Terminal (7 page)

“Look’s like we got us a Mexican standoff, boys. Chill out, ya’ll.”

Kelvin didn’t move. “You heard what this punk-ass, motherfucking, cocksucking wigger said.”

“And I said chill the fuck out, goddamn it. You step the fuck off right now, Kelvin, or I’ll bust a cap in your ass instead. Don’t you go forgetting who’s in charge here. I’m the one that’s deep in this street. You work for me.”

Shaking, Kelvin’s eyes never left John’s. Only his nostrils twitched, flaring in the dim light. He seemed frozen with rage.

Wallace glanced at Sherm.

“Don’t bring that motherfucker back here, Sherm,” he warned. “Not ever. If Kelvin and Markus don’t kill him, I damn sure will. I don’t want to see him in my hood again. Not anywhere near here.”

“I hear you, man. Don’t sweat it, Wallace. You won’t be seeing him again, I swear. You know my word’s good. We cool?”

“Yeah,” he nodded and spat on the cracked pavement. “We cool.”

“Better hope I don’t see you on the streets,” Kelvin threatened John a final time. “If I do, that’s it for your ass!”

They stood down, lowering their pistols. All three men were shaking with rage. I lowered my own gun, and it was only then that I realized I’d forgotten to cock the hammer.

* * *

Ouch! Cut it out, Sherm!”

John took one hand off the wheel and rubbed the knot on his head.

“Why’d you hit me, dammit?”

“Because you’re a dumb ass,” Sherm shouted, leaning forward to smack him again.

“Ouch! Knock it the fuck off, Sherm. You’re gonna make me wreck.”

I’d sat quietly, simmering. Finally, I could keep my mouth shut no more.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? ‘Later my niggaz’? The fuck is that? You actually said that shit. What the hell were you thinking? Why not just go down there dressed in a fucking white sheet and burn a cross in their yard while you were at it?”

“You know I ain’t like that, Tommy. I ain’t no racist. I said niggaz, not niggers. There’s a difference. They say it in the songs all the time. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

I was so angry I couldn’t even respond.

Sherm smacked him again. “We told you to keep your fucking mouth shut. Why couldn’t you just do that?”

John pouted. “I was just trying to be friendly. That’s all. I like black people and they seemed like cool guys to hang out with. Remember when I was going out with Rhonda? She was black, and I never said anything wrong to her. I didn’t mean to offend nobody. Honest!”

And that’s the thing. He really hadn’t meant to offend anybody. He’d genuinely been trying to be friendly. John didn’t have a racist bone in his body. He was just John. Big, simple, stupid John.

And he was going to drive the getaway car . . .

I leaned back in the seat and rubbed my temples. My head was killing me. Well, actually, it was the cancer that was killing me, but the headache was helping it along quite nicely. I sighed, wondering if my friends would beat both the disease and my head to the punch, and do the cancer’s work themselves. At the rate we were going, it was a distinct possibility.

We were quiet for a while. John sulked and Sherm smoked and I massaged my head. My eyes grew heavy. It had been a long night and I was exhausted. Daylight was just a few hours away, and Michelle would be wondering where I’d been all night. I wasn’t sure what I’d tell her.

After a while, I spoke. “You guys want to hear something weird? Back there in the alley, when things got tense? I felt alive. For a few moments, I forgot all about the disease. I forgot that I was dying.”

“You ask me,” Sherm replied, “and that’s how I’d rather go out. Given a choice between dying in some crummy hospital bed or being gunned down in a blaze of glory— I’d pick the gunfight every time. And I’d pump some slugs in the motherfuckers before I was gone. I’d kill everyone in sight. I’d . . .”

He kept talking, but I fell asleep in the middle of it. Looking back now, I wish I’d stayed awake and listened.

Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

I was at a funeral. I didn’t know whose. It must have been for somebody important because the turnout was enormous. For some reason, it wasn’t taking place inside a church. Instead, we were at the old, abandoned movie theater downtown, the one where little Kaitlin Roberts had been killed about ten years ago. I was fifteen when that happened. They found her body, along with the bodies of a homeless guy and a mailman inside the vacant theater, which had closed down a year earlier when the multiplex opened across town. Their killer was never caught and their deaths haunted the town to this day.

