Authors: Jeremy Laszlo
Pressing my stump against my wound, I push myself up, feeling a renewed explosion of pain in my abdomen as I drop the bullet into the rubbing alcohol before dropping the pliers and slumping heavily into the chair next to the table. Every move is vomit-worthy, such is the pain. I have to admit, the hard part is done, but I am nowhere near getting out of the forest yet. I look at the bullet in the rubbing alcohol and try to figure out what kind of bullet it is. I hope it’s a twenty two, but it looks too large. It probably did more damage to me than I want to know. Looking at the spoon now, I feel blood spilling out over my stump. I’ve lost too much. I’m feeling weak. Time to end this.
I tear open my second to last packet of the powder and pour it all over my wound, trying to clot the blood a little more. Lindsay has a dozen different pills in her bag, but I don’t know the difference between any of them. I don’t know if they’ll kill me if I take the wrong ones, so I stick to my guns. I stick to just enduring all this shit.
Grabbing the lighter with trembling, shaking hands, I hold it in my bloody fingers and flick it, staring at the flame before I hold it out to the duck cup of lighter fluid. “Aloha, you son of a bitch,” I tell the duck as the liquid ignites and blue flames fill the cup like some sort of warlock’s elixir. I stare at it for a second, feeling faint and woozy. I snap out of it, reaching for the spoon and holding it over the flames. I have to get it hot, really hot.
The flames remind me of how much fire I’ve seen in the past few weeks. It started with Detroit, watching the whole damned city burn because some people wanted to play king of the hill with a dying, abandoned city. What a waste. I’m glad it burned. The place was a giant tomb for all those who had suffered and died for the sake of the local law enforcement and the government, feebly trying to keep ahold of something that had slipped out of their grasp long ago. Then there was the bastard that had stuck his beaten metal sword through Lindsay’s stomach. If we had the time, I’m sure I could have saved her, could have cauterized the wound and she could have kept going. That is, if there wasn’t massive and extensive internal bleeding, the thing I’m fearing most right now. But that guy had killed the one person I still had in my life. He had killed the one friend I had, and he had expected me to what? Just let him get away with that? No, not even close. I remember watching him burn alive, flailing and screaming as his clothes ignited and consumed him. And who could forget the encampment, watching the Zombies storm the zealot camp, tipping over their bonfires and their campfires, burning their tents and people? It had been the most wondrous, perfect form of revenge for their kind. But that hadn’t been enough for me, not nearly enough. No, I had to burn the whole god damned city down around them. They couldn’t have ruins and ashes left to rebuild with. No, I wanted to wipe the earth of them, like God during the times of Noah. Rebuilding was not an option, everyone had to die. But a few escaped. A few stupid bastards who thought that I would roll over and submit to their twisted, perverse form of justice. The blazing flare in the man’s chest burns brightly in my mind. I will never forget shooting it into him before he could call Lindsay a whore. I knew that it was coming. Better to shut him up before I beat him to death, before I did something stupid.
I look at the blue flames and know that the spoon is hot enough. It’s time to do this. I don’t want to, but it’s time. I keep the spoon there for a moment longer, knowing that this one has to be fast. The second the spoon leaves the flames, the temperature is going to decrease rapidly. It’s going to drop so fast that it won’t be able to do what needs to be done. I have to do this fast, no thinking, just action. I push the chair back from the table and look at the blue flames. I’m going to definitely pass out from this one. I’m going to pass out from the pain and I don’t want to knock over a cup full of lighter fluid and let the whole damned trailer burn down around me. I remember that the truck isn’t locked. Someone could just steal the thing while I’m unconscious. Doesn’t matter. I need to survive this to worry about the truck.
