John Avery - Three Days To Die

POPOPOP!

The barrel kicked skyward, and three bullets splintered the wooden ceiling joists.

"Holy cow!" Aaron exclaimed, embarrassed to discover that he wasn't the marksman he thought he'd be.

Needles laughed and helped him get back into position.

– Needles continued to work with Aaron until he was satisfied that Aaron could safely handle both guns.

"You're a natural," Needles said. "You could easily hold your own in a fight."

Aaron glowed; that was one of the coolest things he had ever done. "Thanks, Needles," he said. "That was awesome."

Needles smiled; he felt good about what he'd done for the boy. He extinguished the target lantern, secured everything, and led Aaron back up the steep wooden ladder to the cannery above.

You're Michael?

Michael drove up and skidded to a stop in front of Aaron's apartment building. He jumped out of the car and ran up the steps to ring the bell.

There was no answer.

Again.

No answer.

He located the hidden key, but when he tried it he found that the door was unlocked. He replaced the key then stepped inside, peering into the darkness of the foyer.

– "Hello?" he said, clicking on a light. "Is anybody home?" A backpack lay heaped in the corner with some papers and other junk. A beach cruiser leaned against a wall.

He walked through the living room, past a set of stairs that led to the second floor, and flipped a light on in the kitchen. There was no one there, so he checked the rest of the downstairs before returning to the living room.

He climbed the stairs and about half way up his foot slipped on the carpeting and he had to put a hand down to keep from falling. As he straightened he noticed that his hand was moist. He rubbed his thumb and index finger together and felt a soapy residue that smelled like laundry detergent. He knelt and ran his hand over the carpeted stair treads. Three were damp. Then he continued on up the stairs.

The upstairs hall light was already on. Michael checked the master bedroom and bath, but they were deserted.

When he came to Aaron's room a wave of panic tightened his chest: The door was splintered by what appeared to be a gunshot to the lock. He tried the knob, but the door was still securely dead-bolted from the inside.

"Aaron?" he yelled, banging on the door. "Aaron, are you in there?"

There was no answer.

He stepped back a couple steps and lunged at the door, throwing his entire weight into it. The lock held, but the center panel had loosened and Michael was able to get his hand through and release the bolt. He swung the door open, but the room was empty. He looked out through the open window across the roof. It too was deserted.

He lingered for a moment, breathing in the cold air, thinking about Aaron. Then he left the bedroom and started back down the stairs.

As he descended he heard a sound, as if someone had dropped something in the kitchen — a plastic cup perhaps. He stopped and listened, then trotted the rest of the way down to investigate.

– He entered the kitchen and noticed that the pantry door, which had been closed, was slightly ajar, now. He slowly opened it and clicked on the light.

Crouching in the shadows behind a stack of newspapers was what appeared to be a boy in a hooded sweatshirt. The boy's head was down, and Michael couldn't see his face.

"Aaron?" Michael said, but there was no reply.

He stepped over and moved some of the junk aside and was surprised to see that it wasn't Aaron at all, just a chubby little black kid wearing thick glasses.

"Come on out of there," Michael said.

Willy looked up at him, terrified. "I–I was just looking for my friend," he said, close to tears.

"It's okay," Michael said. "I'm a friend, also." He'd only known Aaron a short time, but he considered him his friend — the first friend he'd made in a long time. He offered Willy a hand up and they stepped out of the pantry.

"So, you know Aaron?" Michael said.

"I'm his best friend," Willy replied stubbornly, chin down, and with all his heart he wanted to believe it was still true. Maybe if he acted as if it were true, it would be true.

Michael pulled out a chair for Willy at the kitchen table and took a seat across from him.

"I haven't heard from him since yesterday," Michael said. "I think he's in trouble."

"To put it mildly," Willy said.

"Why? What do you know about last night?"

"I know a lot," Willy said. " I saw the whole blasted thing."

The two compared stories about Aaron's run-in with Souther and the narrow escape. Willy described their cannery hide-out and agreed to take Michael there in the morning.

Willy mentioned that he'd gone to visit Aaron's mother the evening before, and that she hadn't seen Aaron since dinner and was worried. And now she was missing, too.

"The door was unlocked when I got here," he said. "She would never do that, and I doubt Tom would either — not in our neighborhood. It doesn't make any sense. We have to find them."

Michael stood up from the table. "Come with me. I'm going to check around back." They left the kitchen, stepping outside through the side door, and headed around to the rear of the building.

A makeshift plywood-patchwork had been nailed up over what used to be Aaron's garage door. Michael and Willy entered the garage through the same small door Ashley had used.

Michael noticed a fresh pair of tire burnouts running the full length of the garage and out into the alley. He looked at Willy then knelt and slowly ran his fingers over one of the charred-rubber streaks.

– They left the garage and started back up the side alley toward the street.

Michael extended his hand. "By the way, my name's Michael," he said.

Willy gave Michael's hand a vigorous shake. "I'm Willy," he said. "Bloody good to — " He stopped in his tracks. "Hey, wait a second. You're Michael? The pool table Michael? The guy with the loft? Aaron called me from your place last night."

"That was you?"

Willy nodded his head sadly. "Yes… that was me." Then he turned and walked on up the alley.

– When they reached the street in front of Aaron's apartment, Michael glanced at his watch. 7:45 p.m. "So, can I offer you a ride home? If you don't hate me, that is…"

Willy laughed; he had hated the mystery Michael, but now that he had met him he could see that he really was a nice guy — and maybe he'd misjudged Aaron a little as well.

"Thanks… but I have my bike," he said, and Michael waited while he ran inside the apartment and returned with his beach cruiser.

"So, I'll pick you up here tomorrow morning at nine?" Michael said.

"Sounds good," Willy said.

They shook hands again, and with a quick wave goodbye Willy took off toward home.

A Dagwood Sandwich

Aaron poked his head through the door to the cannery break room and saw Needles sitting alone at the long wooden table with the entire contents of the refrigerator spread out in front of him. Normally the fridge was pretty bare, but that day had been a good payday, so there was plenty to eat.

Aaron started to knock on the door frame, then considered calling the whole thing off. But it was important to him — and he was probably making too much out of it anyway. A simple question requiring a simple answer, he told himself. So he knocked.

Needles had nearly completed the construction of a Dagwood sandwich. He turned toward the sound and smiled, bracing the wobbly stack of lunch meat with both hands.

"Aaron," he said, "come in. Are you hungry? You want some iced tea?"

"That'd be great," Aaron said. "Thank you."

Needles held the sandwich with one hand and poured Aaron a glass of tea from a surprisingly elegant crystal pitcher. He passed the box of sugar and a long spoon, and then he balanced the final slice of bread on top of his towering creation. Aaron added two spoonfuls of sugar to his tea and watched the white crystals swirl around as he stirred the amber liquid.