Exiled Omnibus (26 page)

Blood had soaked through the gauze John had applied to Eric’s gunshot wound. John’s fingers were now stained red and sticky with blood. His arms were shaking from the continued pressure. He watched Eric’s eyelids flutter open and closed. He pressed his hand to the side of Eric’s face.

“Mom, he’s really cold,” John said.

“He’s probably in shock,” Brooke answered.

Brooke jerked the wheel right and missed a massive pothole on the broken Alabama road. The salty sea air had eroded and worn most of the coastal pavement. John shifted his legs to relieve some of the pressure in his knees from kneeling on them. He could feel the numbness shoot through his legs and almost fell over from the loss of feeling.

“Are we close?” John asked.

“Eric,” Brooke said. “Eric, we’re almost in Mobile. Where does your friend live?”

Eric mumbled something.

“What did he say?” Brooke asked.

“I don’t know,” John answered.

John shook Eric, and his head wavered back and forth on his shoulders. The color had left Eric’s face, and the vibrant eyes that John had seen the day before seemed faded.

“Eric! Where does your friend live?” Brooke repeated.

Again, the only answer was mumbles. John brought his hand back and smacked Eric across the face. The sharp crack of John’s hand against Eric’s cheek startled Brooke but did its job of waking Eric up.

“Ouch,” Eric answered.

When John saw the look on his mother’s face, he shrugged. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

Eric’s eyes focused on the landscape outside the window. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Just outside Mobile, Alabama,” Brooke answered. “Now, where’s your friend?”

“Tillman’s Corner,” Eric muttered, then started to fade from consciousness again.

“John, check the map,” Brooke said.

“But, what about the wound?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

John peeled his fingers off the bullet hole. Some of the blood had dried, fusing the gauze to John’s skin. He peeled it off, and the dried blood fell off in flakes. He reached for the map and rolled it open. Emily was still buckled into the back seat. She’d cried herself out about twenty minutes ago and just looked tired now.

“Em, help me find Tillman’s Corner,” John said, trying to take her mind off things.

John found Mobile on the map, and his finger ran south. Emily tried searching but was distracted by the other cities located around the country.

“Found it!” John said. “We need to get on Highway 59 to get to it, though. And I have no idea where we’re at.”

“We’re on Coden Belt,” Brooke said. “And we just passed Bayou La Batre a few miles back.”

“We need to head north,” John answered.

“You’ll have to find a route for us. Make sure we stay off the main roads. Eric,” Brooke said. “Where exactly does your friend live? What’s his address in Tillman’s Corner?”

“4249 South Terrance Street,” Eric answered, his eyes still closed.

“Tell me where to go, John,” Brooke said.

The map crinkled under John’s fingers as he rubbed the edges of the paper. More bits of dried blood rolled into small, flaky balls off of his fingertips. His eyes were transfixed on those small concentrations of fluid. It all seemed too surreal to him. If John couldn’t help get Eric to his friend’s house, then he was going to die. Eric’s death would rest on his shoulders. He would be to blame. The thump in John’s chest beat harder. It felt like his heart would explode. Was this what his dad had felt like in Iraq?

“John!” Brooke yelled.

“Huh?”

“I need you to tell me where to go.”

“Right.”

The beating in his chest subsided slightly, but he focused his energy on finding a side street they could cross at. The faded-green street sign they had just passed read Barrett Road. He found that road on the map and looked for the next available crossing.

“Take a left on Clark Road. From there, we can follow the river north for a few miles before we have to get on any other main roads,” John said.

“Perfect. That’s great, John,” Brooke answered.

John traced his finger north, trying to find the street where Eric’s friend lived. He found it sitting on the bay side of the city.

Brooke made the left on Clark Road and passed a few pedestrians on the sidewalk. John watched them point at the cruiser. The bullet-riddled doors and smashed rear windshield didn’t make for the most inconspicuous mode of transportation. Lucky for them the area was sparsely populated. The fewer people they ran into, the better off they were. John was trying to figure out their next move when he felt the tug on his shirt sleeve.

“Em, not now,” he said.

The tugging continued, this time more violently than before. He pulled Emily’s hand off him and tossed it aside. It returned just seconds later.

“Emily, I said not n—”

It was small splashes of water against the rocks that cut him off. John joined Emily in pressing his face against the window. John had never seen anything like it before. The sheer size of the river made his jaw drop. He’d seen pictures and watched videos in his history class, but there was something different about actually seeing it.

“Wow,” he said.

All John could think about was ripping off his shirt and diving head first into the water, letting the cool liquid wash over him. At least he thought it would be cool. The humid Alabama heat made it hard to believe that anything could be cold.

“John?” Brooke asked, her voice calm.

“Yeah?” John answered.

His eyes remained glued on the water rushing downstream. He had read somewhere that people used to ride rapids like these in small rafts. Staring at the river rushing past them, he couldn’t help but have that same urge to travel the river the same way others had done before him.

“I need you to help me, John,” Brooke said.