I pull the spoon away and slam it down on my gaping wound. The pain is so severe, so intense that I only see white before a sudden and merciless darkness takes hold of me and I’m falling into oblivion. I am nothingness. I am death. I don’t know if my eyes are closed or open. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
I’m awake, again. I open my eyes, flickering my eyelids a moment, trying to distinguish if I’m alive or dead. If I’m dead, then it all looks very similar and that’s incredibly disappointing. I move my head and see that I’m on the floor, looking up at the ceiling of the trailer. Once more, this just proves that whatever is up there in the heavens, he’s a sadist. He likes to watch me suffer and when I’m at the brink of death, toppling over the ledge and into the great beyond, he gives me a little push back to the side of the living, just to see how much more I can endure before I’m finally dead. I hate whoever it is that is up there taking such a marveling delight in my suffering and my agony. Fuck this.
Craning my head, I look down at the spoon laying on my stomach and the dried, bloody mess that covers me. I look like a corpse. I feel around my tender stomach, my flesh is pale, pale enough to make me look like a cadaver on a slab. I reach out to brush the spoon away and realize that the thing is firmly stuck to my stomach. It hurts at the slightest touch and as I grip the handle, I realize that this is going to hurt like a bitch. Tightening my grip, I know that the spoon has to come off. I take a deep breath and relax, leaning my head back on the floor and knowing that this has to be done. How long have I been out? Am I really going to knock myself out again so soon? So what, it needs to be done. Closing my eyes, I take in one last deep breath and rip the spoon out and off of me and scream as loud as I can.
Thankfully, I don’t pass out. I’m beginning to worry about how often I’ve been knocked unconscious the past few weeks. It can’t be good for my brain. The pain is excruciating, but I now live in a world where the overwhelming pain that I inflict upon myself is becoming more and more normal, or at least, expected. Groaning and sucking in a series of sharp, agonizing lungfuls, I clamp my hand down on my bleeding wound again, trying to figure out what to do next. Deep down inside of me, I already know, but I’m scared to. It hurt so damn much last time. Picking the spoon up, I clamp my stump down on the opened wound and slowly try to inspect the damage from what I can see.
From what I can tell, it isn’t that bad. In fact, I think I might be okay. The gaping hole is now sealed, completely incinerated by the flaming spoon that had knocked me on my ass. I don’t think that’s something I should be ashamed of. Climbing back into the chair, I set the spoon on the table that has dried in my mental absence. Clearly I’ve been out for a while. Looking back at the wound in my side, it’s still bleeding and I need to finish the job. The majority of the hole has been cauterized, but I need to finish it off. Looking at the cup of lighter fluid, I see that it’s burned out in my absence. There’s only one thing left to do. Grabbing the lighter, I spark it to life and hold it over the rubbing alcohol I had used to disinfect my impromptu surgery tools.
It ignites instantaneously and I quickly drop the lighter and replace it with the spoon, holding it over the flames, watching the blue light licking at the metal spoon covered in my blood. It stinks, but I don’t care anymore. Infections be damned, I just want to patch myself up so I can fix the god damn truck and get moving. Part of me wants to just start walking, but every movement sends pain shooting through my abdomen. I don’t think I’ll make it all the way to Marineland if I go it on foot. I keep heating up the spoon until I’m ready to use it. I feel like I’ve been holding this spoon over a flame with my hands shaking for hours. Taking another deep breath, I stand up so it’s easier to make contact with the wound. Pulling the spoon away from the flames, I press it to my side. I scream in pain as my legs give out and I topple over onto the floor, smacking into the cupboards, but I don’t even notice. The pain is overwhelming as I scream until my voice is hoarse and bloody feeling.
I toss the spoon away and feel cold sweat breaking out all over my body. I’m still conscious and I don’t like it. Everything fucking hurts. My chest heaves up and down as I lean against the cupboard, panting and trying to get a grip on myself. My hand is shaking and I can feel my phantom hand shaking as well. I don’t want to look at the wound. I can smell burning flesh. It smells like a barbeque. I look away and grind my teeth against the pain.
