Big news, Meeting House folks. Next week, we'll have our first writer profile. We'll be interviewing Ron Currie, Jr., a Mainer and author of the fantastic new short fiction collection God Is Dead. We're very excited, and you should be, too. So be sure to check in next week. This week, we have a story by Whit Sullivan. A graduate of the University of New Hampshire, Whit lives in Portland, Maine, with a girlfriend and a Bernese mountain dog. One of them is named Kelly. This is his first published story. Read on!
Twenty Questions
We started playing the game to pass the time once I decided the bleeding wasn’t going to stop. John had crawled into the backseat when we’d hauled ass out of the liquor store, and he was sprawled across the leather, his head propped up on the door by the window crank. It looked uncomfortable, but not as much as the gunshot wound in his upper abdomen. It had only spurted for a bit, right after it happened, and now it was oozing steadily. He gasped with each breath and yelped if he tried to move. I felt bad for him. I guess we should have assumed there’d be a gun under the counter, especially in this part of the state where guns were as common as driver’s licenses and people trusted strangers like they trusted abnormal growths. I guess it was a good thing I’d shot that woman. It distracted the clerk after he’d pulled the gun and kept him from chasing us. Who knows what would have happened then?
“C’mon, John, that’s fifteen you got left.”
“Jesus, Mike, shouldn’t you get me to a hospital? It fuckin’ kills.”
“No, man, you’ll be fine. We just have to lay low for a bit. C’mon. Ask another question.”
“Uh – shit – uh – was he in the Civil War?”
“Nope. Fourteen.”
We hadn’t really gotten that far away. About ten miles down the state highway I turned off onto an old logging trail and followed it. John had yelled most of the way here, but he’d quieted down since we parked. Maybe it hurt less with the car not moving. Or maybe he was just tired from blood loss. This seemed as good a place as any. It was quiet. Peaceful. They’d find us here eventually, but I’d be gone by then. I didn’t think John would take much longer.
“Just take me to a hospital, Mike. You don’t need to come in. You can just drop me off. Just drop me at the curb. You know me. I won’t say anything.”
“Hey, I told you you’ll be fine. Just ask another question. You’ve got fourteen left.”
I’d only seen two other guys get shot on a job. Never anything as bad as this. They all get panicky, though. Tough guys, too. Guys who know how to talk a lot of shit, but a bullet’s a bullet. Once it’s in there, they start screaming, talking about doctors and hospitals. Forgetting all about the plan. But I never forget the plan. That’s why I’m still in this thing.
“Shit. Oh fuck. I don’t wanna play, Mike. Just drive me to the hospital. Please.”
Then he started crying, blubbering, this wet, chokey sound.
“John, I’m not doing it. Stop worrying and ask a question.”
“I don’t – I don’t want -”
“All right, I’ll ask one for you. Does his first name start with a J? Yes. Thirteen, and that was a big one, John.”
“I want my mom. Where is she?”
“Ah, shit, man. Don’t get like that. C’mon, you’re really close.”
Now he’d stopped even trying to talk. He just sobbed, rolling his head from side to side. Then he scrunched up his face and he looked really tight and he got quiet. Then he thrashed around, moving the car, he was shaking so much, and he gave off with this awful, piercing yell. I worried someone would hear him having a tantrum.
“Jesus, man. Look, his name starts with a J. I’ll help you again. Is he in the car? Yes. Twelve.”
Now he was quiet again, and he just lay there, with that rasping, drowning breathing, and I knew I could go soon.
“Is he you?” I ask. “Yes. Eleven. Good game.”
I got out of the car then, and he didn’t yell or say anything. I got my bag from the trunk and just walked off into the woods, trusting that I’d be through them soon enough. It’s best to just walk straight. You don’t get lost that way.
I thought about John, alone in the car, and I felt a little bad that no one would be there when it happened. But that’s how it goes. I’ll miss him, but he’s just another thing to leave behind.
