by Bryan Way
“Doesn’t matter… why not to your victory?”
“…to you, Rich. The voice of reason. And to our new hermit kingdom.”
He smiles and hesitates before completing the toast.
“You know…” I start. “In spite of our… spat… you’re the only person I can have a conversation with.”
“What about Anderson?”
“He’s too… I don’t know… self-centered. Army bullshit… the way he acts with girls…maybe I’ve known him too long.”
“Ah, I see… but you don’t know how lucky you are.” Rich mutters, staring into his drink. “Your best friend’s here.”
“Yeah… yeah… hey, every relationship’s on the rocks once in a while.”
“Too true.”
We spend the next twenty minutes sipping our drinks, and eventually our discussion shifts to film, which is apparently in both of our wheelhouses. During our conversation, Rich mentions that he used to go to the Bryn Mawr Theatre when he was younger, one of the attractions being the glut of older movies that were shown with regularity. He reminisces about the time he went to see Spellbound after getting high with his friends, and though he can’t remember much of the film, he fondly recalls the dream sequence designed by Salvador Dalí. I mention that he brought this up before, and not only do I own it on DVD, I have it with me, so with much fanfare he insists we repair to room 218 for a screening immediately.
Continuing to drink, we watch the film as Rich regales me with his high school art teacher’s condemnation of Dalí as crap, which only stoked a desire to seek out his work. He mentions a ‘legendary’ short film of which I am unfamiliar. He laments that no one will be able to view the forthcoming Dalí exhibit that was supposed to open at the Philadelphia Museum of Art in February. I consider shutting him up at several points; though I’ve owned Spellbound practically since it was released, I’d never actually sat down to watch it.
Though much of the film is comprised of psychological hogwash, it features enough Hitchcock suspense to keep me enthralled. When we finally arrive at the dream sequence, I can sense almost immediately that Rich knows he built it up too much. We watch with bemused detachment as I toe the line between being impressed and disappointed, realizing moments later that I’ve managed to be distracted while the world continues to crumble around us. Accepting that this is an invaluable asset to our sanity, I raise my drink to Rich again.
Once the film is done, I drunkenly stagger the hallways in an attempt to shake off the worst of my intoxication. I recognize that I rarely let myself go when drinking, always stopping before I can eliminate a voice of reason that cuts through the numbing dizziness digging toward the center of my brain. Though I can’t fully control my body or my mind, I’m completely lucid, and once I’ve walked off the vertigo and nausea, I return to my bed and entertain myself with thoughts of what it used to be like to drink at my cabin with my friends. I miss them, and though I know I will never see them again, I’m overtaken by the warmth of our past rather than the coldness of our present. With that, I fall asleep at peace.
12-22-04, WEDNESDAY
I wake up to the sound of someone’s knuckles rapping on my door. I can’t remember when I went to sleep last night and for a moment I consider that I’m too exhausted to get up, but my circumstances overtake me and I launch myself out of bed. I open the door to greet Mursak.
“You have to see this.”
“…what?” I mutter.
“Now…”
He leaves the door, and I consider getting dressed, but I quickly realize I’m wearing the same clothes as yesterday. I continually wipe my eyes as I follow Mursak past the keep and the security office until we arrive at the flank, which directly overlooks the street. Once inside, I notice Anderson peeking through a window slit, beckoning me to come over. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the whiteness of the falling snow, but I quickly make out a moving figure; it’s a woman in her mid-thirties, struggling to carry a toddler on her shoulder.
“What do we do?” Anderson asks.
“I dunno…”
“Didn’t we decide this yesterday?” Mursak asks.
“We said we wouldn’t hang any banners…” Anderson continues. “Not that we would turn people away.”
“That’s a… big risk, don’t you think? What if it’s a trick?”
“Someone’s using a mom and her kid as bait?”
“It’s not that far-fetched…” Mursak continues. “Even if we could handle it…”
“I dunno if I want to handle it… you wanna risk gettin’ shot?”
