I’m just behind him now and I can smell Ben-Gay waft off his body like it was damn cologne. And he still doesn’t have a clue I’m there.
Or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. Maybe he’s resigned to the fact that he’ll die in this alley. Is that why he took it to begin with? An act of voluntary euthanasia, perhaps? Seems to me he would have felt safer in plain view of the police and soldiers. Not back here in this alley where no one would hear him scream.
For some reason, I think of the soldier at the little tent who took all my information before gracing me with this box I’m lugging around. What was that he said? That this would be enough to last a week… if we doled it out wisely? What the hell did that mean anyway? What if we didn’t dole it out wisely? Was it too much of a stretch of imagination to think that might be a possibility? I mean, it’s not like anyone give me any instructions with this damn box. No one said only eat x amount of food every x amount of hours and you’ll be fine. No, I was just given what feels like a container of bricks and basically told to make it last.
And this old man? There’s a good chance that he could drop dead of a heart attack at any minute, the way he’s straining with that box of his. I can see the muscles and veins standing out on his neck, can now see how his arms tremble beneath the weight, and can hear his wheezing breath. Even if he does manage to make it back to his home, what happens if he dies tonight? All that food just sitting around in his pantry while flies lay eggs in his eyes… all that food going to waste.
I realize I’m holding my own box directly over my head and my own muscles are quivering with exertion. For a moment, I’m confused: why the hell am I walking like this? What the hell am I doing?
Then, without another thought, I’m bringing my arms down with as much force as I can muster. The edge of my box slams into the back of the old man’s head and I see a bright red spray of blood spurt from his scalp as his body pitches forward. His box skids across the alley and he’s sprawled on his belly, feeling the back of his head with hands that came away warm and sticky with his own blood.
He rolls over and his eyes are wide with fear, magnified and distorted by the thick lenses of his glasses. He lips move like he’s searching for words but no sound escapes from his frail throat.
I feel like I’m about to throw up. What the fuck have I done? Why did I do that? What the hell was I thinking?
Tears well up in the corners of the old guy’s eyes as he starts scrambling backward and I see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he struggles for a breath.
Shit. He’s going to start screaming. Start yelling for help.
What if someone hears him?
What if a soldier or cop is patrolling the other end of the alley?
They’ll kill me. Shoot me dead on the spot, no questions asked.
The man’s lips quiver and I know the scream is working its way up through his lungs.
I can’t let him scream.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want to be killed in a dirty fucking alley with pants that smell of piss.
I don’t want to die.
My box thumps to the ground as I launch myself at the old man. My body crashes into his and I feel the air whoosh from his lungs with a small moan as my knee grinds into his groin. He falls backward again and his throat is in my hands and it feels so thin and fragile, like a chicken bone really. Squeezing, compressing so tightly that my knuckles turn white and my hands throb with pain.
His eyes bulge as if I’m about to pop them right out of his head and his lips look kind of bluish now and I squeeze harder, feeling the vibration of bones cracking through my palms. Blood begins to trickle from the corners of his mouth and suddenly he’s not struggling anymore, not clawing at my hands and clothes with arthritic fingers. His arms hang limply by his sides and his eyes look dull and glassy. But I have to make sure… I can’t risk him telling the authorities what happened, can’t take the chance that even a single breath might be hiding down there in his lungs. So I squeeze his throat until I’m sure there’s no chance he’ll ever get back up again.
I look over my shoulder, half expecting to see someone running down the alley toward me. But there’s no one in either direction. No witnesses to what I’ve just done.
Standing, I brush the dust off my pants and shirt. It doesn’t seem right to just leave the old guy laying out in the alley like this…. I toss some of the bags out of one of the dumpsters, just enough so that I can hoist his body over the side and bury him beneath the mounds of garbage. This whole place smells like rot, anyway. No one will ever notice. No one will wonder what that strange smell is as his body begins to decay.
I grab my box off the ground and then stoop and place the old man’s supplies on top of it.
My heart is hammering in my chest faster than I ever thought possible and every sound, every sight, every smell seems to be somehow amplified. It’s like all of my senses have kicked into overdrive and for the first time in my life I actually feel powerful. Invincible, even.
And these extra supplies? Well, they’ll make sure we have enough to see us through regardless of whether or not we dole them out wisely.
We’ll be just fine, us four.
I’ll make sure of that.
CHAPTER FOUR
I’m standing in the hallway of our building and it feels like every ounce of energy I’ve ever possessed has decided to take an extended hiatus. The muscles in my legs tremble like Jell-O and my arms are wracked with cramps from carrying the boxes; the small of my back feels like I’ve been whacked with a two-by-four and waves of darkness keep threatening to overtake me. I shake my head like a dog flinging off water and kick the door with the tip of my loafer.
“It’s me… open up. I’ve got the stuff.”
My voice sounds slurred and distant, like a drunkard speaking through the end of a long pipe.
Nothing but silence within the apartment, so I kick again. Harder this time.
“Damn it, open the door! This shit is heavy!”
I can hear faint footsteps on the other side, whispers so vague I can only make out sounds and not voices or distinct words. I kick again, this time so hard that pain flares through my toes as the tip of my shoe jars against the wood.
“Who’s there?”
Jane’s voice, sounding like a frightened little girl. Why the hell doesn’t she just use the peephole and see who the fuck is there? The stupid cunt.
I try to swallow my irritation, to keep it from showing in my voice and tone. It feels like a hard lump of gristle stuck in my throat and I close my eyes for a second to keep the hallway from wavering in and out of focus.
“Publisher’s Fucking Clearing House. Who the hell do you think it is? Open the damn door, Jane. I said this shit is heavy!”
So much for keeping my cool.
I hear the chain rattle and then the click of the deadbolt. The doorknob turns and the door swings open. She stands there for a moment with her hands on her hips, her lips thin and tight as she glares at me.
“There’s no need to get snappy.” she spits. “It could’ve been anyone. How was I supposed to know?”
Apparently she has no intention of moving out of the doorway, so I shoulder my way by her.
“Richard!”