Day Six

I fell asleep on the couch, watching CNN, and that’s where I wake up. My neck is sore from the throw pillow I rested my head on and my legs are stiff. Amanda and Rachel aren’t up, or if they are they’re not making much noise. The cat is sitting on the ottoman next to the couch and she’s staring at me, not moving so much as a whisker. I rub the shit from my eyes and run my hand through my hair. It’s greasy. No small wonder, I haven’t showered in, what, four days? The face on CNN isn’t the regular morning anchor, it’s an Asian dude with an ugly pink tie. Behind him, in the inset, are scenes of riots and burning cars. Parliament has declared martial law in Great Britain, it’s martial law in France and Germany, and martial law in select metropolitan areas of the United States. The land of the free and the home of the scared shitless.

I shoo the cat off the ottoman and stretch. It feels good. There’s coffee in the coffee maker and I pour a cup and throw it in the microwave for sixty seconds and watch as the timer counts down to zero. Beep, beep, beep. The warm coffee tastes like shit, but I need the jolt so I down the cup in a few big gulps.

Upstairs, the girls are sound asleep. Rachel is sideways on the bed, her bare legs poking from under the comforter.  I look at her feet, her toes. I remember when they were so tiny that a doll’s shoe would have been large on her. Christ, she’s getting big. I can’t stand the fact she’s in so much fucking danger. Today, I’m going to work on fixing that.

I shower in Rachel’s bathroom so I don’t wake them. I don’t bother to shave; there’s really no point to it. It feels good to be clean, and I let the hot water rain down over me for as long as I can stand it. It used to be that I’d get pissed if Rachel or Mandy let the bathroom steam up – “It’s bad for the wood” or “the steam causes mildew” – now, I just don’t give a rat’s ass. I wipe a spot on the mirror away so I can see myself. My eyes are red and heavy and my beard is coming in more grey than brown.

I pull on a faded pair of Levis and realize I’ve forgotten to put on underwear. Commando seems appropriate for what I’m planning to do, so I button the fly and drag a Life is Good t-shirt from the dresser. Pretty fucking ironic. Mandy is awake and I tell her I’m going across the street. She tells me no, I tell her yes and we argue in whispers for a few minutes until she realizes I’m going no matter how much of a fight she puts up, so she turns away and puts her face close to Rachel’s.

In the garage, I grab the small garden shovel. I have no idea why I think I’ll need it, but it makes me feel a little stronger. I debate opening the garage door, and decide I’ll go out the back through the sunroom instead. The pool is crystal clear in the morning sunlight. Birds are singing and there’s a gentle breeze. It smells like spring. As I make my way to the front of the house, I notice the tulip bulbs Mandy planted last fall are starting to poke through the mulch.

Across the street, the Reichert’s house is silent. The sheet on the front door is less than inviting. I pull a bandana over my face and tie it at the back. I look like a bandit, but maybe it will keep me from catching the flu if there are any of the little fuckers floating around in the air inside. The door is locked, so I head to the back of the house. I know where they keep the key to their patio doors. It’s there, under the stone flower pot, and I use it to let myself into the Reichert’s family room.

The shades are drawn and it’s like twilight in the house. Sandy Reichert is on the floor, her legs twisted underneath her. There’s a hole in the side of her head about the size of a quarter and her blood has run out of her, making a dark brown circle that’s as big as a golf umbrella. The phone is still in her hand. The air in here smells like metal, tastes like metal. There’s an afghan on the couch and I spread it over Sandy’s body. Rest in peace, neighbor.

I want to turn around and get the fuck out of there, but I need to find Bob’s firearms. Down the hall, Amy Reichert is on her bed. She looks like she’s sleeping, but she’s not. Her pillow is stained the same color as the living room carpet. Her youngest brother, Toby, is on the floor next to her bed. His head looks like it exploded from the inside out. I think the grey foamy shit that looks like vomit is pieces of his brain.

In the next room, Jason, the oldest Reichert boy, is slumped over the bathtub. All I can see is the lower half of his body. He must have been trying to run from his father. He’s only wearing underwear and his legs are purple. I can’t stand it anymore and I lift the bandana and throw up. The puke stings my throat and makes my nose run.

Four down, one to go.

Bob and Sandy’s bedroom is upstairs. I know he has a gun cabinet in the closet because he’s told me, so that’s where I’m headed. As I hit the landing, I hear a wet, frothy sound from behind the bedroom door. It reminds me of a cappuccino machine, but I’m pretty sure Starbucks hasn’t opened a new coffee shop on the second floor. The door is closed, and the wet sound doesn’t stop. I put my hand on the knob and twist, and I’m holding the shovel high, just in case. What I see makes me weak, and I actually piss a little. Bob Reichert is lying on the bed, his feet are twitching and his fingers are opening and closing, fast. The entire top half of his head is gone. It’s not actually gone, but it’s in several pieces scattered over the pillows and the headboard and the wall behind it. His upper jaw is gone too; the wet sounds I’m hearing are coming from his tongue, which is waving in the air like a fucking cobra in a basket.

