10:43 P.M.
JACK
MY TEMPLE THROBS in time with my heartbeat, but I manage to get both feet under me one more time, supporting Latham on my back.
More shots are fired, but the outside lights stay on. I stagger the remaining few steps to the bathroom, and Mom meets me in the hallway, helping to drag Latham inside. We lean him against the sink. I flip on the overhead light and gently peel back his shirt, getting my first look at his injury. An ugly black hole, just above his armpit. No exit wound. The bleeding is minimal.
“I think you’re going to make it,” I tell him, my mouth near his.
“Good. I was worried you carried me all the way here for nothing.”
I put my hands on his face, stare into his eyes. “I love you, Latham.”
“I love you, Jack.”
“I love you more.”
“No, I love you more.”
We briefly touch lips.
“So he doesn’t need any of my blood, right?”
I pull away from Latham, frowning. “You’re safe for the moment, Harry.”
“Actually, I’m not.” Harry motions for me to come closer.
“What?”
“It’s important, Jackie. Come here.”
I get within whisper range.
“I have to go,” he says.
“It was great seeing you. Come back soon.”
Harry makes a face. “The beer I had, Jackie. It wants to be set free.”
I blink. “You have to go to the bathroom?”
“Yeah. So can you, like, distract Mom while I piss in the sink?”
“You are
“Fine. Just open up the toilet and I’ll aim for it.”
I glance over my shoulder. The toilet is five feet away.
“Absolutely not.”
“I can hit it. I’ll arc the stream.”
“I don’t have time for this, Harry.”
“I’m going to wet my pants.”
“Not my problem.”
“Fine. I want my blood back.”
I consider my sink, realize I’d never use it again if Harry violates it, but don’t see any other alternative. I cross my arms.
“Okay, Harry. Make it quick.”
“Stand between me and Mom. I don’t want to sully her high opinion of me.”
I hit the lights and play blocker. More shots, outside. But no familiar tinkling of window glass, or slugs impacting the fridge.
“I need help with my fly,” Harry says.
“No way in hell.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Come on. I haven’t had a single obscene thought about you since I found out we’re related.”
I turn, pat his cheek. “Bad news, bro. You’re going to have to wet your pants.”
Mom is taping and gauzing Latham’s wound, her hands so gnarled that he has to help. More shooting. No sounds from inside the house. What are they firing at? Each other?
“I have to check something out,” I say. I pick up the rifle and sneak into the hallway.
The remaining outside lights still glow brightly. I move slowly, hunching over, peering out the living room window, trying to find the snipers’ locations. Another shot. They’ve moved closer, to within a hundred yards. I check to see what they’re aiming at, see the wreck that is my car. And in the car…
I run to the front door, second-guess myself, and backtrack to the garage. I swing it open, hitting the garage door opener button on the wall, planting both of my feet, and snugging the rifle up against my shoulder.
“Herb!” I scream.
I fire my first round across the street, aiming where I’d seen the muzzle flash. I immediately load the second round and shoot again.
Herb doesn’t waste time. He slides face-first into my garage before the door even gets halfway up. I hit the button again, and Herb rolls to the left, bumping up against the wall of cardboard boxes. Two bullets ping off the garage floor, chewing hunks out of the concrete. I rush over to Herb, hooking my elbow around his, straining to get him back to his feet.
He bellows. Herb’s hands flutter around his knee, as if indecisive about whether or not to touch it. My partner had hit the ground hard – especially hard considering his age and weight. His pants are bloody, but I don’t know if his earlier gunshot wound has opened up or if this is a new injury.
“Did you get shot again?”
He shakes his head, his jowls flapping. “Knee!”
“Broken?”
He replies through his teeth – a keening cry that makes my stomach vibrate.
A round punches through my garage door, making a hole the size of my fist.
Then another. And another.
I have to get Herb out of here.
“We need to get you in the house.”
“Leave me here.”
Bullets continue to ventilate my garage door, and the light coming in from the holes dims. They’re shooting the outside lights again. Once those are gone, they’ll switch back to night vision.
Then we’re screwed.
“On three,” I say. I set down the rifle and take hold of his collar. “One… two… three!”
Herb moans deep in his throat, and I pull while he uses his three functional limbs to drag his broken one. We reach the doorway into my house, then I collapse next to him, both of us breathing like asthmatics at a hay festival.
“There’s a saw.” Herb points to the workbench at the back of the garage. “Cut my leg off. That will hurt less.”
My chest heaves. “At least you still have your sense of humor.”
“No joke. I’ll pay you twenty thousand bucks to saw off my leg.”
I blink away the motes, wipe some sweat from my forehead. “Let’s go again.”
“Please, no.”
“On three.”
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“One… two… three!”
Another strangled cry from Herb, but we make it into the house, across the living room, and to the front of the hallway before fatigue drops me to my knees.
“Here is good,” Herb wheezes. He’s directly in front of the bay windows. The only possible way he could be an easier target is if he had antlers.
“We… we have to get you to… to the bathroom.”
