Victor Methos - The Extinct

A bullet slammed into Eric’s shoulder but he tackled Jeff to the floor before the next round went off. They wrestled with the gun. Eric’s arm had Jeff’s hand pinned to his chest. Jeff began to pull down, trying to fire a round into Eric’s stomach.

Eric felt a sharp pain and thought he had been shot. He screamed as the muffled blast from the gun tore through flesh.

Eric stood up, blood covering his clothes, certain that he was shot. Then he heard the sucking noise coming from Jeff’s chest and the black liquid oozing onto his mother’s floor.

“No!” Eric shouted. He grabbed a blanket off the couch and pressed it against Jeff’s chest, putting his weight behind it to stop the flow of blood that was pooling on the floor. “Jeff, I’m calling an ambulance. Hold this here. Jeff!”

But it was too late. Jeff’s eyes soon sat still, life drained from them. He no longer appeared human but as a corpse. As if someone had pulled the animating soul out of the inanimate body.

Eric grabbed the phone and dialed 911. He told them his mother’s address and then set the phone down. He sat on the couch waiting for the police to arrive. Then a thought crossed his mind and it made him feel sick: they wouldn’t believe him. He showed up with a gun and brass knuckles. They would think he did this on purpose. New Hampshire had the death penalty; he would die for this.

He sprinted to the kitchen and out the back door into the night, hopping over the neighbor’s wooden fence and into a flowerbed. He ran across their lawn and noticed a doghouse in the corner. A growl drew his attention in front of him where an Akida stood bearing his teeth. The dog was large and muscular, thick strands of drool beginning to ooze out of its mouth. Eric darted for the fence and the dog was on him. He felt a burning pain in his ankle and turned around to see the Akida biting down and shaking its head.

Eric noticed for the first time he was still holding the gun. He hit the dog over the head with the butt and it whined and loosened his grip. Eric lunged over the fence as the dog made another jump at him but missed and bit down on air.

Eric jumped two more fences and then was on the street. He walked quickly around the block as he heard sirens in the distance, coming closer. They wouldn’t believe him. He went over there with a gun and pulled the trigger. He pummeled Jeff’s face. They would think he did it on purpose.

Each street lamp was like poison as he passed underneath, glancing around to see if anybody saw him. His ears caused him a dull pain and his wrist was starting to ache, but he didn’t feel much different. He didn’t feel much of anything; just a nothingness.

Sirens were right behind him now, on the same street. Two patrol cars were speeding toward him and he threw the gun into the first trash bin he saw and started walking slower, his hands in his pockets. As the sirens came behind him, he wondered if he should run or maybe pretend to have a gun so they’d shoot him. There was no way he could survive in a cage surrounded by men like Jeff for twenty years before being executed. He’d rather die now.

He held his breath as the first car’s lights hit him, and drove past. The other one followed and they turned a corner heading toward his mother’s house. Eric exhaled and his body seemed to melt, his knees wobbling and unable to hold him. He had to stop and lean against a fence before he was able to walk again.

He waited by a bus stop, sitting on the bench and trying to catch his breath. His ankle stung but the bleeding had stopped and the stain on his sock was covered by his pant leg.

The waiting was the most frightening part. Every sound became a gunshot and every conversation became the police yelling at him not to move. When the bus came it was half-empty and Eric sat staring out the windows. It felt like everyone that looked at him knew he’d killed. Like they could hear his thoughts.

In the quiet of the bus he had time to think about what he’d done. Taken a life. It didn’t seem like much. He pictured feeling and thinking different afterward but there was nothing.

Though he had a vague sense that nothing had changed the nothingness would cause change. If taking a life didn’t mean anything, then what did life mean? A sense of pointlessness grew in him as he watched the passing convenience stores and street lamps of downtown Concord. He didn’t feel like being in motion right now, he just wanted to sit somewhere and think.

Relief poured over him when he was let off in front of the dorms. The cramped, inexpensive building never looked so good. He walked in, resisting the urge to break into a run.

The dirty little room was warm and smelled like men’s cologne. Eric turned the lights off and sat on the bed. The moon was out now and the pale light coming through the blinds appeared like bars against the wall and it made him uncomfortable. He undressed, and lay down.

Adrenaline coursed through him and he just lay staring at the ceiling and replaying the event in his mind. In his moment of anger and hatred he acted like a fool. Maybe he could’ve run out of the house? Maybe he should’ve waited for the police?

When the rush had faded, only emptiness remained. He felt agitated. A suspicion entered his mind and quickened his pulse; his mother was in the hospital because of Jeff, they would come to her first, and then him.

After rising and dressing himself, he got a gym bag out of the closet and stuffed it full with whatever he could grab; socks, underwear, two pairs of jeans and a few shirts, deodorant, toothbrush, and a couple baseball caps. When he went to take his wallet off the nightstand he saw Thomas’s card next to it with some change and condoms Jason had left out. Eric picked up the card, running his finger along the edge. He admired the simplicity of it; all it said was Thomas Keets-Hunting Guide. It had a phone number and an email address. He threw it back on the nightstand and hurried out of the room. Suddenly, a pain hit him like none he’d ever experienced and the bag dropped from his hand. Blood had soaked his sleeve and was dripping from his arm onto the floor. As the adrenaline faded, his shoulder felt as if it were tearing away from his body, muscle fiber by muscle fiber. He vomited from the pain in the hallway and then picked up his bag and hurried out. There was no choice; he had to risk a visit to a hospital.

Eric woke to the sound of passing traffic. The sky was the color of smoke in the moments after dawn, the earthy scent of rain hanging in the air like a transparent fog and giving him the sensation of dampness in the nose. He lay in the hospital bed and enjoyed the wind that blew through the open windows.

The wound hadn’t been as serious as he had thought but the bullet had hit a tendon, causing an enormous amount of pain and limiting his movement. All gunshots in hospitals were reported to police and an overweight officer came to his room and filled out a report, hardly glancing up. Eric claimed it was a road rage incident and gave a description of his attacker, describing Jason down to the last detail. The officer stated he would contact a detective and they would be in touch with him and left the hospital room, taking all of fifteen minutes.

Eric stretched and took a Lortab without water before checking out of the ER. He walked outside. When he was on the sidewalk he pulled out a cell phone and dialed Jason’s number. He didn’t answer and Eric left a message. “I think I’m trouble Jas, I need to talk to you. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

There was a small diner nearby and he walked in and sat in a booth by the window. He ordered pancakes and coffee and added up how much money he had: fifty in cash and six hundred on a credit card. As he swallowed the last drop of a second cup of coffee, his cell phone rang. It was Jason. “I’m glad you called,” Eric said. “Jesus Eric the police were here.” Eric’s heart jumped. “Why?”