Slowly, it came back to him. Being lifted out of the trunk by that behemoth Tommy the Pinhead. Being forced to walk down to the beach in the snow, even though he’d been incredibly woozy and could barely maintain his balance. But the girl, Gigi, kept poking him with a gun. She was holding a gun on him. And Tommy was carrying something. A big, heavy package. Casey. He was carrying Casey’s body. When they got here Tommy dropped Casey and ordered Mitch to turn around. Then the bastard beaned him again. Hit him with that gun, probably. Hit him so hard that he’d passed out for who knows how long. Long enough for them to take all of his clothes off. Damn, they’d even taken his Omega, the one that his grandfather, Sam Berger, bought for seven dollars at the Fort Dix PX before he shipped out to fight Hitler. Sam wore that watch all through the war. And Mitch had worn it since he was in high school. And now it was gone and he was shivering uncontrollably and had no feeling whatsoever in his hands or feet.
Think it out, calmly and rationally. He’d gotten out of tough situations before. He’d get out of this one. If he had a problem, he simply needed to solve it.
And add this to the list of 297 things that Mitch Berger, noted New York City film critic, never, ever thought he’d find himself doing-rolling a bloody dead guy out of a bloody shower curtain so that he could undress said dead guy and put his bloody clothes on. First, he wrestled the Pats hoodie off over Casey’s head. Or tried to. Casey wasn’t exactly cooperating and Mitch’s fingers were numb and his hands were shaking. Plus his stomach kept lurching and sending hot, sour bile up into his throat. But Mitch tugged and tugged until, gasping with exhaustion, he finally managed to yank Casey’s hooded sweatshirt off of him.
Mitch’s stomach lurched again when he saw the deep knife wounds in Casey’s abdomen. He could make out at least six of them in what was left of the afternoon sunlight. A man hadn’t done that to him. Casey had been killed by a savage animal.
Teeth chattering, he pulled the dead man’s sweatshirt on over his own head, snugging the hood down over his frozen ears, burying his hands in its kangaroo pouch. He didn’t care that the lower half of the sweatshirt was soaked with Casey’s ice-cold blood. Couldn’t afford to care. He was grateful for whatever he had. It would have been nice if there’d been something tucked inside of that kangaroo pouch. Like, say, a cell phone. But that was too much to hope for. After he’d warmed his hands for a moment he removed Casey’s socks and slid them on his own frozen feet. The socks were nothing more than thin cotton. And they were caked with snow. Barely any protection at all. But they were something.
His next challenge was Casey’s sweatpants. As he crouched over Casey, preparing to pull the pants down his legs, Mitch’s nostrils encountered some truly terrible smells. Casey’s sphincters had released when he died. One of those real-life things that they never show in the movies. And, in real life, Mitch couldn’t put those pants on no matter how cold he was.
That left the bloody shower curtain, which would at least work as a windbreaker. He rolled Casey off of it, folded it in half and wrapped it around the lower half of his body, tucking it at his waist like a bath towel.
Right. He had to make his way through that deep snow. Back across the beach to the path, then up the path to the parking lot. The lot had probably been plowed. Easy walking. Beyond it was a road that dipped under the Amtrak railroad trestle and then after a mile or so met up with Route 1. That wasn’t so far. He could make that. And maybe he’d encounter somebody before he reached Route 1. It wasn’t the middle of the night. People would be out and about. Sure, they would. He’d flag someone down and ask them to call Des on their cell phone. Not a problem. He was clothed and socked. Hands tucked inside of the kangaroo pouch. Ears covered. He could do this. All he had to do was get up and start walking.
Slowly, Mitch got to his feet, wavering as he stood there in the gusting wind. The setting sun now was a sliver on the western horizon. Darkness was falling. He paused to say good-bye to Casey. Promised the guy he’d be back for him as soon as he could. It wasn’t a long speech. This wasn’t the time for words. It was the time for action. He gave Casey a jaunty wave, then snugged the shower curtain tight and started his way through the deep snow one rugged step at a time. He made it three whole strides before flashbulbs started popping in front of his eyes and he fell back down, dizzy beyond belief from those blows to his head. Everything was spinning.
The roar of an engine brought him back. It was the Acela speeding its way across the trestle toward Boston, its passengers all warm and cozy inside, and wearing things like trousers, underwear and sweatshirts that weren’t caked with someone else’s blood. They were probably thinking about the hot meal they’d be having when they pulled into Boston. It would be supper time. Nothing like a scrumptious supper in Beantown on a cold, windy night. A big, hot bowl of clam chowder for starters. Then a rib eye steak, medium rare, with hash browns, creamed spinach and plenty of fresh bread slathered with sweet butter. A nice bottle of Chianti Classico. Chocolate cake for dessert. A double espresso with a jolt of Balvenie on the side. Mitch could practically taste it as the train tore past and then was gone, leaving behind the howl of the wind and the faint strumming of a guitar. Mitch recognized the tune-Leonard Cohen’s “The Stranger Song” from
Except no one ever did.
Mitch’s feet ached now. He willed himself back up onto them anyway. He was standing tall. Walking tall. One foot in front of the other. He was fine-until suddenly everything seemed to be tilting at a funny angle and he realized that he wasn’t walking or standing tall anymore. He’d pitched over onto his side like a mighty oak in a hurricane and lay there in the snow once again.
He wanted to. Really, he did. Except it was so hard to get up. And so easy to just settle down into the snow and stay here.
They’d left him here to die. That was why they’d taken his clothing. And he was going to die-right here next to Casey. It wouldn’t take long now. Mitch wished he could leave Des a goodbye note. But he had nothing to write with. Doubted his fingers would be able to hold a pen anyway, even though he had them tucked inside of Casey’s sweatshirt. What were the four degrees of frostbite? He’d just been watching a special about it the other night on The Weather Channel. The first degree was frost nip, which affected only the surface skin. Second degree, the skin froze and hardened but the deep tissue wasn’t affected and you were still basically okay. But once you got to degrees three and four, the blood vessels, nerves and muscles started to freeze. That was when they started talking about gangrene and amputation. And then there was the whole hypothermia thing, which occurred when your body temperature dipped below ninety-five degrees. He figured that had to be on the table soon, what with the windchill factor and all. Bottom line? If no one found him in the next twenty minutes Mitch Berger, noted film critic, would achieve the fifth degree, which also went by the name Certain Death.
But he knew he was going to. This was the end. As he lay there on his side Mitch drew his knees to his chest and hugged them tightly, his teeth chattering as he waited for death to come. He didn’t welcome it. But he accepted it. He had to accept it. Death was the only choice left to him. And he was okay with that, because he was
