“The Day You First Fell”
Three months, seven days, eighteen hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty-seven seconds passed before you first fell. A glance down at my wrist revealed all as I continued to pedal my bike furiously toward the place where I last saw you standing. I knew, I knew, there wasn’t much time. I knew I had taken too long. I knew one day those guns would let you down. And I think, you knew, too.
I slowed my pace as I neared the carnage and slipped the heavy fire axe out of its resting place on my back. I flipped my left leg over the center bar of my bike, placed my left foot on the right pedal, and removed my right foot in preparation. Then, I leapt into the fray driving the axe through the first neck I could see in one fluid arc. I hacked through a shoulder, a torso, and a few legs searching for the screams coming from you. The top of a skull, two faces, and another torso, but still no you. I pulled at the rotting bodies devouring you. My face was covered in blood, tears, filth, as I dug for you.
I felt something rake my left ear. I felt blows upon my back. I felt my knees tremble. I felt weak and sick and strong. I felt the axe forcing its way through four more decaying bodies. I felt the edge of the axe slowing, tearing, ripping through deteriorated flesh as I continued driving it through disgusting bodies. I felt the bones, the organs, the masses of flesh and fat—as the axe passed through or stopped in reverberation. I felt your right hand. I felt there was still time as I drove the axe down in one sweeping motion above where you lay.
One and a half torsos. No time. I pulled them away frantically. No time. I swung again—harder. No time. I heard you scream—louder. No time. I saw a tuft of your hair in the pile of bodies—ripped, detached, and bloody. No time. I heard you scream—louder. No time. I pushed down with my foot and pulled my axe from the bone it was stuck in. No time.
I heard you scream. Louder.
I pushed another split body aside and I saw you, I heard you, screaming. I saw the lacerations, scratches, ripped flesh, torn hair, and bloody lips. I saw the punctures, bruises, black eye, and tears. I saw the axe wound I’d put into you. But, I saw you. And you saw me.
I put my axe back to rest and grabbed onto you. Three months, seven days, eighteen hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty-seven seconds passed before you first fell. Three months, seven days, eighteen hours, forty-five minutes, and fifty-one seconds passed before my hands again connected with yours.
I pulled with a force beyond my own. I pulled like a raging inferno refusing to stop. I pulled like I alone could lift a sunken ship from the bottom of the ocean with one rope. I pulled like the single, weak, frail human covered in blood and filth and death that I was. I pulled until I felt my head smashing into the pavement behind me, ringing, and spilling blood, but with you. I pulled you close to me as I stood instinctively, the blood now pouring from us both, as I removed the .357 S&W from my right hip that you insisted I carry.
“For me—please?” you always said.
You knew, didn’t you? You knew my axes, mauls, hammers, bats, chains, bars, and poles would never be enough if you fell.
I covered your right ear and clutched you tightly to my chest to press your left ear against it. Lightning split through my skull and reverberated out of my ears as six shells tore apart six bodies scrambling for us. I felt your hot flesh searing against mine. I felt the lumpy pieces of bodies beneath my feet as I took four steps backward toward my bike as I tried to get us out.
“Reload!” I heard you scream with fluids filling your throat.
I fumbled to pop the used shells out. Bells rang out loudly in my brain as my hands trembled to use a speed loader for six more shots. I felt your blood-soaked lips upon my cheek—steadying me. I clutched you tightly to my chest again covering your ears as I fired two quick shots to my left. I saw body parts moving everywhere. Another shot to the right. I saw pieces mid-air. I saw despair. I saw and was death everywhere.
As the rising tide of bodies subsided before crashing in again like waves upon the shore I draped you across my back like a cape. I stuffed the .357 and its three remaining shots back into its coffin on my hip and sealed the lid. I wrapped your arms around my neck holding onto both with my left hand—knowing you didn’t have the strength to hold on yourself. I uprighted my bike and threw my leg over the bar. I’d left the bike in the biggest gear and as I stomped down right, left, right, left, we began our escape. A few revolutions and we were going 20, 30, 40... and then my legs popped. The adrenaline could no longer override the lactic acid overwhelming my body as we started wobbling, slowing.
“Left!” I heard from behind my ear.
I leaned left as we coasted, slowing further.
“Stop! Stop!”
All I was thinking was forward, away, go, go, go—not stop. We can’t stop. But we stopped and stopped again as we slowly leaned over to the pavement when my leg tried, but failed to hold us. My eyes were blurry, filled with blood and tears and dirt and flesh. My head concussed and bleeding—a small and shattered cup overflowing with water it could not contain. My ears ringing permanently.
“Get in!”
I didn’t see you unlock the latch. I didn’t see your hand reaching out to me from inside that crawl space. I didn’t even see the street where we were before. But, I felt you, grabbing me this time, pulling me to safety, holding me in your arms, and then everything went dark as you closed and locked the door.
I felt the axe wound I put into you... I felt your torn and patchy hair... and wasn’t sure we could endure anymore.
I felt you unstrap my axe before you made a flame appear with your Zippo you made me promise I’d give back to you one day. I felt you place the cigar upon my lips.
“You’ve always saved it for a time like this,” you gurgled more than said.
I puffed and inhaled deeply and puffed and puffed as our eyes adjusted to the now omnipresent pungent soft red glow. Three months, seven days, eighteen hours, fifty-five minutes, and... “It’s going to be alright, isn’t it?”
I felt the axe wound I’d put into you. I felt and tasted your wet, bloody, metallic, kiss upon my lips, right before you coughed blood up onto us. I felt it all that day you first fell. All a human could ever feel. And somehow, I felt even more.
“I don’t know,” you said as the cigar’s glow reflected off your eyes. “I’ve got a lot of puncture wounds, my leg is pretty bad, and my insides…”
You stopped to cough up more blood onto us.
“I didn’t have enough rounds. I love you. I’m sorry..." you said while you tried to wipe your blood away.
“No more talking. I’ll try to stitch you up...”
“How long did I last before I first fell?”
“Three months, seven days, eighteen hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty-seven seconds passed before you first fell.”
“I love you. Please, tell me a story?”
“I love you too. If that means no more talking, okay.” I told the only story I could think of as I started stitching, “Three months, seven days, eighteen hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty-seven seconds passed before you first fell. A glance down at my wrist…”
The endless flow of tears cut valleys into my cheeks like drifting glaciers through stone as I worked to piece back together what was left of you and me amidst our disgusting stench in that warm, wet, red glow.