J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

I pull away from Latham, frowning. “You’re safe for the moment, Harry.”

“Actually, I’m not.” Harry motions for me to come closer.

“What?”

“It’s important, Jackie. Come here.”

I get within whisper range.

“I have to go,” he says.

“It was great seeing you. Come back soon.”

Harry makes a face. “The beer I had, Jackie. It wants to be set free.”

I blink. “You have to go to the bathroom?”

“Yeah. So can you, like, distract Mom while I piss in the sink?”

“You are not urinating in my sink.”

“Fine. Just open up the toilet and I’ll aim for it.”

I glance over my shoulder. The toilet is five feet away.

“Absolutely not.”

“I can hit it. I’ll arc the stream.”

“I don’t have time for this, Harry.”

“I’m going to wet my pants.”

“Not my problem.”

“Fine. I want my blood back.”

I consider my sink, realize I’d never use it again if Harry violates it, but don’t see any other alternative. I cross my arms.

“Okay, Harry. Make it quick.”

“Stand between me and Mom. I don’t want to sully her high opinion of me.”

I hit the lights and play blocker. More shots, outside. But no familiar tinkling of window glass, or slugs impacting the fridge.

“I need help with my fly,” Harry says.

“No way in hell.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Come on. I haven’t had a single obscene thought about you since I found out we’re related.”

I turn, pat his cheek. “Bad news, bro. You’re going to have to wet your pants.”

Mom is taping and gauzing Latham’s wound, her hands so gnarled that he has to help. More shooting. No sounds from inside the house. What are they firing at? Each other?

“I have to check something out,” I say. I pick up the rifle and sneak into the hallway.

The remaining outside lights still glow brightly. I move slowly, hunching over, peering out the living room window, trying to find the snipers’ locations. Another shot. They’ve moved closer, to within a hundred yards. I check to see what they’re aiming at, see the wreck that is my car. And in the car…

Herb!

I run to the front door, second-guess myself, and backtrack to the garage. I swing it open, hitting the garage door opener button on the wall, planting both of my feet, and snugging the rifle up against my shoulder.

“Herb!” I scream.

I fire my first round across the street, aiming where I’d seen the muzzle flash. I immediately load the second round and shoot again.

Herb doesn’t waste time. He slides face-first into my garage before the door even gets halfway up. I hit the button again, and Herb rolls to the left, bumping up against the wall of cardboard boxes. Two bullets ping off the garage floor, chewing hunks out of the concrete. I rush over to Herb, hooking my elbow around his, straining to get him back to his feet.

He bellows. Herb’s hands flutter around his knee, as if indecisive about whether or not to touch it. My partner had hit the ground hard – especially hard considering his age and weight. His pants are bloody, but I don’t know if his earlier gunshot wound has opened up or if this is a new injury.

“Did you get shot again?”

He shakes his head, his jowls flapping. “Knee!”

“Broken?”

He replies through his teeth – a keening cry that makes my stomach vibrate.

A round punches through my garage door, making a hole the size of my fist.

Then another. And another.

I have to get Herb out of here.

“We need to get you in the house.”

“Leave me here.”

Bullets continue to ventilate my garage door, and the light coming in from the holes dims. They’re shooting the outside lights again. Once those are gone, they’ll switch back to night vision.

Then we’re screwed.

“On three,” I say. I set down the rifle and take hold of his collar. “One… two… three!”

Herb moans deep in his throat, and I pull while he uses his three functional limbs to drag his broken one. We reach the doorway into my house, then I collapse next to him, both of us breathing like asthmatics at a hay festival.

“There’s a saw.” Herb points to the workbench at the back of the garage. “Cut my leg off. That will hurt less.”

My chest heaves. “At least you still have your sense of humor.”

“No joke. I’ll pay you twenty thousand bucks to saw off my leg.”

I blink away the motes, wipe some sweat from my forehead. “Let’s go again.”

“Please, no.”

“On three.”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“One… two… three!”

Another strangled cry from Herb, but we make it into the house, across the living room, and to the front of the hallway before fatigue drops me to my knees.

“Here is good,” Herb wheezes. He’s directly in front of the bay windows. The only possible way he could be an easier target is if he had antlers.

“We… we have to get you to… to the bathroom.”

“I… I like it here.”

Another shot. The last of my outside lights blows out.

“On three.”

“Jack… if I… if I don’t make it…”

“No time for this now, Herb. One…”

“I just want to say…”

“Two…”

“That I’m cutting you out of my will…”

“Three!”

Herb cries out again, but he gives it his all, and so do I, and even though my knees are rug burned and even though he can barely move and even though bullets tear up the carpeting around us, we make it all the way to the refrigerator, and to the bathroom.

Safe. For the moment.

“Did you?” I gasp at Harry, pointing at the sink.

He shakes his head.

“Where?” I ask.

Harry reaches into the fridge and removes a pickle jar.

“Remember to throw this away later,” he says.

I stick my face under the faucet and take gulps of water so big they hurt going down. Mom fusses over Herb, winding an Ace bandage around his knee. I eventually catch my breath, and give Herb half a dozen Dixie cups’ worth of water.

“Now what?” Mom says.

The five of us are crammed into the bathroom pretty tight. We couldn’t have fit someone else in here if we buttered them. I stand near the sink, next to Harry. Latham sits on the toilet. Mom leans over Herb, who occupies most of the floor. The temperature in here is ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house.

“Anyone up for charades?” Harry asks. He points at Herb. “Lemme guess… Moby-Dick!”

Herb and Harry don’t get along, from way back.

“How’s the pain?” I ask my partner.

“Hurts,” Herb says.

“One to ten?”

“Ten. Blew the knee out. And the medication has worn off from my gunshot wound.” His face is pouring sweat. “I’m hoping I pass out.”

Mom uses scissors to gently cut up a side of Herb’s pants leg. His stitches have ripped open, and his knee is swelled up to the size of a honeydew.

“Does anyone know you’re here?” I ask.

He shakes his head, wincing from the movement. “No. The Grouch, he wanted to talk to you. Threatened to go to your old apartment. I came here to find you.”

“So you didn’t call for backup?” Harry asks. “Smooth move, Iron-side.”

“Nice fridge,” Herb says. “Maybe you’d like me to cram your head in the crisper.”

“Quiet,” I tell them.

I rub my eyes, trying to force a brilliant thought.

Amazingly, one comes.

“I’ve got one rifle round left. In the garage, there’s a pull-down ladder to the attic. I can get up there, get on the roof, and take out one of the snipers from a vantage point.”

“You can’t get from the attic to the roof,” Herb says. “That’s not how houses are built.”