Brandon Enns - Islanders

He brought over two short glasses and poured her two ounces of tequila. The sip didn’t burn at all; it was smooth and flavorful. Perhaps it triggered a moment of brave bluntness. “Stefan. Cut the shit. Just you and me. Are you on track with everything?”

He lowered his head to his chest with a smile and shook his head. Then he stared at his leg. “No. We aren’t on track. The track cracked. And we’re derailed. You have my word.” His hands lay flat on the table, his face tense, eyes piercing through hers. “Erin. This isn’t me. This truth is all we got left. I don’t know what’s going on.”

Stefan pulled out a bag of weed, set it on the table, and began prepping a joint. She couldn’t stop herself from revealing her judgmental stare.

“For the leg, remember?”

“Sorry. That’s fair, you need something. Although a more powerful painkiller would be ideal.”

“Hey, this shit is potent.”

“Sure.”

“It calms me.”

“How long has he been gone?”

Stefan was focused on the joint. “Not sure.”

“He should be back by now.”

“He’ll be back any minute… We’re going to figure this out, Erin, you do know that, right?”

Tequila wasn’t helping her stomach. “I should go back out there.”

“Sit.” The way he said it was a bit too snappy. “Sorry. We are safe here and this was the plan. I can’t be losing you out there too. I can’t be alone.”

He lit the joint and took in a big drag, then extended it toward Erin. Her response was automatic without consideration. “No.”

“Come on. One hit. This will help you. Trust me.” She hesitated. “I know you’re not a drug user, Erin, but consider the circumstances. It’ll help.” She hesitated and he continued, “You’re a medical professional for God’s sake. You know the benefits.”

“I’m okay. Really.”

“Are you?”

She was somewhere between a mess and complete disaster.

For years she had just wished she’d get caught and head off to prison in shackles. The combination of guilt and not knowing when the case would be solved was eating her alive. Every day she waited for a forceful knock on her door; or for it to come flying off its hinges. How had they not been able to track them down? If one officer knew they were the culprits, how did no one else? What were her children doing today? Were they okay?

Erin snagged the joint from his hand and forced a large pull of smoke down deep into her lungs. Her lungs rejected it and she coughed, trying to expel the toxic smoke from her body. The more she coughed, the harder she coughed. Once she calmed, she could see that Stefan was laughing at her.

“The coughing helps,” he said.

She passed it back to him and downed the rest of her tequila. They sat in silence for a minute or two.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Are you worried about someone dying on your table? You know, once you’re a full-fledged doc.”

The question was so morose and direct. “Sure. That’s the job though. Plus, I’m a ways away from that.” A ways away. A ways away? What did I just say? A ways away I go.

“Yeah—Yeah, for sure. It would be a helpless feeling though. Working on a lost cause… Knowing death is inevitable.”

The weight of his comment was heavier than the high that was melting her into the chair and filling her legs with liquid lead. Is he threatening me? No, you’re stoned, Erin. You smoked the ganja. She laughed in her head.

Stefan continued, “I mean. It would be so draining. Surrounded by the sick all of the time. The fading lives… I guess it depends what you specialize in, if you specialize.”

“Right. Yeah, depends for sure.”

“Can you smell death, Erin? I’ve not only heard the stories, but experienced it once. For me, it was hard to place. Not a smell of rotting, or gas, or anything really foul for that matter. It’s just there. I’ve heard that each person’s death smells unique. What do you smell, Erin?”

She was frozen for a moment, stuck with a terrified and dysfunctional mind. “Like… Stew and homemade bread.” She burst out laughing, and Stefan’s face remained serious. When she came to a stop, he sipped his wine and the intensity on his face cleared.

“How is it?” He grinned and blinked slowly.

“How is what now?”

His smile widened. “The tequila.”

She thought of pulling some pretentious descriptors from her ass. Thankfully, her crippling fear of saying something stupid again was strong enough.

“Good. It’s good.”

A gunshot went off outside. She couldn’t react. She was stuck for a three count. A bubble formed in her throat, preventing her from speaking. Stefan walked over to the drawer, pulled out a gun, and loaded it in front of her. Everything around her moved. The floor had become fluid and wavy.

“Why do you have a gun here?”

He didn’t respond. The bags under his eyes appeared to have darkened.

“I should come with you,” she said.

“Absolutely not. I’ll be back right away.”

Before she could argue, he was gone, and she was left there all alone with the smell of burning marijuana. She was sinking in her chair. The floor was tantalizing, a waxy coating shining.

She hadn’t moved in a half hour, or maybe thirty seconds. Against all odds, she rose to her feet, the bones in her legs still replaced by iron. She wasn’t entirely sure which action was most appropriate in the given situation, but she couldn’t stand being inside anymore, Stefan’s eerie bunker inflicting the beginnings of a panic attack. She made her way across the kitchen to the back entrance about as fast as a turtle. She exhaled quietly as she pressed the handle to open the door. The lights cut out and the door locked automatically. She was trapped.

Erin stood by the door, back upright and stiff as a board. She moved toward the front entrance and found the same result. Locked. She rushed over to the silver-trimmed blinds covering the large living room window and rolled them up slowly, letting the anticipation of fear control her. Fear did not let her down. Standing there in front of the house looking up at her was Teresa, with three others.

She couldn’t feel any of her limbs. She desperately wanted to look away from their haunting stares, but she simply couldn’t. Erin could feel something crawling up her neck as she twisted and tried to swat away an imaginary insect. There was no thing on her; instead, an invitation circulated the lining along her head. S tay a while.

Footsteps. She turned to speak, her voice pitiful. “Hello?” She turned back to the window and they were gone. Another shift in the floorboards came from the kitchen, and finally she was able to convince her body to flee. She took off down the stairs and shuffled down the long basement hallways. She decided Stefan’s room was the correct choice and locked the door behind her.

She stared at the door, waiting for it to come crashing down. But there were no sounds. Erin examined his room. It was so bare, his clothes oddly positioned in the middle of the room in organized piles. There was a large steel door on the far wall. That was peculiar. It was already cracked open. Placing her hand on the cool steel, she pulled it open to find hard case coolers on the floor and shelving filled with bottles of wine. She awaited the big, bad wine goblin that was curled up in the corner, waiting to attack her at the throat. None came. Before stepping inside, she looked over her shoulder to make sure the intruder wasn’t outside her door. She didn’t hear a peep. She stepped inside. It was cool and damp. Erin pulled out a bottle from the back wall and in doing so, something moved. From the corner of the back wall, flecks of dust appeared as if from nowhere. She realized that there was another door at the far end. Placing her hand flat on the door, she pushed, and it swung open, revealing a dungy underground walkway.