That was how I knew it was a dream. Who in their right mind would hold a funeral at the location of a series of grisly murders?

Disembodied, I floated above the proceedings, watching as the crowd of people filed by a coffin made out of solid gold. The coffin lid was closed, and I wondered who lay inside. I listened to the hushed murmurs and whispers of the crowd below, but couldn’t make out anything other than sobs. Just by willing it to happen, I drifted down for a closer look.

Michelle and T. J. were there, which surprised me. Michelle looked beautiful in her black dress— not the type from Wal-Mart or Target or the Goodwill store. No, this was something you’d see on television, a gown you could picture Julia Roberts promenading around in at an awards show. A huge diamond sparkled on her finger, and a matching set dangled from her ears and around her neck. T. J.’s hair was slicked back and he wore a little black suit and tie, with matching black shoes. This outfit was new as well. His Sunday clothes (when Michelle’s mother took him to church) had consisted of a pair of tan Osh Kosh and a fraying sweater. I couldn’t believe how great they looked. This was the kind of clothing they’d always deserved, the kind I could never provide. Expensive. Brand-name. I figured they must be happy now.

But when I looked closer, I saw that they were crying. Black mascara streaked down Michelle’s face, making her look like a raccoon. T. J.’s little Adam’s apple bobbed frantically as he battled one great sob after another. The grief looked too big for his tiny frame. My heart broke to see them like this, in pain when they should have been happy. Judging by their appearance, they had everything in the world. Why were they so sad? Who had died? Who was in the coffin? Michelle’s mom? No, I spied her in the crowd, coming toward T. J. She picked him up in her arms and held him close.

I started to go to Michelle, but Sherm and John pushed past me— through me. A shiver ran through my body. Sherm was decked out in gold chains, and several fat gold rings adorned his fingers. John was actually wearing a tuxedo, something he hadn’t been able to afford even for our high school prom. John was crying too, as hard as Michelle, and Sherm held them both. But I noticed that he held Michelle a little too tight, and that she let him, and for one second, I was insanely jealous.

None of them seemed to notice me.

That was when I understood. The clothing. The gold casket. Even the money it must have cost to rent out the old movie theater. We’d done it. We’d pulled off the bank job without a hitch, and now my wife and son were taken care of. Sure they were sad, but grief passes; passes quickly if the bills are paid. They’d be okay in the long run.

I smiled, a sense of peaceful satisfaction engulfing me.

A silver and red-gilded banner hung over the casket.

I have gone out to find myself.

If I should get here before I return,

please hold me until I get back.

I floated toward the coffin, figuring I might as well pay my respects to myself. After all, this was a dream. No telling what would happen when the real thing came. There might not be a bright light or a chance to look down on my loved ones from above. Better to do it now, while I still could. Besides, who ever gets the chance to visit their own funeral?

The coffin was amazing. The softly flickering candles reflected on its surface. Etched in calligraphy was my name: THOMAS WILLIAM O’BRIEN followed by my date of birth and date of death. Below that, it said simply: Beloved Husband and Father. I put my hands on the lid, and though I was a ghost, it felt solid enough, cool to the touch. I opened it, grunting with the effort— and then looked down.

And I screamed.

Because the thing lying in the coffin, lying in the fancy box with my name carved into it— that thing wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been. There was no way. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t even human. I screamed again, but if anybody else heard me they didn’t show it.

Staring up at me was a blackened, putrescent lump of protoplasmic jelly. A rough outline of a human body; a pulped, swollen thing that could have been a head— were it not the size of a watermelon; two frail, stubby twigs for arms and a matching set for legs. But it was the midsection that was the worst. Something rotten and vile bubbled from the open chest cavity, spurting little gouts of fluid, like a volcano spurts lava right before it blows entirely, and orange-sized tumors jiggled like Jell-O. Brown liquid oozed out of the body, filling the coffin with putrid sludge. Beneath the pools and pulsating tumors, I heard something growing. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. It sounded a little like a bowl of Rice Krispies popping in milk.