John pulled his eyes from the splashing river and back to the tired, defeated face of Eric, whose head bobbed from side to side in a delirious haze. The river could wait.

***

Brooke squinted through the windshield at the house numbers on South Terrance Street. On her way there, she expected to see more of a residential neighborhood, but what she found the closer they moved to Eric’s friend’s house were large pieces of land, gated off with big houses sitting on them. In between the properties were clusters of thick trees and tall grass. It was the first time she’d seen the color green in a very long time.

The odd-numbered houses were on the left, and she kept counting in her head until she saw a half-bent, rusty mailbox with the numbers 4249 written on it in small, faded black letters. A locked gate guarded the driveway to the house.

Eric was completely passed out, and the wound was still bleeding. His face was ghost white, and he was no longer sweating. Brooke knew that was a bad sign. Brooke turned around to John and Emily in the back seat. “Hold on.”

Brooke shifted the cruiser into reverse and backed up, keeping the gate lined up directly in front of her. She reversed forty feet and slammed on the breaks. She jammed the shifter back into drive and floored the gas pedal. Dirt flew up from the tires, and the engine roared as all eight cylinders pounded furiously.

Brooke’s fingers tightened around the groves in the steering wheel. Her arms and shoulders stiffened, bracing for the impact. The speedometer soared from twenty to forty to sixty, and then the front grille of the cruiser smashed through the locked gate, crumpling the front bumper and cracking the headlights.

The chain and lock from the metal gate snapped in two and clanked against the concrete. They skidded to a stop just before hitting the bumper of a truck parked outside the house’s garage. Before Brooke could get out of the car, a tall, lanky man dressed in a dirty white shirt and holey jeans stepped out with a rifle aimed right at them.

“This is private property! This is your only warning before I sho—”

The man cut himself off. He lowered the rifle and squinted at Eric through the passenger window. “Holy shit.”

Brooke stepped out of the car, her hands in the air. “Are you Eric’s friend?”

“Well, that’s a strong word for it,” the man said rushing to the cruiser’s side. He opened the door and picked Eric up in his arms. Brooke was amazed that the man was able to lift Eric by himself. He looked no heavier than a buck fifty sopping wet. She watched the man disappear with Eric inside the house, and she worked on getting Emily out of the back seat. Before she could stop him, John was out of the cruiser and running after Eric.

“John!”

Despite Eric’s claim that this man was his friend, Brooke knew nothing else about him. She picked Emily up in her arms and ran after them.

The inside of the man’s house was simple, clean. Not exactly what she expected from someone living on a large piece of land like this. Of all the houses she passed, this was definitely the smallest. Brooke found John with the man and Eric in a bedroom on the side of the house. Eric’s shirt was ripped off, exposing the gunshot wound. John watched from a distance.

Brooke turned around and set Emily down in the living room on the couch. There was an old television in the corner. She found the remote and clicked it on. Despite its age, it still worked. She handed Emily the remote. “See if you can find anything good on TV, okay? I’ll be right in the other room. Just call for me if you need anything.”

Emily nodded, reaching for the remote out of some reflex of watching television for countless hours in the living room at their old house. But Brooke knew her daughter had seen things now well beyond her years. She just hoped that she’d still be okay.

Brooke ran into the bedroom, where the man was bent over Eric with what looked like a pair of tweezers in his hand. “How long has he been bleeding?”

“A little over an hour,” Brooke answered.

“Run into the garage. The door is just past the kitchen. Inside you’ll find a red medical bag. Next to it will be what looks like a coat rack, but for just one coat. Bring them both here.”

The man pierced Eric’s flesh with the tweezers, and Brooke cringed. The sound of the metal squishing against the exposed flesh distracted her.

“Hurry!” he said.

Brooke maneuvered through the foreign house as best she could. When she made it to the garage, it was completely dark. She ran her hands over the wall, feeling for a light switch. She flicked it on and immediately saw the red bag and coat rack he’d described.

When Brooke made it back into the room, the man held the bloodstained bullet pinched in the tweezers. He dropped the 9mm piece of lead on the table and snatched the red bag out of Brooke’s hand.

“Is he going to die?” John asked.

“Not sure yet. He’s lost a lot of blood. And the fact that he’s been unconscious so far with very light breathing isn’t boding well for him,” the man answered, whose bloodstained hands sifted through the bag and pulled out a plastic IV bag and attached it to the rack. He ran a tube from the bag and tipped the end with a needle that he placed in Eric’s arm. He then pulled out a sewing needle and thread from a case. “Keep an eye on him. I need to sterilize this.”

John and Brooke were on either side of the bed, staring at Eric’s unconscious body. She looked over to her son, who had tears welling up in his eyes. She walked over to him and wrapped him in a hug.

Brooke took John out to the living room to join his sister and let Eric’s friend finish patching him up. She knew John had become attached to Eric over the past few days. It’d been a while since he’d had any strong male presence around. She just wasn’t sure if he was crying tears of guilt or of fear.