Chapter 8

Gerald woke up, the sun beating into his eyes. He raised his head and looked around, no idea where he was. Before he stood up, he rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. It didn’t seem right that the sky should be so blue and serene when he felt so fucked up. He didn’t even know why he felt so fucked up. All he could remember was fire, the woods, and Tracy. What he did know was that his head hurt, his mouth tasted like shit, and he was probably late for work. Again.

   As he climbed over the fence into his yard, Gerald saw the mess of shot up beer cans. He wasn’t surprised he’d spent the evening shooting stuff, considering the way his ears were ringing. He thought again about being late for work, and knew he needed to straighten up. He had a lot of freedom with his bosses, but there was only so much shit they’d take and he’d been dishing it out pretty heavily as of late.

   He went inside, showered, and drove to work. He parked his car, walked up to the building and saw a sign on the door.

   “Closed for maintenance?” he said, confused. He thought they did that stuff at night. It seemed strange no one called him to let him know it would be closed, but then again, he did skip out yesterday and show up late today. Regardless, a day off work was a day off work, and he felt no need to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.

   As he headed back to his car, he heard someone calling his name. “Mr. McManner! Mr. McManner!” Gerald looked in the direction of the voice, and his mood soured considerably.

   “Oh. Mr . . . uh . . .”

   “Holman. You won’t believe what I brought today,” he said, extending his hand.

   “Mr. Holman. Right,” Gerald said, reluctantly shaking the man’s hand. “I hate to tell you this,” he lied, “but the office is closed today” —he hooked his thumb toward the sign— “for maintenance.”

   “No matter, I can show you right here,” Mr. Holman said, reaching into his knapsack. “Behold, the double-knife!” Gerald stared, expressionless, as Mr. Holman produced what appeared to be a crude pair of scissors and handed them to him. Whenever Mr. Holman showed him stupid things at work, it was difficult enough to be nice, but outside the office, it was impossible.

   “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me!” Gerald said, thrusting the scissors back into Mr. Holman’s hand. “How fucking old are you?”

   Mr. Holman was taken aback, and looked as if he may cry. “I-I’m thirty-seven.”

   “Thirty-seven. You’re thirty-seven fucking years old, and you’ve never seen scissors before?”

   At that, Mr. Holman did begin to cry. “One knife is good for cutting things. I thought two would be better,” he sniffled.

   “Un-fucking-believable. You thought two would be better. What the fuck is the matter with you?” Gerald turned abruptly and walked away. He didn’t think Mr. Holman would have the courage to speak with his superiors, but either way, he didn’t give a shit. He’d had more than enough of this asshole.

   “Why are you being so mean to me?” Mr. Holman said, following Gerald.

   “Because you’re a fucking idiot,” Gerald yelled over his shoulder, picking up his pace.

   “Just let me show you how the double-knife works!” Mr. Holman began to run toward Gerald, brandishing his bastardized-scissors. He was now sobbing, strings of mucus pouring from his nose. The closer he got to Gerald, the more it sounded like he wasn’t sobbing exactly, but laughing a little, too.

   “Quit following me, weirdo,” Gerald said, now running. He didn’t think he’d have time to unlock his car and get in before Mr. Holman caught up with him, so he ran past it. He looked for a good escape route, but lacking any, settled on hauling ass away from the guy.

   The chase continued all the way across the parking lot for Gerald’s building, in front of a Taco Bell, and beside a Kentucky Fried Chicken, when Gerald changed his route to cross the street. Mr. Holman, apparently fueled by his hysteria, was gaining on him. “Shit,” Gerald said, trying to run faster.

   He made it half way across the street when he heard “Yee-hooo!” Turning to look, Gerald saw Mr. Holman run into the street, right in front of the green pickup truck with the Confederate flag. Gerald screamed “Stop!” but it was no use. The truck plowed right into Mr. Holman, his body exploding upon impact.

   “Holy shit!” Gerald screamed. The truck didn’t even slow down, as if running down pedestrians was an everyday thing. With another “Yee-hooo!” the truck disappeared around a corner.