After an eternity, I pull myself up cautiously and look at the burning rubbing alcohol in the cup. I decide to just let it burn down, rather than try and deal with it and light myself on fire. I don’t want to be around fire for a while. I think I’ve had my fill. Instead, I make my way to the couch and lay down, wincing with every step. It hurts to move and breathe, but I can’t just lay around for too long. There’s stuff to get to. There’s work that needs doing. Slowly, I close my eyes and lay there for another minute, just resting for a second. I just need to get my strength up and I can get back to working on the truck. I’m good. I think I’m going to survive this.
When I open my eyes again, I have no clue how much time has passed, but it’s dark outside and I’m alone in the trailer, still alive. Taking a deep breath, I push myself up, feeling the pain rippling through my body with each movement. I don’t like being in constant pain, and right now, there’s a lot of it. I sit up and look around. The rubbing alcohol has burned down now as well and I’m alone with the pale light of the moon pouring in through the windows. I’ve always thought trailer parks were creepy, scary places, and right now, I think my fears are being reaffirmed.
Grabbing the supplies that I need from Lindsay’s bag, I wrap my wound and bandage it the best I can. Everything is super-sensitive and every move makes me want to puke. I feel so light-headed that I don’t think I’m going to make it if I tighten the wrap any more. I look at it and decide that it’ll have to do for now. I need to get to work.
I slowly and agonizingly make my way back to the room where the dead guy used up his last bullet putting himself out of his misery like a greedy fucking bastard. One day, I’m going to find a gun and it’s going to be fantastic and I’m sure as hell not going to use my last bullet on myself. I’m going to use my last bullet on a guy with more bullets so I can keep going around with a gun. Why don’t people think these things through? I suppose that hope plays a big role in all of this. So many people just don’t have hope anymore. I push open his door and walk to his small drawers and pull them open. I grab the first thing I find. It’s a black shirt that’s a little too small for me, but it’ll work. I pull it on slowly, every movement sending bolts of torment running through my side and abdomen. God, I hate this.
It’s dark outside, but I don’t have much time to lose. I walk out to the truck and pop the hood, deciding that it’s as good of a time as any to have a look. The moon shines down through the dingy sky and I can’t see a damn thing by its feeble light. All I can make out are hoses, chunks of metal, and the engine block. I need more light to do this. I have no doubt that I can, but I can’t do it this late in the night. I walk around to the back of the truck, suddenly very happy that this thing is still here and hasn’t been looted. Rummaging through the crate of MREs, I grab one and decide that it’s probably important not to end up dead because of blood loss and starvation. I end up eating meatballs and marinara and I remember how fantastic it is to eat warm, delicious food. I miss the days of just going down the street to a bistro or a diner to get a big, juicy burger. Damn, I miss cheeseburgers. I miss a lot of things. Fucking bacon. What I wouldn’t give.
I sit in the cab of the truck, remembering all the wonderful things that I’ll never see again. Outside of finding a dumpling dish in one of the MREs, I doubt I’ll ever have bread again or cheesecake. I won’t eat ice cream again or watch a baseball game. I won’t be able to see Paris again and go to every Catholic church and leave a candle for Tiffany like I’d always wanted. I’ll never get to see Hamlet performed again. There was a lot of things I’m not going to be able to experience again. Instead, I’m given wonderful new opportunities like cauterizing bullet holes in my side and passing out. Man, I don’t think this new world is at all what it was cracked up to be.
Eventually I fall asleep again, but only for a few hours. I’m awake as the sun is coming up over the horizon, drowning the world in hues of blue before yellow light pierces the aquatic haze of the nocturnal world. I pull myself out of the cab and take another pair of painkillers from the medical kit. I’ve got a lot to get done. I pull up my shirt and look at the damage. The tissue is red and puffy, which means that it’s probably infected. God, I wish that Lindsay was here. She might not have been officially trained in how to treat people, but she knew a hell of a lot more than I do. There’s no help for it. I let go of the shirt and kick open the door, climbing down from the truck, wincing all the way.
