John Locke - Now & Then

“We could fuck on one of these sand dunes!”

…And heard Creed answer:

“Not in a million years.”

…And Rachel:

“Why not?”

…And Creed:

“Fire ants.”

…And then D’Augie passed out.

Chapter 4

“YOU HEAR THAT?” I said.

“What, the ocean?” Rachel said.

“More like something in the dune. You got a flashlight in your purse?”

“No. Wait, I’ve got a mini light on my car keys, will that work?”

I waited while she unsnapped the light, then took it from her.

“Stay here,” I said.

I moved through the near-darkness, found the man lying on the sand dune. I kicked his ribs. No response. I leaned over him, flashed her mini light on his face.

“What’s there?” Rachel said.

“A kid. Young man, early twenties.”

“Is he dead?”

“Dead or dying. His body’s crawling with fire ants.”

“You think he’s in shock?” she said, looking at him over my shoulder.

“Shock?”

“Anaphylactic shock. Like maybe he’s having an allergic reaction?”

“Could be,” I said. I grabbed his collar and dragged him to the side of the road.

Rachel fumbled in her purse a couple of seconds and pulled something out.

“What’s that?” I said.

“An EpiPen. It’s for allergic reactions.”

She handed me the pen and I gave her the mini light. She said, “There’s a syringe inside. Take the cap off, hold the pen in your fist, and jab it in his thigh till you hear a click. Then hold it there for ten seconds.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“A thousand times.”

“Really?”

“No. But I read the directions.”

I yanked his pants down to his knees.

“Ten seconds?” I said. “Any magic to that number?”

“That’s how long it takes to enter the bloodstream and get absorbed by the muscles.”

“You got your cell phone handy?”

She did, and used it to call 911. I injected as she calmly gave the dispatcher our location and explained the patient’s condition.

“We gave him a dose of epinephrine,” she said, “and we’re about to start CPR.”

That sounded like a good idea to me, so I slapped the fire ants off the kid’s clothes as best I could, then his face. Then I tore his shirt open and killed a bunch more of them, and started CPR.

“Pull his shorts off,” I said.

“Excuse me?” Rachel said.

“Strip him down. He’s literally crawling with fire ants. We’ve got to get them off his body.”

Rachel put the pen light in her teeth and tugged his boxers off.

“ Jesus Christ! ” she said.

“What?”

She aimed the beam at his crotch, and I looked at the kid’s nuts. They were swollen to the size of avocados and covered with red, circular welts.

And scores of fire ants.

“Slap the ants off his dick,” I said.

She raised her hand tentatively, poised to strike, then started to retch.

“How about we trade places,” she gasped.

“His mouth’s kind of mangled,” I warned.

“Still,” Rachel said.

We traded places. She gave him CPR, and I slapped the kid’s crotch and thighs like they owed me money. When Rachel paused a moment, I pushed him on his side and slapped the ants on his back and ass for good measure. Then I eased him onto his back and she started in again with the CPR.

“That was so creepy ,” Rachel said, while pumping the kid’s chest.

“Creepy?”

“His nuts.”

“Uh huh.”

“You ever see anything that creepy?” she said.

“The Grady Twins.”

“The Grady twin boys?”

“Girls.”

“Hmpf,” Rachel said.

We worked on him till the ambulance arrived. While the two-man crew checked him out, I shook out his pants and shorts, and a large buck knife fell out and skittered across the pavement. I retrieved the knife and put it in my pocket. Then I put his clothes in a ball and tossed them on the front seat. While one of the EMS guys covered the kid in a blanket, the other took down some contact information from Rachel. They placed him in the ambulance, thanked us, and rushed him to the hospital.

Rachel and I stood still a minute before resuming our walk.

“You get stung?” I said.

“I don’t think so.”

“You’d know if you had.”

“I guess. How about you?” she said.

“I’d feel better if we patted each other down.”

She laughed. “You’re just looking for an excuse to touch my boobs.”

“How easily you see through me.”

We brushed each other’s clothing in the dark until satisfied we weren’t transporting any ants to the B&B, then started walking.

“You were fantastic back there,” I said.

“When?”

“The whole time.”

“Tell me.”

“You knew what to do, and you never hesitated. You were completely lucid and rational.”

Dusk had become night, and though I couldn’t see it, I’m sure she smiled.

“I have my moments,” Rachel said.

We were quiet a while. I finally asked, “How’d you happen to have the syringe?”

“I carry it in my purse all the time.”

I knew this to be untrue. Until just recently, Rachel and her husband, Sam, had lived in a huge house in Louisville, Kentucky. Unbeknownst to Rachel, I’d lived in their attic off and on for the past two years, during which time I’d routinely gone through her purse and their medicine cabinets, documenting every detail of their lives, checking their medications. I knew Rachel’s medical history, or thought I did.

“How long have you been carrying this particular syringe?” I said.

“I got it in Savannah, at the drugstore.”

“Don’t you need a prescription?”

“Not when you’ve got a smile like mine!”

I knew about the smile. What I didn’t know was if she’d been planning to kill me with the syringe.

“Why’d you get it?” I said. “Seriously.”

“When I was a kid I got stung by fire ants,” she said. “In the drug store in Savannah, a guy was saying how bad they were this year. I wanted to be ready in case one of us got stung on the beach.”

That’s the funny thing about Rachel. When she wasn’t being crazy, she was quite capable.

We kept walking. I could tell she wanted to ask me something. Finally she did.

“Are you allergic to anything?”

“Cheesecake.”

“What?”

“It makes me fat.”

She might have muttered the word “asshole” under her breath.

We walked some more, and I said, “Nicotine.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“Still, it’s a poison. If you distill it and concentrate it to its purest essence, it’s one of the deadliest poisons on earth.”

“Is that the little black one in your kit?”

I keep a poison kit in my belongings. It’s essential in my line of work. I’d made the mistake of warning Rachel about it early in the vacation when I’d caught her about to dab some Ricin on her wrist, thinking it was part of my cologne collection. When asked why I carried a kit filled with poisons, I came up with the bullshit excuse that I was delivering it to the Justice Department in Miami.

“You need to stay out of that kit.”

“Fine, don’t worry. But is it the black one?”

“It’s the clear one, in the vial.”

“That’s the one that can kill you?”

“It is.” Though it was the clear one in the vial, like most poisons, I had built up an immunity to it over time. The only poison I’m unable to handle is Tetrodotoxin, or TTX. Of course, I would never tell Rachel that, nor would I carry TTX in my kit. I love Rachel, but I couldn’t trust her not to kill me.

“You must really trust me to tell me about your Kryptonite,” she said.