“When our mothers were young, you could just pop them out whenever. But with the cost of help and private schools, you really have to plan these days.” Charlotte rolled over onto her stomach. Her scratched-up shoulder was a few inches from Tracy’s face. Most of the Band-Aids had fallen off in the water. There was a shiny yellow sheen developing over the wound. A small dragonfly alighted on it, and Tracy shooed it away.
“Ah, listen to me,” Charlotte said. “If I turn into one of those mommy bloggers who always blabbers mindlessly about her kid, promise me you’ll shoot me in the face.”
“Should I bring a knife or something?”
“This baby ought to do her,” Byrd said, patting the shotgun.
They waved good-bye to Tracy and Charlotte, who were sipping margaritas — one virgin, one double tequila — out of jam jars on the porch.
“You boys be careful,” Charlotte said.
“If that tequila’s gone when we get back, I’m going to be pissed,” Byrd said with a smile.
The road to the cabin was made of dusty gravel, and their feet crunched as they walked along. The sun was dipping behind the blue mountains, and nighttime creatures were awaking with chirps and growls. It was a little chilly, and Tim wished he had brought a jacket.
“This reminds me of the first time my dad took me hunting,” Byrd said. “He didn’t even tell me ahead of time, just woke me up at night and handed me face paint. I think I was eight years old. It was goose season. When we fired on them, hundreds flew into the air, and their wings and squawks were so loud I was too scared to be excited. In fact, I think I peed a little in my camo pants.” Byrd swung the shotgun around in front of him. “Still, there’s something about that first kill.”
“I never went hunting,” Tim said.
“Oh, right. I always forget your mother’s a vegetarian.”
“Vegan. But sometimes at the beach my father would secretly give me a crab hook. I tried to cook one with a lighter and threw up all over the pier. I guess that’s pretty similar.”
“Not at all, bro. Crabs don’t scream.”
They were coming around the bend near the old barn. Tim could hear a resigned groan above the crickets and hoots of owls. Byrd placed the shotgun gently in Tim’s hands. “Here,” he said in a fatherly tone. “I want you to do it.”
Tim’s father had managed a hedge fund and never understood Tim’s love of sports. “Son,” he’d said once, “you’re in your prime education-maximizing period. What’s your ROI if you get injured?” When Tim did get injured, snapping his ACL like an old rubber band, his father brought a stack of investment guides to his hospital bed.
Byrd and Tim walked off the road and onto the dirt path that led around the barn. Only the very last curve of the sun was left above the hills. Tim was surprised at how heavy a shotgun could be. He saw a pale bluish head rocking back and forth beyond the bushes. The man was standing in a pile of rotted firewood and barbed wire that he must have wrapped himself in trying to escape. His eyes were so sunken we could barely see them.
“He looks kind of sad,” Tim said. “Maybe we should try to help him?”
“You can’t help anyone who doesn’t want to help themselves, especially when their brain has been eaten away by an undead plague.”
As they came closer, the man started shaking. His jaw was unhinged, and a frothy yellow liquid dripped down his chin. He stretched one arm toward them. Flaps of skin were hanging off of it and shaking slightly in the wind.
“You have the safety on.” Byrd reached over and pushed a button on the side of the gun.
The only time Tim had ever used a gun was at summer camp, and that was a.22 and soda cans. He pushed the butt into his shoulder like his counselor had taught him and squeezed the trigger.
The dead man’s hand transformed into red confetti, and a large hole appeared in his upper chest. The shotgun popped out of Tim’s hands.
“The brain!” Byrd yelled. Flecks of blood and blue skin covered his whole body. “You were supposed to shoot him in the fucking brain!”
The man was spinning now, digging himself deeper into the wires, one arm flapping around like a tetherball.
“Sorry, I told you I’ve never done this before.”
Byrd bent down and picked up the shotgun. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry I yelled. It’s just that Charlotte bought me this polo for my birthday, and she already complains I don’t wear it enough.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nah, forget it. I’m just tense with the baby and everything.” Byrd took the gun and fired the other shell into the head, which erupted backwards against the barn. “Let’s go wash up and watch a movie with the gals.”
Byrd and Charlotte were getting married in November, a few months before the baby was due. Byrd had borrowed enough money from his parents to buy a ring with two silver dolphins twirling around a giant diamond. Charlotte had always loved dolphins and had two of them leaping over a heart tattooed on her left thigh. Everyone knew Byrd and Charlotte were bound to tie the knot one of these days; the baby had only sped things up.
Tim wondered what it meant that he and Tracy were out here celebrating Charlotte and Byrd’s baby and wedding. Did Byrd and Charlotte think they should get married too? Tim and Tracy had been dating for three years, but somehow marriage seemed like a stopping point. Tracy was still in law school, and Tim was draining his trust fund trying to finish his novel.
And what did Tracy think? Tim never knew anymore. They still had fun in public, but when their apartment door closed, it was nothing but fights or silence. Sometimes he got so angry he just wanted to scream at her. It felt like the two of them were just stumbling along, unsure of where they were going or why.
“Well, shit. Would you look at that?”
The four friends were eating penne arrabbiata on the porch. They all looked where Byrd was pointing. Out beyond the small vegetable garden, they saw a hunched-over man. He knocked over the chicken wire fence and slowly trudged through the small garden, emerging with tomato vines wrapped around his right leg.
“What the hell?” Byrd said with a mouth half-full of noodles. “Those were heirloom.”
“Get inside!” Tracy yelled, jumping out of her seat.
“Hold on a sec,” Byrd said. “We shouldn’t have to have our meal ruined just because he failed to stay alive.”
The man didn’t seem to be paying any attention to his surroundings. He was moving in a general direction, but constantly bumping into the sides of trees, chairs, and other objects in the yard. He gave a loud groan, righted himself, and moved onward.
“Look, he’s not even coming at us.”
Indeed, the man’s trajectory was past the house on the other side from the porch. The sight of him made Tracy shudder. His skin was purple in the evening light. There were small red marks all over his legs, as if he’d been nipped by squirrels.
“Do you need any help?” Tracy called out.
The man didn’t seem to register her words and stumbled out of view in his slow, sad gait.
The friends sat quietly for a bit, then resumed eating their food. Merle Haggard was playing on the portable speakers. Byrd screwed open another bottle of wine.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” Byrd said. “To good friends, good eating, and no clients boring us with all their problems.”
“Amen to that,” Tracy said.
“And to the two of you,” Tim said. “Soon to be three!” Charlotte didn’t say anything. She was slouched in her chair with sweat staining the upper half of her yellow blouse. Tracy thought she looked drunk, even though she hadn’t had any wine.