I back into the door and it swings shut. Bob sits up. All that’s left of his face is his bottom jaw and that tongue, his fucking tongue, and it keeps licking and smacking his teeth. It’s a dream, a goddamned bad dream, that’s all. Bob swings a shaky leg off the edge of the bed, then the other, and I’m thinking this isn’t a dream, it’s real. He’s trying to stand up, and I’m trying not to shit my pants. He’s up, off the bed, and I’m panicked. Fight or flight. Adrenaline kicks in, some primeval force is driving me and I swing the shovel at Bob’s thigh. There’s nothing tentative about the swing, like the half-assed stroke I took with an ax handle when I tried to whack the opossum that had taken up residence under my front stoop. The blade cuts in deep, it’s a garden spade, and I pull it loose and swing again and feel the bone snap. Bob’s standing now, wobbly but standing, and I swing one more time. The shovel cuts through the rest of the meat of Bob’s thigh and he topples. The wound doesn’t bleed; it just… leaks. Gravity is pulling the blood out, drawing it to the lowest point. Now he’s all arms, flailing and trying to crawl, so I swing twice like I’m chopping wood and an arm breaks free at the shoulder, the fingers still clawing at the air. There’s more blood, spraying off the blade of the shovel in an arc. Two more swings and the other arm is off just above the elbow. 

With only a leg left, Bob can’t move enough to get to me. I have blood on my arms. It’s not mine. Bob’s remaining leg is working like a piston, up, down, up, down, and he’s pushing his body in a circle. His torso gets wedged under the bed and his leg keeps pumping, forcing him deeper until his belly roll gets hung up on the side rail and he can’t get fit any more of his bulk beneath the frame. I take another swing at his leg and Bob’s shin bone breaks clean and now his calf, and the foot attached to it,  is hanging at a ninety degree angle from where it should be.

I can still hear the wet sound coming from beneath the bed. Just about all the blood has run from what’s left of Bob’s body, leaving a slick black ooze on the carpet.

The nine millimeter Glock Bob used to take his life and the lives of his beautiful family is on the bed, resting harmlessly on the pillow. It’s surrounded by dried blood, wet blood and pieces of Bob’s head. About six inches away from the gun, there’s a particularly large piece of skull, scalp and a tuft of Bob’s silver hair attached. He may have gone grey a little too early for his taste, but he sure had a good head of hair.

In the master bathroom, I grab a hand towel and use it to wipe the gun clean. In the walk in closet, I grab a royal blue gym bag from the high rack above Bob’s business suits and Sandy’s dresses. It’s heavy, and I unzip it and spill the contents on the floor. A half dozen DVD’s and a purple dildo scatter across the closet. One called Anal Angels catches my eye and for a brief moment I forget about the carnage in the bedroom as I gaze at the cover, a blond with huge fake tits enjoying the cock in her ass. A week ago, I would have been hooked. Today, it’s a brief diversion from a horrible task. The blond will have to wait. Bob’s gun locker is open, and I pile seven different kinds of handguns into the duffel, along with boxes of nine millimeter and forty five caliber ammunition and some shotgun shells. There are three long guns, two big gauge shotguns and a hunting rifle with a scope. I gather the guns together and hoist the gym bag onto my shoulder.

Downstairs, I take a last look at the Reichert children. I’m fighting back tears as I think about  what kind of horror occurred here just a day ago; three innocents, robbed of life by the one man on the planet who they trusted without question, and the cowardice of the man who took those lives, a man who I’d called a friend. What a sackless bastard. The kids, Sandy – they should have lived. Bob could have done himself and left it at that.

Although I don’t think it will make much of a difference, I close the patio door behind me and lock it. The key goes into my pocket. There’s food here and we’ll need it.

As I’m lugging the gym bag and the rifles along the brick walk that leads back to the driveway, the kitchen window in the house next to the Reichert’s place goes up. Sanjay Bedi is an Americanized Indian who has lived in the States since college more than twenty five years ago, but he still speaks with a strong Indian accent. His V’s often translate as W’s, especially after he’s been drinking. He has.

“Doot,” he says. Dude. “Where are you going with the things from Bob’s house?” I tell him I’m going across the street with them, pointing my chin at my own place. He looks as though I just took his winning lottery ticket. “You do not have a right to those things, and where has Bob gone? I have not seen him leave today.” I tell him I have as much right as anyone, and then I tell him what’s happened at the Reichert’s since he stopped paying attention and started drowning in cheap cabernet. When I get to the part about Bob’s – reawakening – he shouts something in Indian over his shoulder and slams the window shut. 

Back inside my house, I close and bolt the lock to the sunroom and drop the duffel to the floor. The shotguns go against the wall. Amanda is in front of CNN. She’s not speaking to me, and that’s all right with me for the moment. I check each weapon, loading the cylinders and filling the magazines as I go. I don’t bother counting bullets, but there are plenty.

Amanda is standing in the open doorway to the sunroom, her mouth hanging slack and her eyes wide. I look down at myself and I realize what she’s staring at. I’m covered in blood, large black spots of it dotting my arms, my shirt, and my pants. She asks me what I’ve done, and her voice is suggesting I’ve committed murder. I tell her it’s much worse than that. You can’t kill what’s already dead. Her eyes fill with tears as I tell her of the children, of Sandy. Amanda asks if we should do anything, something, but I don’t know what there is that could possibly make things any better, so I simply tell her no.

Back outside, I lug a five gallon bucket of chlorine shock to the pool and pour the entire tub into the water. With my clothes still on, I lower myself into the spreading cloud of chemicals, rubbing blood and God know what else from my skin. I strip naked, letting my jeans and shirt sink to the bottom of the pool. The water is still cold, it’s too early in the season for a dip. The chlorine burns my skin, stings my eyes. I’m frantically scrubbing my flesh, working hard to rid it of Bob’s blood and disease.  Under water, I open my eyes and blink, making sure to get plenty of the bacteria killing chemicals behind the lids. It burns like a motherfucker.

When I step out of the pool, Amanda is there with a towel. She wraps it around my shivering body and pulls me close. She’s warm. My chest is heaving, but it’s not from the cold. I’m sobbing. Mandy pushes me away and looks at me, and although my vision is blurred from the chlorine, I can tell by her eyes that she’s proud.

I did what I had to do.