“She’s going somewhere…” I interrupt.
They both turn to me. I point out at the street as the woman slides her kid to the sidewalk so he can resume walking next to her.
“She’s not wandering… she’s headed that way.” I point east. “There aren’t any tire tracks and she isn’t looking anywhere other than straight ahead.”
“So what?” Anderson asks.
“Let her in. Karen takes the kid… I’ll talk to her.”
“Are you sure you wanna do that?”
“For Christ’s sake, they probably just need some food and water…” I start. “Worst case scenario, they eat up some supplies, and we keep a more diligent watch for a couple days.”
“That’s the worst case scenario?”
“She’s gettin’ away…” Mursak urges.
Anderson opens the window. “In here!” He calls out. She stops and looks around. “Over here!” Anderson, Mursak and I each stick our arms out the window and wave. She finally sees us and awkwardly staggers toward the school. “We’ll meet you at the bus.” Anderson says, closing the window and pulling up his radio. “Hel, AlCon one. Incoming humans. Over and out.” The three of us exit the hallway and head toward the rope ladder as Helen repeats Anderson’s message over the school PA system. Anderson hands me his walkie-talkie as he descends the ladder, so I lift it to my mouth. “Helen, we’ve got a kid incoming, possibly malnourished… get Karen to meet us at the gate. Over and out.”
Anderson is the first to the door, so I let him walk out to guide her inside. As I see a figure stumbling around the rear of the bus, I get a swell of panic, imagining that this could be a gigantic mistake. “Just through there.” Anderson encourages. If I was on the receiving end of that direction, I might be inclined to run the opposite way.
As she passes, I breathe a sigh of relief; the smile on her chiseled, weary face and tears in her soulful gray eyes suggest a reprieve that has been long awaited. After successfully inviting Karen to the group back in October, the leadership unanimously decided that I should formally welcome new arrivals. Ally wasn’t pleased with that decision. “Hi… Jeff Grey.” I say, extending my hand. “Tracy Dantis… thank you… thank you…” Before I can get another word out, she embraces me with her child squeezed between us.
“Is… is Dave here?” Tracy asks.
“…no.” I mutter.
“Oh, uh… okay…”
“So, ah… yeah…all right… first thing’s first… there’s a nurse who’s gonna wanna take a look at your son, is that okay?”
“Of course…” Tracy replies.
“What’s his name?”
“Jimmy… James…”
“Hey Jimmy!” I start.
He buries his pale face in his mother’s shoulder with a smile, giving me a good look at his dark, poorly cropped bowl cut. Karen enters through the hallway door and makes her introductions as she reaches for Jimmy over the railing. “Okay, Tracy… come with me?” I ask. When Karen heads upstairs with Jimmy, Tracy says a quick goodbye and blows him a kiss as I lead her toward the lobby.
“So, where are you coming from?” I ask.
“Hickory Lane…” Tracy replies.
“Where’s that?”
“Closer to Edgmont?”
“Oh, okay… have you ever been here?”
“Uh… yeah… class of… ’91.” She mutters through smile.
“Nice… cla
ss of ’03.”
As she nods in response, I take notice of her limp. “That ankle okay?” I ask. “Think I twisted it.” She replies, wincing. Once we’ve had a formal introduction, Karen is looking at that leg to see if she’s been bitten. As I work up another question, we pass the artificial Christmas tree we placed in the main lobby.
“…have you eaten?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m fine… thank you.”
“You just let us know when you’re hungry.”
As we pass the cafeteria doors, she pushes the back of her wrist up against her nose, sobbing hard as her dark, knotty hair remains stationary. Though I imagine whatever she went through to get here was an incredible hardship, I find myself mildly unsettled by her reaction to our invitation. We finally arrive at the first floor teacher’s lounge, which has been gutted but for the drink and snack machines, a fridge, and a few oversized couches. I plop down on one couch and motion for her to sit across from me. She takes off her backpack before she has a seat.