Those are cancer cells, I thought. And they’re growing. Growing at an alarming rate.

Retching, I took a step backward and the thing opened its bulging eyes. They looked more like tumors than eyeballs and the veins inside the whites weren’t just black— they were fucking obsidian. They swiveled toward me, then the thing spoke. When it did, several teeth fell out into the coffin. Its voice was like a belch.

“Hello Tommy,” it rasped. “Do me a favor, will you? I have gone out to find myself. If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.”

“The hell? What the fuck are you?” The bile burned my throat, and I wondered how that was possible in a dream.

“I am cancer. You have me. At a very advanced stage.”

I shut my eyes, but it lashed out, grabbing my wrist with one liquefied arm. Something that felt like warm oatmeal ran down my palm and dripped onto the floor.

“You’re terminal, Tommy, so live like there’s no tomorrow! Life’s a bitch, then you die!”

I opened my eyes again and yanked my arm away. It was covered with slime. The thing smiled at me through bleeding, ulcerated gums.

“Watch this.”

It exhaled something that smelled like the inside of a septic tank. Thin, weblike tendrils slithered out of its pores and twisted through the crowd, wrapping around the people, coiling around Michelle and T. J., Sherm and John. When the tentacles touched them, something black and inky began to worm its way through their veins, visible beneath the flesh. Immediately above the infected spots, their skin began to wither and turn brittle, large pieces flaking off and falling to the floor.

“What are you doing?” I choked.

“I am you and you are me and they are we,” it sang. “You infect the ones you love, Tommy. You are a sickness. You are poison in their veins. What more could they expect from a white trash loser like you?”

“Fuck you!”

“You’re no good, no good, no good,” it sang again, “Tommy you’re no goooood! Come on and get down with the sickness! Open up your veins and let me flow into you . . .”

I reached for Michelle and T. J. and they fell apart in my arms. I choked, breathing them in. Staggering backward in horror, I bumped into Sherm and he did the same. Then John disintegrated too. All that was left of them were piles of ash.

I started to scream a third time, but the thing’s stench grew stronger, overwhelming me. It continued to swell and pulsate. I turned away, revolted.

Behind me, the thing in the coffin exploded, showering the room with itself. Something wet and reeking and grayish red landed on my head.

I bent over and vomited on my shoes, still trying to scream . . .

* * *

. . . and I was still doing both as I woke up with a view of the bedroom floor. I heard Michelle gasp in dismay as a plastic garbage can was shoved in front of my face.

“Here baby! Hit the can! Hit the can, Tommy!”

I convulsed, half-on the bed and half-off, and then I erupted once more.

“Oh Christ, Tommy— hit the can! The can!”

“GAAAAAHHHHH . . .” I replied. It felt like the lining of my throat was trying to crawl out through my mouth. I clenched my eyes shut as the spasms overtook me. In the background, I heard Michelle run to the closet in the hallway and grab a bath towel. I opened my eyes and saw blood in the trash can. Before Michelle could come back and see it, I wadded up some tissues and dropped them on top of the mess.

“What’s wrong with Daddy, Mommy?”

“He’s sick, baby. Go on back out in the living room and watch cartoons. Mommy will be out in a minute.”

“Does Daddy have the flu? Is he going to be okay?”

“Now, T. J.!”

I gagged, tried to talk, to reassure him, and found the words cut off by another cramp. It was warm and foul; beer and tequila and the remains of what little bit I’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours. It splattered into the can with a wet sound, and now Michelle was retching too. Without looking, she threw the towel at me and with one hand over her mouth, ran for the bathroom.

Blood, mucus, bile, and more of what looked like my insides followed it. Then came the dry heaves. My stomach churned and cramped, cramped and churned, but nothing more was left. When it was over, I lay back on the bed, gasping for air. The stench was overwhelming, and I rolled over again as a final case of dry heaves seized me.

I threw more tissues into the trash can. The toilet flushed and I heard the water running. Michelle came out of the bathroom a minute later, wiping her mouth.

