even mildly perturb anyone. I'm all fucking ears, kid, 'cause I don't reckon you've got any fucking clue!"
I take a deep breath. I know he's right, but I hate the fact that he seems to be so goddamn pleased with himself. I guess people never really changed: even after he's died and come back to life, my brother is still, deep down, an asshole. The biggest problem, however, is that even when he's at his most annoying, he has a habit of being right about things.
"Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing," he says eventually, "to do the right thing."
"That's bullshit," I reply.
"Killing's wrong," he continues. "I get that, I really do. Maybe God's up there in Heaven, watching down on us, and he's all, like, pissed off and angry that we'd even consider killing someone. Hell, maybe God's gonna turn green and start smashing stuff. Maybe all this crap that's happening, maybe it's God's way of saying everything's fucked up, and maybe by killing that old woman, we'd be making him even more mad." He pauses. "I figure it's worth the effort. If God's real and he's pissed off at me for saving some old hag from suffering any longer, well, I'm willing to take God's wrath. I'll sacrifice my good standing with the Lord in order to help another poor bastard out in her time of need."
I stare at him.
"Can you do that?" he asks. "Can you overlook your need to be a good boy, and do the right thing? Or are you gonna let that old bird suffer in pain, just so you can tell yourself you've still got a good relationship with the Lord? Are you that fucking selfish, Tommy?"
"You're good at killing people," I say after a moment. "It seems to come pretty easily to you. Remember that cop? Was that the right thing?"
"He had it coming to him."
"No-one deserves to die," I point out.
"Cops do."
"That's a bullshit answer and you know it," I reply. "You've always liked killing. Even when we were kids, you used to catch squirrels and mice in the barn and torture them. There's something wrong with you, Joe. There always has been, and there always will be."
"I'm dead," he replies. "It's a bit late for me to turn over a new leaf."
"The worst thing," I continue, "is that any time anyone actually points this stuff out to you, you just make some crumby joke and act like it doesn't matter."
We stand in silence for a moment.
"That cop was half-dead anyway," he replies eventually. "I mean, fuck, I basically just ended his suffering. My personal feelings don't come into it one way or another. Hell, the guy was probably grateful to me, just like..." He pauses. "Well, just like I was grateful to you when you bashed my head in. It's not your fault that things didn't quite work out as planned, but..." He takes a deep breath. "You know your problem, Tommy? You fucking think things through too much, and while you're doing that, you end up letting bad things happen. That old bitch should be dead by now, except she's gotta suffer a little longer while you go through some kind of fucking moral debate with yourself."
"I'm not a murderer!" I shout.
"You murdered me," he replies, fixing me with a determined stare. "I mean, how do you know I wouldn't have pulled through? How do you know that, in a couple of days, I wouldn't have sat up with a bit of an ache in my shoulder, and been absolutely fucking okay?"
"You wanted me to kill you," I reply, close to tears but determined not to let him see any emotion in my eyes. "You said it yourself! You were grateful!"
"Still," he replies coldly, "you were able to do it. So here's what I wanna know, Tommy. Help me out and tell me why I shouldn't be offended. After all, you were willing to bash my head in, but when it comes to some random old woman neither of us have met before, you're too timid and holy." He pauses. "I can't help thinking that maybe you wanted to do that to me," he adds. "Like, maybe you got a kick out of it. Maybe, after all these years, you wanted to do it."
"Don't be stupid," I reply.
"Huh." He pauses. "Fine. I'll sort the old dear out." Limping over to the drawer, he takes out a large steak knife. "That should do the trick. Don't worry, I'll make it quick and painless. Well, as quick and painless as possible, anyway." He pauses for a moment. "Or are you gonna try to stop me?" he asks. "After all, if you've got a moral objection, then you should try to stop me, shouldn't you? Or are you relieved that I'm gonna do it, so you don't have to?"
I stare at him, but I don't know what to say. He's right, even if I can't admit it.
"What the fuck are you gonna do when I'm not around?" he asks with a smile, before turning and limping toward the door. "Stay down here, Tommy boy. I'll be back in a few minutes. Just gotta go and do the right thing by a scared old woman whose entire family seem to have popped off prematurely."
I wait in the kitchen, listening as he slowly makes his way up the stairs. After a moment, I hear him walking into the old woman's bedroom, and seconds later she starts to call out for help, begging Sara to run up and save her. I take a deep breath as I hear a loud creaking sound, as if Joe is getting onto the bed, and finally the old woman lets out an agonized scream that cuts off abruptly. There a heavy thump, and then I hear the floorboards creak again as Joe leaves the room. By the time he's making his way back down the stairs, I feel as if my mind is completely blank and empty.
"There," he says as he reaches the doorway. "There wasn't even much blood. The poor old hag was dried out like a fucking prune, but it's done." He pauses. "So out of the two of us, Tommy, which is the one who did the right thing today and which is the one who was weak and cruel?"
Epilogue
One year ago
"Where is he?" I shout as I get out of my car. For a moment, I'm blinded by the flashing sirens of the parked police cars and fire trucks, their lights glaring in the dark, rainy night. There are people hurrying past the wreckage of several smashed cars, but I can't work out who's in charge.