“So, Tracy… do you have any questions for me?”
“Are there any other children here?”
“Elena… she’s five.”
“Oh, good…”
She sniffles, wiping new streams of tears from her face. “Tracy, it’s okay… you’re safe.” She nods and waves her hand, urging me to ignore her. “Uh, so, we’ve closed off the exits… there’s internal and external surveillance, so we can keep an eye on things…” Though none of the interior first-floor cameras work, Anderson and I previously agreed that any new arrival should be vetted under the assumption that they were being watched. She seems happy about this, so I relax.
“Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine…”
“Really, it’s no trouble…”
She seems hesitant. I let a polite smile speak for me.
“Well… do you have… is there any… Tanqueray?”
“…yeah! Uh… there might actually be a bottle in here… you take that with tonic?”
“Oh yes, please…”
I get up to examine the refrigerator.
“You’re in luck… Rich is big on gin and tonic… he’s kinda the father figure around here… and I think he has some saved in this fridge… ah, there… ice?”
“No thanks.”
“Sure?”
“Really, you don’t have to do this…”
“Please… I can tell you’ve had a rough day.”
I pour her drink into a frozen rocks glass and locate a small bottle of reconstituted lime juice, shaking it in her direction. Tracy smiles again and nods. I hand over the finished cocktail and she accepts it with both hands, cradling it softly to her mouth. She closes her eyes, taking a lustful sip and exhaling as every muscle in her body relaxes. She releases herself to the couch, her face an essay of statuesque beauty worn by exhaustion.
“So, Tracy… I have to ask… is Jimmy sick at all, er… does he have any allergies?”
“No…”
“He wasn’t bitten…?”
“No.”
“Anything you want to tell us about him?”
“I… uh… no… I don’t… really know what to say…”
“Well, you certainly look like you could use a night off, and I’m guessing he could too.”
“Yeah…” She nods, taking another sip.
“We have plenty of extra beds… we can put you up in a room for the evening.”
I’m careful to suggest that we don’t intend to make her and her son permanent fixtures as casually as I can. In 24 hours, we’ll reassess the situation and decide if they need to go. After that, it’ll be impossible to get rid of them and not be concerned about them coming back.
“Are you guys headed anywhere in particular?” I ask.
“The k… I, uhm… I’m not sure…”
“Were you… looking for someone here?”
She shifts uncomfortably, scratching at her mousy hair. “No.” She whispers quietly. My pulse races, but I calm myself with the notion that she would’ve been too paranoid to accept a drink if she had ulterior motives. Tracy closes her eyes again and takes another long sip that turns into polishing off the glass.
“…want another?”
“No, that’s alright… thank you… so much…”
“Not a problem.”
She drops her head back and pushes out a sigh that strikes me as both definitive and relieved. “Everything okay?” The shrug she gives in response is tenuously non-committal. For once, I pray that Helen is at her post to inform us if this woman has been followed. Tracy’s head remains relaxed, but now she’s no longer smiling. I think I can fix that.
“You know… we’re usually pretty wary of strangers… I’m sure you can imagine… but… bringing in someone like you… and Jimmy… it just… reminds us of who we are.” I realize mid-sentence that my ham-fisted philosophical waffle is not going to cut it. “We just… can’t imagine not helping someone in need…” As I continue, she calmly reaches into her purse and pulls out a gun.
My blood freezes, and in my paralyzed catatonia, I forget every facet of my existence before this moment. Tracy slides the pistol softly along her thigh and stops when the muzzle reaches her knee, wrapping her index finger inside the trigger guard. As we stare at each other in desperation, I progress to feeling as though I’m not here. I know the moment of silence only lasts a second, but in that second, my senses come rushing back.
