William Giraldi - Hold the Dark

“You’re gonna help me, Shan. That’s what’s happening now. That and nothing else.”

“Jesus, Vernon.”

Slone moved the handgun from the small of his back to the front of his pants, behind the belt buckle.

“I’d hate to remind you,” he said. “Remind you that Cheeon and me were the ones who dug your mother’s grave that summer. When your pop and you were too bad off to do it.”

“Shit, man, I haven’t forgot that. My pop’s dead now, ya know. He died last year.”

“Lots of people are dead now. And lots more will join them. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Shan?”

They left the garage then and hauled Slone’s duffel bags from the truck to a vacant room. Shan turned the heat high, then with scissors cut the shirt from Slone’s back.

“Jesus, Vernon. What round made this hole, a .223, someone’s Bushmaster? What’s a nice lady doing with this rifle?”

“She ain’t so nice.”

“Must’ve gone through some shit before it found you, or else the thing’d be in your lung or heart right about now.”

“The window and the seat.”

“Damn lucky. Don’t look like it hit anything important. It’s not that deep, far as I can see.”

“It’s in the bone. You have to pull it.”

“We gotta clean it first. We need vodka for this. Wait here.”

“I don’t need vodka.”

“For me, man, I need it. Shit.”

Slone checked the shotgun and slid it beneath a pillow, then put a rifle in the bathroom, another behind the door. He filled the pistol’s clip and watched for Shan through a tweed curtain. Shan soon returned with a bag of clean clothes and a prescription of painkillers, rattling them in the bottle for Slone to see.

“These babies are why I’m in trouble with the cops, man, these here. You can’t get this shit anymore. They’re practically heroin pills. Here, take one now, because this ain’t gonna feel too pretty at all.”

He downed a pill with vodka as Shan stood at the sink and scrubbed the engine filth from his hands with a wire sponge and turpentine. Slone emptied his bags onto the bed for the peroxide, the needle-nose pliers, the razors, sewing kit, bandages, fishing line. Hunched at the edge of the bed, he held the pliers in the flame of a barbecue lighter. Shan unscrewed the shade from the lamp for better light, then laved Slone’s upper back, the peroxide like an ember on the wound.

“Christ, sons of bitches sure like shooting at you, Vernon. What’re these two scabs here, in your neck and shoulder here? You get these over there, where you were?”

Slone said nothing. They both drank again from the bottle and Slone winced against the burn of booze. Through the wafer wall he could hear the TV in the next room—a laugh track, a man’s words about someone’s wife not satisfying her husband, more laughter.

“I used to look for you on the news,” Shan said. “Whenever there was a news report from there, about soldiers or whatever. But I never saw you. I thought I did one time, but it wasn’t you.”

“We used to look for you too. Cheeon and me. Whenever we were in town. But we never saw you either. After you left, we never saw you again.”

“I never got into town much,” Shan said. “Still don’t.”

“Nor back home much either.”

Slone kept the pliers in the flame until they began to shift color and he felt the heat in the rubber handle.

“Those things gonna be long enough, man? I got longer ones in the garage, good ones.”

“The longer you wait, the sooner it’s infected. Pull it,” and he handed him the pliers over his shoulder.

“You feel that pill yet?”

“I feel the bullet.”

“Yeah, I would too. You want something to bite on? A belt maybe? Isn’t that what they always use? A belt or a bullet? Though I’m guessing you don’t even wanna look at another bullet right now.”

“Pull it.”

Slone sweated from his armpits and forehead as the pain knifed up to his neck, into his eyes, then a wider pain lashed down through his intestines and groin. His tears dripped onto the knees of his jeans. Shan grunted, trying to grasp the lead. “Stubborn son of a bitch,” he said, and Slone could feel the blood spilling fast now along his back, could hear the grind of pliers on lead and bone. Saliva seeped, then spilled from his lips and chin. Twice he fought back the migraines of a fainting blackness.

“Jesus, stop bleeding, Vern, would ya? I can’t see shit in all this mess you’re making.”

He poured vodka to rinse away the blood and then drank from the bottle. Slone’s pants were pink in places, damp red in others. Shan handed him the bottle for his own gulp and then began grasping again. His mumbling sounded to Slone like the mocking prayers of a comic.

“You gotta move closer into this light, Vernon. I simply cannot see shit here, man.”

Shan dragged heavily on a cigarette as he leaned on the wall and mopped sweat from his face with a towel. Slone moved down the mattress and bent to hug his knees, to curve his upper back, the wound ripping, bleeding more. Shan put his cigarette into Slone’s mouth and doused the wound with peroxide this time. He gave Slone a minute to smoke, to breathe again. To find some brace against this. Slone focused on the boot-stained carpet and felt the liquid spill from his shoulders and nape.

“Pull it,” he said.

He was only half conscious when minutes later Shan withdrew the lead and showed it to him in the teeth of the pliers, grinning as if he’d hooked a halibut. From the pill and drink and pain Slone fell sideways onto the bed in a shallow dark as Shan worked fast to sluice the wound once more, to cross-stitch it closed with a beading needle and fishing line. Slone woke fully and asked if the round had fragmented.

“Negative,” Shan said. “I got it all.”

“You have to sew down through all seven skin layers.”

“I’m way ahead of ya, Vernon, just lay there. Jesus, you act like this is the first bullet I ever pulled from a man. I had to pull that .22 round from Cheeon’s calf when we were nine or ten. You shot your good buddy aiming for a rabbit. You started off a pretty bad shot, Vern. I been told you got better, though. Lay still.”

The TV in the adjacent room was off now. They heard the couple there, the unoiled bedframe, uneven squeals that sounded half animal.

“How about that?” Shan said. “Good ole Roger is having a time with a rent-a-gal from town. Sorry for the walls. My pop cut corners where he could. They’re nothing but a sheet of plasterboard on each side, no insulation even. Just enough studs to hold them up. You want another pill, Vern?”

But he was gone again in that depthless dark. Aware of the room and the hurt. But unmoored, skimming somewhere without human sound or any verge he could see. Just the purl of a streamlet somewhere beneath him.

Shan bandaged the spot, trussed it tight, then wedged off Slone’s boots, helped to clothe him anew, wrap him in quilts that smelled of stale cold. He left with Slone’s bloodied clothes to burn them in the furnace. In his partial darkness Slone felt for the shotgun on the pillow, felt into his coat pocket for the T-shirt that still held the scent of his son.

Shan returned minutes later holding a spoon and steaming tin pot. He sat on the bed near Slone.

“Sit up, man. You gotta have soup, Vernon. I’ll help ya.”

“Soup.”

“Hell yes, soup. You know of anything soup can’t fix? You need to eat some soup.”

“What kind is it?”

“Vernon Slone. I just pulled a bullet from your back and every cop around is hunting you and you wanna know what kind of goddamn soup it is? It’s Campbell’s chicken soup. You know of a better soup than that?”