Jeff Gunhus - Night Chill

They sat in silence. The background noise of Piper’s, a country western song on the juke box, the jingle of the old fashioned cash register behind the bar, the grunting laughter of men from the corner, all seemed disconnected, somehow gaudy instead of the comfortable familiarity the same noises had only minutes earlier.

“You know if there is anything I can do for you. Anything.”

“Got a spare heart sitting around? Size extra small?” Max smiled but kept looking down at the table. When he did look up, his eyes were red and swollen. “My little girl’s going to die Jack. I’d do anything…. Anything.”

“You’ve done everything you could, Max. The best doctors. The best medical care,” Jack said.

Max downed the last of his beer. “Yeah. But, it’s just not enough, is it? No matter what I do she’s still going to die.” He leaned forward and whispered, “You know, sometimes I think I could go out and get them what they needed. I swear to God, if I thought they’d use it, I could go out and get them a heart. Just the right size too.”

“Easy Max,” Jack whispered. “Easy.”

“I’d go to jail but Jesse would be alive, you know? I swear, if I thought they’d use it.”

The lights in Piper’s flickered and then came back on. Thunder exploded outside so loud that it felt like it was in the room. Grown men straightened in their chairs. It was a few seconds before the tension was broken by nervous laughter around the bar as the fight-or-flight impulse buried in each man’s psyche gave way to rational thought. Everyone went back to their drinking.

“Blowing hard.” Max said, looking a little guilty for his outburst and sounding eager to change the subject. “We better head back to the house.” Max looked out of the window. Without warning, he shouted, “JESUS CHRIST. Someone call a doctor!”

Max pushed himself out of the booth, his beer mug crashing to the floor. Jack twisted his head to look out the window. His stomach turned. Right in front of him, not more than ten yards away in the parking lot, was Albert James. Or what was left of him.

Jack turned away from the window. “Call a doctor!”

“I’m doing it,” Jim Butcher yelled back. “What’s going on out there?”

People were scrambling to the windows by now. Others were heading out the door to follow Max outside. Jack ran to the door with them and raced to where Max was huddled on the ground.

Albert James was more in need of a hearse than an ambulance. That much seemed certain. A six inch crater was dug out of the man’s head right above his eyebrows, charred black by the heat of the lightning. The hole marked the entry point for the million volts of electricity that reached out from the black clouds to run the length of the Albert’s body. As it passed through the soft flesh, it blew ragged holes through the skin, holes that now leaked thick, viscous blood on the black asphalt. The blood poured out fast enough that even the driving rain couldn’t wash it away fast enough.

“Jesus, I think he’s still alive,” someone said.

“Shee-it. That boy’s dead as they get.”

Jack got down on his knees next to Max. This close he could smell the burned flesh and see into the head wound. It was deep, probably three or four inches. The intense heat of the lightning had cauterized the wound. Jack realized he was looking at a perfect cross-section of Albert’s brain. It was too much for him. He was going to be sick. He turned to vomit but something grabbed at his leg. He looked down and saw the hand on his knee. It was a bloody pulp, each finger tip blown out where the lightning had left the body. Still, it flexed into a fist, digging into his muscle. The men around the body around saw the movement and staggered backward.

“Oh shit, Goddamn som-bitch is still alive.”

“Shut up. He’s tryin’ to say somethin’.”

Jack shook his head. It was impossible. He was looking right at the man’s exposed brain. There was no way he could be alive. The hand could be nerves, like a frog leg twitching after it’d been cut off. But alive? Couldn’t be. Still, sounds were coming out of Albert’s throat. More than that. His lips were moving as if trying to form words. Reluctantly, Jack leaned in and put his ear next to the dying man’s mouth. The stench of the burnt skin was almost unbearable. Next to him, Max whispered, “What is it Albert? What are you trying to say?”

Jack was soaked to his skin. The storm raged around him. But for a few seconds all that disappeared. The world faded away and it was him and the man dying on the asphalt underneath him. The words came out slow but clear. They were exactly what Jack feared they’d be. You caint stop the devil, Jack. You jus’ gotta run from ‘im. Gotta run. Gotta… Albert James’s hand went limp. A slow exhalation of breath and then he was gone. Jack looked up at Max.

“Did you hear that?” Jack asked

Max shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything.”

Jack stood to the side as they dragged Albert James out of the rain and waited for the ambulance to come take him away. Everyone wanted to know what Albert had whispered in Jack’s ear, but for some reason he didn’t feel like telling anyone. Somehow, he felt that he wasn’t supposed to, that the message had been meant for him alone. He stood in the rain and wiped blood off his clothes, repeating the warning over and over in his mind. Finally, Max convinced him to go inside and have a quick drink before they went home. It was already eight o’clock. For the second time that day, he was late.

Max took clean, dry clothes out to the garage for Jack to change into so the girls didn’t have to see blood on their dad. Putting on a pair of Max’s pants gave Jack another chance to make a smartass comment about Max’s gut which gave them both a much needed light moment. Inside the house, the kids gave Jack hello hugs, not even noticing he was wearing different clothes. They said their goodbyes to the Dahls, ran out to the car, and buckled themselves in.

Jack was thankful the girls had played hard and tanked up on pizza. It made them too sleepy to notice the crazy weather they were driving through. Of course, Max and Kristi had insisted that he stay and wait for the weather to calm down, especially after what they’d seen at Piper’s. But Jack not only wanted to get home but also didn’t want to intrude. Little Jesse Dahl was worn out from the visit and had developed a bad nose bleed, a regular side-effect from the blood thinning medication she took. Jack couldn’t help staring at the little girl. Outwardly she looked healthy. Knowing that her heart was a ball of diseased tissue was almost too much too bear. He didn’t know how any parent could manage it and still remain sane. Not for the first time he reminded himself that such a thing could happen to one of his little girls. Death kept his own schedule and didn’t discriminate. Just like Albert James. A bolt of lightning and it was over. A visit to the pediatrician and turns out your daughter has degenerative heart failure. He tried to force the thought from his mind but it lingered like a bad headache.

Despite Max and Kristi’s pleas, Jack decided to head home. One look at his tired kids was all it took. But now he wondered how smart his decision had been.

Trees lining the highway snapped back and forth in the wind; leaves and twigs flew through the air and bounced off the Jeep’s windshield. The wipers were on the highest speed but they still had trouble keeping up with the driving rain. The right lane of the highway was a murky pool of water. Jack switched lanes after a few tense seconds of hydroplaning, but even there the water couldn’t run off fast enough to keep from pooling. Every couple of minutes he’d hit a deep patch and the Jeep would lose traction with the asphalt. He drove at half the speed limit but still gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles and sweaty palms.