M Sellars - The Law Of Three

From where I stood, the shot was clear. Ben was even closer. I started to breathe a heavy sigh of relief because I knew that at this distance my friend could not miss. It was all about to be over. The nightmare was coming to an end.

I jerked my head quickly to the right as several shots sounded from the opposite side. I saw the uninjured Wood Dell officer firing once again into the panel van as it lurched forward, allowing the patrol car to drop back down on the front corner.

I heard an almost anguished expletive to my left and whipped my gaze back. When my eyes fell on Ben, he was standing there slapping a fresh magazine into his weapon and jacking the slide back without having fired a single round.

I screamed, “What happened?!”

The tires on the panel van had bit through the slush and were now making a wet squeal against the pavement as the vehicle sped away.

“Goddammit!” my friend exclaimed once again, as he centered the muzzle of his weapon on the van and tracked it. However, the immediate opportunity for a clear shot had passed as it was already rounding the corner. “Goddammit!”

He lowered the handgun and then slipped it back into the shoulder rig as he turned. “Empty!” he shouted. “I never fuckin’ reloaded after we got out of the basement!” His face was contorted in a painful mask of self-loathing.

I didn’t blame him for what had happened, but I was infuriated. Porter was getting away, and we had missed a prime opportunity to stop him.

“Jeezus, I don’t believe this!” my friend screamed as he ran toward the disabled police cruiser.

I released my grip on the ambulance door and chased after him, dodging a paramedic who was racing for the downed officer. I fought for steady footing on the grey slop that covered the street and slipped several times before making it the thirty-odd feet to where he was standing. He had cranked the passenger door open on the patrol car and was speaking into the microphone of the police radio.

I listened as he identified himself and then began describing the van. The last thing I heard him tell the dispatcher was the direction the vehicle had been headed and the street on which it was traveling.

I didn’t hear anything else because I was lying on my side in the icy slush with the metallic tang of electricity coating my tongue and my body tensed in a violent seizure.

It’s dark.

It’s cold.

I try to move, and then I remember that I cannot.

How long have I been here? I can’t remember. It seems like forever. A day? A week? A month?

I’m confused.

I’m trying to think. Where am I?

Where am I? Hell, who am I?

My head hurts. My whole body aches.

Fear grips me, and I don’t know why.

What is it?

Why am I afraid?

The feeling passes, and I just forget. It seems easier than trying to remember. It doesn’t hurt as much.

I’m uncomfortable sitting here.

I try to move again.

That’s right, I can’t move. I wonder why.

My hands wriggle, but when they do, my wrists hurt. They are sore.

I can move my feet. Not much, just a little. My ankles hurt just like my wrists.

I hear water splash, and I can feel it on my feet.

Why are my feet in water?

Good question. Where am I again?

I listen.

It is quiet here in the dark.

Almost too quiet.

I don’t like it.

I wait.

I listen.

Footsteps.

I hear footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.

I keep listening and try to remember who I am.

T…

Tee?…

Tuh?…

Tay?…

Two?…

Two times two is four.

Two times three is six.

Two times four is twelve.

Twelve?

That’s right, isn’t it?

Two times four is twelve.

Two times twelve is sixteen.

Sixteen?

I’ll start over. Two times two is eleven.

No, that’s not right.

What was I trying to remember?

I give up.

My mouth tastes funny. Metal. Weird. Hmph. I can remember what metal is, why can’t I remember what time it is?

It sure is dark.

There’s that sound again. It’s like a motor running. I wonder what it is?

Fear.

Cold terror.

Muted sirens were warbling in a frantic bid for attention, and they were filtering into my ears. I was cold, and I felt myself physically shiver. I was laying flat on my back, and there was something resembling a thin layer of permeable warmth draped over me. It felt like it might be a blanket, but it definitely wasn’t the one I had on my bed at home.

So if I wasn’t at home in my bed, I guess that ruled out this whole day being a nightmare.

My shirt felt damp along my right side and across my shoulders. My pants weren’t much better. The chill seemed to seep in deeper and even drop a few degrees lower in the places where the wet clothing touched my skin.

I twitched and felt a fork of pain spread from one end of my body to the other. My head was pounding. My shoulder was aching. My knees hurt. My face was sore… And, it didn’t stop there. I finally gave up on taking inventory once the individually identifiable aches and pains advanced past ten.

A familiar metallic tang had parked itself somewhere in the region of the back of my tongue. On the front half, my taste buds were being assaulted by the unmistakable woody flavor of a tongue depressor. All of it was underscored by the salty taste of blood.

Quiet voices and the crackle of a two-way radio eased in beneath the sirens, and an occasional thump or bump would fill in the gaps. There was an overwhelming sense of motion vibrating through my prone body, and I decided that I must be in the back of an ambulance. It was a new experience for me, and I had nothing to compare it to, but it seemed logical considering the sensory input I was working with.

I heard myself groan and then felt my stomach turn a quick flip as my body pitched to the side. At first, I thought I was going to fall, but then I felt myself pressed against straps that crossed my chest and legs. My muscles tensed anyway, and I paid the price as my various aches snapped to attention, letting me know beyond any doubt that they were still intact and intent on continuing to produce the agony for which they were conceived.

I groaned again.

“You awake, Row?” I heard Ben’s gravelly voice over the melange of sounds bouncing around the inside of the vehicle.

I started out by slowly opening one eye and rolling it around until I found his face. Then I opened the other and gained at least some sense of depth perception. I focused in and just stared back at him mutely.

My friend looked pretty much as he had when I’d last looked at him. Soot streaked and well worn. He peered back at me with a tired expression. “You gotta stop this shit, white man,” he told me.

“What?” I croaked, my voice just as raw as his.

“Floppin’ around like a fish outta water,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed softly. “I think you’re right.”

“Was it one of those outta body things?”

“Yeah.”

“Just checkin’. You weren’t sure last time.”

“I’m pretty sure this time.”

“Get anything from it?”

“Bad taste in my mouth,” I replied.

“I would too.”

I didn’t bother to explain that my comment wasn’t intended as a metaphor.

“Mister Gant?” A different voice called my name.

“Yeah?” I grunted. “Who wants to know?”

“Mister Gant, my name is Rick,” the voice returned. A pair of surgical-glove-sheathed hands came into view and were followed by the face of a paramedic. “How are you feeling?”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Are you having any trouble breathing?” he continued, ignoring my sardonic query.