I push up the hood again and have another look, trying to assess what exactly is the problem. My first job is going to be the radiator. That thing has taken two bullets in the battle with the lunatics on the road. I know the feeling of being shot to hell and I quickly inspect the upper hose, finding it shot in one side and out the other. I’m certain that there’s going to be a toolkit around here. Trailer parks usually have a shade tree mechanic or fifty. This place has to have something that will help me put this truck back together. Turning away from the truck, I set out to begin looking for a real toolbox and anything else I can find to patch it up.
My father was a mechanic. I had never really respected my dad, coming home from work with blackened, thick hands, and a face smudged with oil and grime. He was a man who worked hard but rarely received any of the benefits. When I was a child, I used to sit outside with my brother, watching our dad try and fix everything. He was a man who never replaced a thing. Why replace something and spend money when he could just put it back together? I found that so annoying as a child. Instead of going and buying a new lawnmower, we would sit outside for hours, watching my dad scavenge and figure out just how he was going to put the thing back together. I remember my brother and me talking incessantly about how annoying and frustrating that was while our parents were in the other room talking. Neither of us understood the significance of what our father was instilling in us. The idea that we can take the old and put it back together. I don’t mean the world, though, I mean life. Right now, I’m fairly certain that there’s no fixing the world, even with men like Jason out there. Life, though, that’s something we can put back together over and fucking over again.
My father was a man who gave to the world. He gave his entire life to the notion that doing well by other people was what made the world go around. I don’t know if I was as dedicated to the idea as he was, but it definitely rubbed off. My dad was the man who went to church every Sunday and every time someone needed an oil change or got a flat tire, they called him. Most normal, rational people would charge those who ask them to use their skills to help them out, but my father never did. He was the kind of man who gave people free oil changes if they called him up on the weekends. So when he would tinker with his own car or the lawnmower, it was usually because he couldn’t afford to pay someone to fix those things. These were the kinds of things that he did himself because he didn’t have the money to have others do it. What money he did have, my father saved. He did good work and he was highly regarded in the community, so he made a decent wage, we just never saw it. Poor by choice. It was an oddity in those times.
Then it was time for Scott and me to go off to college. When my brother got accepted into the University of Michigan, my father had enough money to pay for whatever was left over after the scholarships. My dad worked day and night during his life, hoping that he could provide a better world for my brother and me. I never understood the notion of suffering so much for your kids to have a better future when you could enjoy your life yourself. I mean, I got it back then, but my father could have given us experiences with that money. Why hoard it all away so my brother and I grew up the poor kids in our circles of friends, when we didn’t need to be? Sure, it had been nice when we got to college and actually got to spend time doing things we loved, rather than working our way through the courses, studying and then going to a part time job. I just never understood depriving us of the fun that we all could have had for the hope that we’d make it to college.
Then I had the girls and I completely understood. I understood everything. My father died two years after Val was born. He’d been on the side of the road one December night, changing a tire for an old woman he went to church with. He’d been on the side of the highway, but a driver hit a patch of black ice and before either of them could do anything, the driver plowed into Mrs. Eddleson’s car, killing my dad almost instantly. When I got the call, I didn’t know how to process it. Everything my father had taught me flashed before my eyes and I couldn’t find the words to tell my mother that I would be there shortly. Tiffany and I made it to the hospital before Scott, but not early enough. My mother had already received the news that my father was dead.
I remember going home and kissing the girls while they slept. I remember thinking over all the time that I had been fortunate enough to spend with my father. Many men aren’t lucky enough to have fathers, let alone great ones that spend time with them. He taught me the nobility in sacrificing for family, and I am here, in a trailer park, fixing a radiator the best I can because he took the time to impart more than just knowledge to me, but values as well. He was a good man, and as I hammer the screws into the side of the radiator, fixing the holes, I look at my handiwork and wonder what my father would say to me now, if he could see this whole hellish world that I’m trapped in. Would he say that I should give in and give up? No. He would tell me to keep moving. I know that he would do that. He was a man who believed that as long as you had two feet to stand on and a will to soldier on, you could keep fighting.