A nearly overpowering urge to rush her and grab the gun floods every nerve ending, and in this moment, I’m indifferent to the fact that she’s armed. Before I can act, I remember what it was like to be staring at Rob with his finger on the trigger. I can’t conceal my breathing. I can’t ask her what she wants or why because I’m terrified of making any sound that could startle her. In lieu of action, I simply stare straight forward and become aware of the fact that my mouth is hanging open before the silence ends.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” Tracy whispers. I nod slowly, bringing up the speed as I casually lift my right hand to point toward the girl’s room nearest the lobby. She gradually pushes herself off the couch and hobbles to the door, grabbing her backpack as she goes. The apathy in her step is breathtaking. She pays no mind to me as she turns right through the doorway and slowly walks past the cafeteria.
Fears about where she’s going and what she’s doing peel me off the couch and draw me toward the hall. Fifty feet away, her staggering steps are reflected by the glossy floor as she moves slowly enough that I have to question whether I’m dreaming. Is it possible that I gravely misread the situation? Was the gun supposed to be a threat, or was it arbitrary that she happened to pull it at that moment? I pray that no one else enters the hall and startles her. Once Tracy is far enough away, I exit the lounge.
True to her word, she goes into the girl’s bathroom. From the distance, I can hear water running in a sink, a sound that is quickly compounded by several more faucets. A hot wave of fear rushes over me as I realize I have no idea what she could be doing.
A gunshot rings out.
I ignore the fact that I have no way to defend myself, making my primary concern whether someone was in that bathroom. Anticipation rockets through my veins as I rush in to find Tracy on the floor, breathing ever so gently as a red puddle rapidly expands beneath her head. Her hand twitches on the pistol, so I take a big step forward and kick it away. Her weary eyes lean in my direction as she whispers something. I kneel down to hear, but there aren’t any words. She opens her mouth to take in a breath, but it isn’t there for her. Tracy’s lips part at a glacial pace and freeze, leaving her motionless.
I fall back on my butt at the same time I realize my right hand is perched on my forehead. “Grey… Grey…?” I hear from down the hall. I can’t muster a response. Mursak is the first one in the room, and his massive deep breath is the first thing that makes what happened real to me. Anderson follows. “Oh fuck… what’d you do?” That snaps me right out of it. �
��She did.” Anderson turns toward the doorway and ushers someone out before they can see. “Mursak, keep watch.” Anderson mutters, pushing past him. Mursak obliges, cautiously slipping past the door and pulling it shut behind him.
“You think the kid heard it?” Anderson asks.
“We’ll find out soon enough…”
“Any idea why ?”
“…no…”
We look at each other simultaneously. Anderson walks over to her body as the blood continues to flow toward the drain in the middle of the floor. He rolls up her sleeves and checks her neck, and I pull up her pant legs. He lifts her shirt to look at her emaciated stomach, and I pull off her boots. When I find the bandages wrapped around her right foot, I lift the leg and look at Anderson.
Anderson pulls the Leatherman off his belt and flicks out the serrated blade, cutting through her gauze to finally reveal that the inside of her foot has a bite wound with a chunk of flesh the size of a clementine missing. Anderson falls back on his butt as well. The faucets keep running as I shake my head. Anderson breaks the silence. “Think that’s a fatal shot?” I manage to scoff so quickly it makes me nauseous. Anderson smiles in confusion.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s dead…” I reply.
“I mean… she won’t come back?”
“Oh god… I don’t think I have it in me.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Anderson states. “Hit the faucets… we’ll lock the door, let her bleed out… me and Jake’ll move her.”
“Why bleed her out? And why Jake?”
“Cut ten pounds off her weight, and less mess. And Jake didn’t meet her.”
That’s sound logic. As I turn off the faucets, Anderson pulls up a stray chair from the corner of the room and rests it against the closest sink to Tracy’s body, crossing her feet under the faucet and propping her lower back on the seat. Anderson estimates she’ll have bled out entirely in half an hour. Though I’m positive she’s dead, I wonder if her consciousness is still slowly draining away. If so, the pins and needles sensation must be unbearable.
