Six o’clock. It felt more like three o’clock. He had less than an hour to live.
As the tissue falls apart, blood coagulates, and the victim’s movements become rigid, a snake bite will bring the victim into a state of paralysis. Stan was ignoring this, going at full speed, like the rabid mess of a freight train who’s lost its way. Sitting in the driver’s seat, one hand fused to the steering wheel, Stan looked out the window, frantically to the side and then all around. The sirens were on his neck. The flashing lights congested all mirrors. He clicked on the radio to the news station. Seated next to him was a polished .357 snub-nose revolver.
The skin around the bite mark had turned black, and swelled to a rusty balloon state. The surrounding flesh was of the same green hue that you see in cartoons when the characters are going to be sick. His vision had blurred but he kept telling himself, Almost there, almost there. The sounds of traffic horns and shouting from pedestrians became one in the same at each passing intersection. The hospital was getting closer. Stan rubbed his eyes and hit the gas, cut across two lanes, turned left and drove west. The destruction he left in his path was both a burden and beneficial to the police.
The blaring police cruiser rushed up and clipped into Stan’s rear bumper. It gave Stan the jolt he needed to keep his eyes open. He shook his head and stomped the brakes. Grinding bent steel-on-steel shat sparks into the afternoon heat. The cruiser let off and Stan cut through a jammed intersection. It was so violently sudden that the tires left a deep smear of black rubber and blue smoke. The cruiser jerked into the turn, and in trying to catch up shaved the nose off a Hybrid. A hungry news reporter hung from the rafters of a closely following helicopter.
“This is Mark Barbers reporting for KFQU News where it appears that a young man has been leading local Police on a rampant chase through the city’s downtown center during rush hour… Not a lot can be explained at this time other than that the man is reckless, putting many lives at risk thus far… He is driving a green Corolla, late 90’s model—possibly stolen—he has no regard for public safety. Several injuries have been reported. For those listening, avoid all traffic going west… The Corolla has just turned left on Carrier St. and, almost colliding with the oncoming cars…”
The air was at a blinding womp-womp in his ears. Stan switched the radio over to music. A piano Sonata by Beethoven (Pathétique). Stan gripped the wheel with both hands and turned left down the next possible street. His eyes were losing focus and the affects from the bite had worsened. The cruiser rattled up behind him and slammed into the back of the car again. Stan swerved and recoiled.
“Police are on him, following closer… Gunfire! Was that gunfire? Shots have been fired! The Corolla seems to be losing control… Wait… The Corolla spun out of control and has crashed, yes crashed, into the side of the Cleft Bank on Brown Ave… Pedestrians are running from the scene. The man seems to be stationed in the vehicle… Police are surrounding…”
Broken decay scattered the exterior of the car. Stan sat there for a moment. In the mirrors he could see the guns chasing toward him at all sides. The music was louder. Schoenberg. Varklarte Nacht, Opus 4, Adagio. He reached over and found the snub-nose. The door opened and Stan shakily turned his head.
“Out of the car—NOW!”
They were on him. Blue suits and barrels. Stan kept his hand placed on the grip of the snub-nose.
“OUT!”
A strict-jawed officer stood in the doorway, hesitant but eager. His badge read, “St. Michael.” Stan smirked and lifted his left foot through the door. It wasn’t easy. Joints were stiff. He could feel the blood in his veins cracking with every motion. When his foot reached the pavement he heard the sound of footsteps hustling in his direction.
Stan’s eyes connected with St. Michael’s eyes. The officer gasped and stepped back. The lesions on Stan’s face weren’t from the crash. The skin looked as if he it been boiling from the inside out. St. Michael gagged. “Come on,” he said, “out of the vehicle.” Stan began to stand slowly, and as his body straightened, a molten red goop sloshed out of his mouth and onto the pavement. The surrounding officers withdrew and some covered their mouths.
“The police have the driver outside of the vehicle now,” News Reporter Mark Barbers said. “The man seems to be very sick… A kind of, liquid is, oozing out of his mouth. His left arm is blackened and… Do we have a live-feed yet? For those of you listening we now have a signal being broadcast on Channel Eleven. Can we get a close-up of this? It appears that he has been attacked, or, that couldn’t have been from the crash—could it? He’s very rigid, very still. Wait… the Police are surrounding him closer… is he—yes, the man is holding a weapon. The Police are advising the man to get down on the ground…”
Stan had this grin on his face. He was a menace to them—insane, a mystery. “Alright,” St. Michael said. “Release your weapon. Release your weapon, and slowly move to the ground.” St. Michael used his finger to point to the ground and Stan could see that the officer’s hand was shaking. They all could. The air around them swished and turned from the looming helicopter.