“Long night?” she frowned.

“I’m sick.”

“No shit, Tommy. How much did you have to drink last night?”

She wasn’t shouting, but it felt like it. Her voice was shrill, cutting into my head like a power saw. Groaning, I rolled away from her and buried my head in the pillows.

“How much?” she demanded, and pulled the sheets away from me.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Not much. Few beers and a couple shots of tequila.”

“You didn’t get home till six— I’m betting you had more than that.”

“Un-uh. Seriously, that was all.”

“Then where the hell were you?”

Well first, honey bun, John, Sherm, and I almost got into a scrap at Murphy’s Place. Then we hatched plans for a bank robbery and took a drive out to York, where we visited the hood. I used the last of our savings to buy two guns, and we almost got our asses killed by the brothers when John decided to prove that he was down with the Rainbow Coalition.

“We went to Murph’s.” That wasn’t a lie. “And then we just drove around. Went out to the lake for a while.” That wasn’t a lie either. “Sherm broke up with this girl he’s been seeing and he was a little depressed.” That was a straight-up, bold-faced lie and she knew it immediately.

“Bullshit, Tommy. Sherm’s a player. He probably just wanted to get into some mischief and dragged you two along.”

I shrugged.

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head.

“Anything happen at work yesterday?”

I didn’t like the way she was looking at me.

“No,” I hesitated. “Why?”

“I heard the foundry is laying people off. It was on the news this morning. Jenny Orosel told me they’re getting rid of the guys with four to six years of tenure.”

“Yeah, I forgot to tell you about that. It’s pretty fucked up, isn’t it? And the rest of us will get stuck doing twice the work.”

“But don’t you fall into that group? The group getting laid off? You’ve been there five years.”

“No,” I lied. “I was worried about it, but the axe didn’t fall on me. We lucked out, I guess.”

“Tommy?”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“Of course not, Michelle. Why?”

“Because Jenny said that you were one of the guys that got laid off. You and John and Sherm.”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know where the hell she heard that. We’ve all still got our jobs. We were sweating it, though.”

“I’m worried. Money is already tight. If you get laid off . . .”

“Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of it. Take care of everything.”

“What do you mean?”

Before I could lie to her some more, I belched uncontrollably and grimaced at the taste. Michelle did the same, fanning her nose in disgust.

“God, Tommy, you stink. You stink but I love you.”

“Love you too.” I leaned up to kiss her and she backed away, protesting, which was good, because my head began swimming and I had to fall back onto the mattress before I passed out. She didn’t notice that, but she did notice how pale I was.

“You really do look like shit, babe. Let me feel your head.”

“I’m all right. It’s just a hangover.”

She insisted and I finally gave in. Her hand felt cool and dry against my forehead, and I closed my eyes.

“I think you’ve got a fever.” The worry in her voice had gone up a few notches. “You’re burning up.”

“I’ll be fine. Can you just get me some aspirin and my smokes, and maybe make some coffee?”

“Okay. Why don’t I get you an ice pack too?”

“That’s okay. I’m going to get in the shower in a few minutes. Just need to wake up first.”

She hesitated, caressing my brow, and smiled.

I managed to return the smile, but it felt like my teeth were going to fall out, just like the thing’s in the dream had done. After she was gone, I forced myself out of bed, sitting up slowly and groaning in pain as I put one foot on the floor, then the other. My joints ached and it felt like somebody had kicked me in the ribs. I wanted to go back to sleep, to shut my eyes and forget about everything, just lie there dying in bed. But I couldn’t. For starters, I needed to clean out the trash can before Michelle saw the blood in it— and the other stuff, the black stuff that had come from deeper down inside me. After that, I wanted to make the most of our day. We didn’t have many days left and I wanted to enjoy every one of them.

With a lot of effort, I stepped into a pair of sweats, picked up the can, and stumbled into the bathroom. I turned on the shower and filled the can, then dumped it, watching as little pieces of myself swirled down the drain. After I rinsed it out, I sprayed it with disinfectant.