Kirk Jones - Aetherchrist

Jim stops. “Sorry, man. I didn’t know you were down there.” He kneels down and lifts the skirt of the bed up. “What are you doing down there?”

“I dropped the gun,” I say.

He picks up one of the stray bullets off the floor. “Looking for these?”

We both stand up on opposite sides of the bed. Jim reaches out. “Give me the gun.”

“I can’t.”

“What’re you going to do with it?” He extends his arm again. “Hand it over.”

Slowly I raise the gun. “I can’t let you do this, Jim.” I flinch, expecting him to jump over the bed.

He rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“We’re fucked, Jim. They’ve already got us on film.”

“Fuck off with the film bullshit, all right!” He flips open his Zippo, lights it, and tosses it into the kerosene. The far side of the room ignites instantly as he walks around the edge of the bed. “If there were cameras, don’t you think the fucking police would be here by now?”

Before I can lower the gun and tell him he’s right, he’s choking me, trying to get the gun out of my hand. I push his face away with my free hand.

“Give me the gun,” he says through my fingers.

I keep pushing to no avail.

We drop to the floor, and I realize now that if he gets this gun out of my hand, he’s probably not going to let me live. There’s no way he understands what I’m trying to do, that I’m trying to help him. “Stop!” I shout. But he doesn’t listen. With my hand still on the trigger, I fire the first shot into the air. Jim flinches, giving me just enough time to drive the pistol into his arm. I aim to wound, and the gun slips and catches him in the ribs. My ears are still ringing from the first shot, but I know the second bullet hits center mass. Blood seeps into my jacket every time Jim’s heart erratically beats. His eyes are wide, only inches from my face. He’s still squeezing my hand, but not to stop me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Then I slide out from under him. I stand up, unwilling to leave until he stops convulsing. But the smoke is building, gathering at the ceiling and squeezing through the cracks to get into the open air. It won’t be long before this house erupts and everything inside becomes public to the outside world.

I wipe the gun clean on my shirt and strip down. I do the best hasty rinse down I can afford with the sink water and shake dry as I go to Jim’s car to put on the clothes he told me to bring. Tomorrow’s clothes. The clothes I promised myself I wouldn’t wear. There’s no choice now.

The sun isn’t over the horizon yet, but it is on its way up as I walk back to the motel. Black clouds of smoke billow through the birches and into the morning sky behind me. I’d like to leave town, but a suspicious hitchhiker leaving town the day the police find two bodies in a house burnt to the ground isn’t the best idea. I look at the gun in my hand and I know that I’m probably going to have to use the other two bullets before I leave. I need to get Wayne’s television, by force if I have to, and I’m going to have to figure out Bill’s role in all of this.

Imake my way up the hill behind the motel, up to the analog tower. The sun has yet to obscure the other towers dotting the horizon, letting me know I’m still invisible in the relative darkness. I have only been here a few days, and already my childhood dream of becoming ubiquitous has been replaced by the comfort of knowing I’m inconsequential to the general population.

But on the other side of the hill, I’m reminded that they’re watching me. I wonder how far-reaching their gaze is, and what I’ll have to do to be forgotten. As I walk down the hill to Wayne’s, I notice the lights are off in his house. Only the television flickers from the back window. But his wife is asleep. If what happened tonight was on camera, she hasn’t seen it yet.

When I get into the yard, the old husky lumbers out, whining with every step. She walks up and sniffs my extended hand. I kneel to pet her and notice Wayne sleeping in the garage. I feel the gun in my pants and hope that I won’t have to use it.

The steps up to the front door creak like a son of a bitch. Inside, the sound of white noise intersperses silence, like somebody switching through a series of un-serviced channels. Then two gunshots sound off and I run to the living room to see myself on the television, getting up off the floor of the cabin and standing over Jim’s writhing body. Wayne’s wife stares at the screen in horror, probably the first expression I’ve noticed on her face since I’ve been in this house. Then she turns to me and screams. I’m still not sure if she’s screaming because she recognizes me from the television, or if she’s temporarily lucid. She continues to scream as she looks in my direction, but it’s like she’s looking past me.

The front door slams open and Wayne is thundering down the hallway. “Lori? You all right?”

He comes into the room and finds me kneeling before his wife, my hand around hers. “I heard her as I was coming down the hill,” I say. But he’s not looking at me, either. He’s staring at the television. “What is it?” I ask as I turn to an image of Wayne lying dead on the floor. Then the screen cuts to Wayne’s wife staring down the barrel of the .38. The gun fires and she slumps over in the bus seat.

I shake my head. “That’s impossible,” I say. “I don’t even have a gun.” I turn back to Wayne and his knees are already starting to buckle. I stand to catch him in my arms, but he falls as I rise. He clings to my pants, staring at me. I know I should call nine-one-one, but I freeze.

“Rey,” he rattles out.

“Rey,” his wife repeats, staring blankly ahead at the screen. “Rey killed them. He did it. Rey did it.”

I crouch down in front of her, block the screen. “Shhh,” I say, trying to cover her mouth, but she won’t stop. “Rey killed them,” she repeats, over and over like a fucking parrot.

Wayne is belly up on the floor, just like he was on the television. And I know what’s going to happen next. I’m damned either way. If I don’t shoot her, she’s going to incriminate me. Both Jim and that woman he was with have bullet holes in them and the weapon is missing from the scene of the crime. I could leave her though. I could leave her here to starve, but she might take to screaming again. I can’t risk that.

I look back at the television, almost hoping it’ll give me a glimpse of some alternate future, some possibility that doesn’t involve blowing this woman’s brains out. I flip through the channels. On channel 10 I’m checking the cylinder. It has one bullet left. On channel 11 I’m holding another gun. On channel 12 I’m at the bar. On channel 13 I’m still dead. I turn back to 12 and watch myself at the bar. But the same three or four seconds just plays over and over again. I’m not going to see anything else.

I lose my ability to tune out Wayne’s wife and her voice comes back into focus. “He killed them. Killed Wayne. Killed us.” She points at me, her voice rising in volume. “You killed them. Killed Wayne. Killed us.”

Then the television echoes her voice. She’s watching herself say these words on the screen, and they both get louder and louder.

“Please stop,” I say. “Please?”

Then I watch myself pull out the gun on screen and fire a shot into her head. Her body slides across the faux-leather bus seat as far as the belt allows. I look back, and my gun is extended. I decide to pull the trigger, but I already have. I’m watching myself in real time.

Blood pools out of the hole in her head onto the floor, and I run to the front steps to vomit. The dog cocks its head as I retch onto the gravel driveway. It limps to the pile, sniffs it curiously, and walks away.