   Having never witnessed a hit-and-run, Gerald wasn’t sure exactly what he should do. There was obviously nothing to be done for Mr. Holman, whose arms, legs, and head were strewn about the street. His body was nothing more than bloody chunks, some pieces held together by shredded tendons or pieces of intestine. Strangely, his lungs had landed several feet from Gerald, completely intact.

   After brief consideration, Gerald thought the best thing he could do would be to get the hell out of there. His first instinct was to run, but he decided he would be better off acting calm and nonchalant. As slowly and carelessly as he could be, he took a somewhat roundabout way back to his car, and drove out of the lot. Not knowing exactly what he should do, he drove aimlessly, taking random turns, attempting to get lost.

   Jesus, if I’d stopped and talked to the guy for a minute, instead of being an asshole, he wouldn’t have died, he thought.

   And if he had looked before running into the street, he wouldn’t have died, a voice said. True as this was, Gerald wasn’t sure he should try to talk himself out of feeling responsible for what happened. Yes, Mr. Holman was an idiot, but that certainly shouldn’t condemn him to such a grotesque death. Still, had Gerald done anything besides state the obvious before trying to avoid an increasingly uncomfortable situation? Wouldn’t anyone in his right mind have probably done the same thing?

   “I need a fucking drink,” he said, pulling into a gas station.

Gerald looked around the gas station, more than a little confused as to why it was empty. No, empty wasn’t the right word. The shelves and coolers were as full as one would expect them to be.

   Deserted.

   No one, including a clerk, was present. It obviously wasn’t unheard of to be the only customer in a store, but the only person? That was a little odd.

   “Hello?” Gerald called. His voice echoed slightly. He thought the situation was bizarre and didn’t want to spend any more time there than necessary. He walked to the cooler, grabbed the closest case of beer, and started walking out. Before exiting, he looked on the counter for a spot to leave and take change. Rather than bring on bad karma over a case of beer, he left a five and a ten on the counter, thought again, added another ten, and grabbed three packs of cigarettes before exiting.

   Why hadn’t there been anyone in the store? It couldn’t have been closed. The door was unlocked and all the lights were turned on. Come to think of it, there hadn’t been anyone on the street when Mr. Holman got hit, either. What the hell was going on?

   Gerald drove home slowly, taking a long route, trying to spot any sign of other people. For several miles, he saw nothing, and began to wonder if maybe he’d been the one who was hit and killed by the truck. Maybe this was Hell, or limbo of some sort. For a moment, he began to wish he’d been a more religious, or at least spiritual, person. Maybe then all this would make sense.

   About the time he was wondering how to pray, he turned a corner and the street was full of cars. Moving cars, being driven by people. The sidewalk was populated with what appeared to be a normal amount of pedestrians. Essentially, everything had turned back to normal.

   Still shaken, he took a road leading out of town, into the county area. He needed to think. He didn’t know why, as no amount of thought could make sense of the situation but, ironically, thinking seemed the only sensible thing to do.

   Ahead of him, two old guys on motorcycles came toward him in the other lane. They cruised along, just a couple of old bikers. Gerald wasn’t really a motorcycle guy, but he thought they were cool enough. When they were maybe four car lengths away, a bird swooped down in front of Gerald. He tensed up, thinking he was going to hit it, but the bird banked and swerved to the left. As Gerald let out his breath, thankful for the near-miss, the bird flew straight into the inside biker’s face. The man screamed, throwing both hands up, trying to pry the bird from his eyes. As a result, his balance was thrown off, and the bike flopped onto its side, directly in the path of the other biker. Gerald’s jaw and stomach dropped simultaneously as the second biker ran over the first biker, before wrecking his own motorcycle directly in the path of Gerald’s car.

   He wrenched the steering wheel to the right, running his car off the road and into a corn field. The small car went headfirst into the dirt, impossibly stuck. The last thing he remembered was the seatbelt grabbing his chest.