"Patricia!" a voice calls out from nearby. "Over here!"
Hurrying down the grass verge, with my medical kit in one hand, I spot John's overturned car in a ditch. Several emergency responders are already trying to get the door open, but the car looks to have taken a couple of big impacts on both sides. If it was anyone else but John in there, I'd be assuming the worst, but John can't die. The universe just isn't that cruel.
"He's still inside," says Hank Worthy, the cop who's crouching by the car's shattered window. "He's..."
"Out of the way," I reply, pushing Hank out of the way as I kneel by the car and look inside. The first thing I see is that John is still strapped into his safety belt, hanging down from the seat as blood drips from a wound on one side of his face. There are tears in my eyes, but I can't panic, not yet. I have to save his life.
"It was a four-car pile-up," Hank explains. "Well, three cars and a truck. We've got two fatalities in the other vehicles, and three more in a critical condition being taken to hospital."
Ignoring him, I grab a torch from my bag and lean through the broken window, shining the light at John's face. I almost scream as I see the damage to his face: the entire left side, from his eye socket down to his chin, has been crushed, with fragments of bone protruding from beneath the skin. As my mind goes blank, I reach in an
d check his pulse; to my surprise, I realize that he's still just about alive, even though he's obviously lost a lot of blood.
"John," I say firmly, "can you hear me? John!"
No reply.
"Has he spoken at all?" I ask, looking back over at Hank.
"Not since we arrived," he replies.
"Fuck," I reply, checking John's pulse again. "John, can you hear me? If you can hear what I'm saying..." I reach down and take his hand in mine. He feels cold, as if death is close. "Squeeze my hand," I continue, trying not to let my voice betray the fear in my heart. "If you can hear me, John, let me know by squeezing my hand."
I wait.
"John!" I shout. "Squeeze my hand!"
I wait again, and after a moment, I feel the gentlest pressure. He's still alive in there somewhere; beneath the mangled flesh and the broken bones, John - my John - is still alive. For now, at least.
"That's good," I continue, with tears rolling down my cheeks. "I'm going to -" Before I can finish, however, I spot something dark and sharp sticking out from his chest. For a moment, I can't work out what the hell I'm looking at. Reaching down, I touch the hard, sticky end of some kind of metal pole, and finally I realize that John's seat has been pushed back in the car, impaling him through the chest on one of the metal rods he uses for his job as a surveyor. The point of impact appears to be almost central to the chest cavity, and as soon as I realize what's happened, I understand the truth of the situation.
He'll be dead in a few minutes.
"Does it hurt?" I ask, holding his hand again. "If it hurts, squeeze my hand once. If it doesn't hurt, squeeze it twice."
There's a pause, and then finally he squeezes my hand. Once.
"Patricia?" Hank says after a moment. "How's it going in there?"
Leaning back out of the car, I open my medical bag. Although my hands are shaking, I start to get a syringe ready.
"Patricia?" Hank continues. "Anything?"
"Give me a moment," I say, filling the syringe with enough morphine to take away his pain and send him to sleep. If he's going to die, he might as well at least not have to suffer through his final moments. Ignoring Hank's continued questions, I lean back into the car and pull the collar of John's coat away from his neck, before slipping the needle into his body.
I pause for a moment.
"This'll help with the pain," I say quietly, before injecting him.
"What did you give him?" Hank asks.
Putting the empty syringe into a disposal packet, I lean out of the car, close my medical bag and get to my feet.
"Patricia?"
"He's not going to make it," I reply, trying to stay calm. "Is there anyone else who needs my help?"
"What do you mean, he's not going to make it?"
Hurrying away from the car, I spot a young girl being led toward an ambulance. By the time I get to her, it's clear that she's bleeding heavily from a wound to her shoulder.
"Patricia!" Hank says, catching up to me. "What about John?"
"I gave him something for the pain," I reply as the girl sits down and I start examining her shoulder. "He'll pass in a minute or two."
"Don't you wanna..." Hank pauses. "I mean, shouldn't you sit with him or something?"
I shake my head.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm needed up here," I say, carefully removing a large piece of glass from the girl's shoulder. She lets out a gasp of pain, but to her credit, she seems pretty strong. "John can die without my help," I continue. "There's nothing I can do for him, so it's logical for me to help where I'm needed instead. It's what he'd have wanted."
"There are people up here who can look after the girl," Hank continues. "Patricia, you should -"
"I have a job to do!" I say firmly, trying not to raise my voice. "I'm more useful up here, helping someone who's going to live, than..." I pause for a moment as I glance back over at John's upturned car. "If you think he's lonely," I say after a moment, "or even conscious, then go and sit with him. Squeeze his hand. He won't know it's not me."
As Hank heads back over to check on another damaged car, I continue to work on the girl's shoulder. I know that most people would have sat with John, sobbing and holding his hand, but the most logical move is for me to use my skills wherever they're needed. There'll be time to mourn John, to think about his passing and to cry, later; for now, I need to keep my head together and keep working. I've always found it easy to compartmentalize my feelings, and right now this little girl is benefiting from the fact that I'm able to focus on doing my job.