In the ground floor level of Pepper Towers Hospital a nurse walked into room 038 carrying a tray with two plates. She placed the first plate at the adjoining tray of the bed of an elderly man with arthritis. “Time for dinner Mr. Swanson.” The man grunted at the nurse and he continued to lay there with discontent. The nurse walked to the next bed and placed the second plate on its adjoining tray. “Happy Birthday, Mrs. Grainnes. It’s time for your dinner.” She reached behind the frail woman and helped her sit up in bed. Mrs. Grainnes looked half-heartedly at the plate and back to the nurse. “Tuna casserole again? And on my birthday?” The nurse smiled and reached for the napkin. “Your favorite Mrs. Grainnes. Come on now, I want you to take at least three bites. Afterward, if you’re good, we’ll see about bringing you some ice cream.”
“That’s the fourth time we’ve had casserole this week,” Mrs. Grainnes said. “When are we going to have omelets again?”
“I’ll make sure to put an order in to the kitchen for an omelet for you when you can take three bites…” The nurse walked over to the television hanging from the ceiling and aimed the remote at it. She clicked the “on” button. “How about some news Mrs. Grainnes? See what’s going on in the world?”
Mrs. Grainnes brought the napkin to her collar and reached for the fork. “Hell, what do I care about what’s going on in the world these days? I’m stuck in here and that’s all out there… What about a movie? I always loved going to the movies.”
The nurse smiled at Mrs. Gainnes and switched the tv over to channel 11. A static image came on the screen: Six police officers surrounded a man on a frantic city street. They all had their guns drawn. The man was severely wounded and holding a gun. Across the bottom of the screen a scrolling marquee read “LIVE ON LOCATION: DOWNTOWN.” The footage was rocky, unsteady. The voice reporting said, “The officers are continuing to advise the man the get on the ground but he is not cooperating…” The camera zoomed in on the man. Amidst the swelling and blood the man had a deviant twisted look on his face.
Mrs. Grainnes pushed a glop of tuna casserole into her mouth and her eyes casually aimed up at the screen. She chewed and swallowed the bite. Then she froze.
“The officers on site are trying to obtain the man… The man is standing very still… Wait… They got him! They got him…”
The image running parallel with the voice showed an officer tackling the man from behind. The impact looked like an explosion of flesh. Guns went off and the camera struggled to stay steady. The words “LIVE ON LOCATION” continued to scroll. “He’s down. They have restrained the man. I can’t tell you if he is alive or not, but the officers on site—”
The nurse changed the channel to a game show and took a deep breath.
“God,” said the nurse. “That’s just terrible. And downtown? That’s not even that far from here.”
Mrs. Gainnes remained frozen. The nurse turned from the tv and walked back to the tuna casserole. “It looks like you took a few bites, Mrs. Gainnes. You weren’t cheating now, were you?
“That was my son,” she said.
The nurse looked up at Mrs. Gainnes.
“Pardon?”
“On the tv…” Her face was still locked on the screen. “That was my son,” she repeated.
St. Michael looked over Stan’s body as the tackling officer stood. “Somebody see if he’s alive.” Another officer moved in pulling a latex glove onto his hand. He reached down at the melting madman and placed his latex finger to his throat. He felt around for a pulse, stopped, looked up at St. Michael and shook his head. “Check the car,” St. Michael said. A matchstick rookie hurried over to the passenger side door and opened it. St. Michael watched Stan’s corpse. The rookie searched the glovebox, along the dash, under the seats. He popped the passenger seat forward and stuck his head in the car further. He was in there for a few more seconds before retracting with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He held the flowers up to St. Michael.
INTENSE!
BRILLIANTLY WRITTEN!
Yeah! Loved it dude.
this one provokes alot of religious imagery for me…
“He was a menace to them—insane, a mystery.”
Was this how angels viewed Lucifer? Did they strike down with “shaky hands” of justice a deviant who was truely evil, or one of their own, who strayed from the common path and therefore invited misunderstanding….
Could be completely off but definitely made me think.