"It's okay," I say, as I use a pair of tweezers to remove more glass from her damaged shoulder. "Everything's going to be fine."
Day Sixteen
Prologue
Five years ago
"Seriously?" I say, staring at him as we sit in a booth at the back of the bar. "A fucking farm? A whole fucking farm?"
"Why not?" Toad replies, taking a sip of beer. "I want to get close to the land. I'm sick of buying my food in little packages that have been put together by people I don't know, using ingredients I don't trust, and sold to me at prices I don't want to pay."
"So your body's a temple, is it?" I ask with a grin. "Is that basically what you're trying to say?"
"It's not a temple," he replies tersely, "but it's not a trash-can either."
"Yeah, but..." Pausing, I try to get my head around such a crazy idea. "I mean, fuck, man, what are you gonna do out there? You're gonna fucking lose your mind! You'll end up smeared in dung, walking around naked, thinking you can talk to the fucking trees! Man was not designed to be alone in the wilderness. Why do you think we evolved fucking towns and cities and shit? It's not right!"
"Eriksen, it's a farm, not a space station," he replies. "I'm not going to disappear off the face of the planet. I'm lucky, that's all. The money my grandmother left me is enough to buy this run-down old place in Pennsylvania. I'm going to do it up, set up a garden, learn to live off the land, that sort of thing."
"So you're one of those weirdos, right?"
He frowns.
"Like, preppers," I continue, unable to stifle a grin. "Admit it, Toad. You're one of those people who think the fucking world's gonna end and suddenly everyone'll be rioting in the fucking streets."
"You don't think it's a possibility?" he replies.
"You got a tin-foil hat to wear while you're out on that farm?" I ask. "Seriously, man, do you buy into all that conspiratorial bullshit? I met a guy in Brooklyn once who basically believed the same kind of crap. He was piling tins of beans and stuff into his basement, and buying all this crap online, like water purification tablets and shit, spending loads of money, and you know what?" I wait for him to guess. "Six months after I last saw him, he shot his wife and daughter dead and then blew his own fucking head off. These people are crazy."
"I'm not crazy," Toad replies.
"That's exactly what a crazy person would say," I point out with a smile. "You know what's gonna happen to your out on that farm, Toad? You're gonna lose your fucking mind. You're gonna end up living in this crappy, rundown brick shit-house, growing a few stringy beans and stuff outside, and you're gonna be completely alone and eventually you'll start believing all that stuff about the government beaming stuff into our minds." I take a swig of beer. "Fuck, man, I always knew you were a bit weird, but I never thought you'd go off the deep end like this. Man, you're really something, you know that? Sitting there, acting all superior, as if you know how the world works and the rest of us are just a bunch of idiots."
"Fine," he replies. "Just don't come knocking on my door when the world turns to shit, okay, you paranoid asshole?"
"That's not gonna happen," I reply. "The only knocking on any doors that's gonna happen is when you come begging for someone to take you in and wash the grass stains off your ass. That's if you don't get eaten by wild boars first. Face it, you're gonna be preparing for a disaster that ain't ever coming."
"It will eventually," he points out. "Sure, i
t might not be in our lifetimes, but you can never be certain." He pauses. "The world's getting faster and busier and more frantic. That momentum can't last forever, and when it stops, everything'll come crashing down. I'm not saying that's what I want to happen, but I don't think there's any way to avoid it." He pauses. "Anyway, the point isn't to hide out in anticipation of some kind of apocalypse. It's a lifestyle choice. I want to grow my own food. I want to breathe clean air. I want to take control of my life and not be beholden to faceless people who decide what I can and can't eat."
"You want to guarantee that you'll never get a girlfriend again?" I ask. "Well, unless some fucking hippie wanders along and decides she wants to start tie-dying shit in your front room. I guess free love has its advantages. Is that your plan? You just gonna start a cult or something, turn your farm into a compound, and bang as many dippy hippie chicks as possible?" Smiling as I sense his discomfort, I lean over and put an arm around his shoulders. "Cheer up, man. Let me ask you something. Have you actually bought this fucking farm yet?"
He nods.
"With actual money?"
He nods again.
"Jesus, so you're locked in, yeah?" I take a deep breath. "They sure saw you coming, didn't they? Took that money out of your hand like they were taking candy from a baby. Well, Toad old pal, it's been a pleasure knowing you. I guess the next time I see you, your face'll be on the front page of a newspaper somewhere and cops'll be digging up your farmyard to find the bodies of all the women you butcher out there. As for me, I'm gonna be embracing city living, you know? The last thing I want is to get tied down anywhere."
"I should go," Toad says, checking his watch. "I need to pick up some more supplies."
"Supplies?" I reply. "Jesus Christ, man, it's just shopping. Why do you have to call it supplies like it's something more serious? When most people go to the grocery store, Toad, they don't act like they're stocking up for some kind of fucking apocalypse. Anyway, what use is a fucking apple against a fucking zombie army?"
