Never Far Gone, page 30
As I stand there, trying to understand the agony he must be feeling, I quickly realize what I have to do. Using my free hand, I hastily grab the Beretta from behind my waistline and align the sights with the back of Heath’s head before pulling the trigger. His screams stop immediately as his lifeless body slumps over. The thought of killing a loyal comrade for no good reason makes me incredibly nauseous, but I turn away and begin running as best as I can to the garage.
One round left. I’m- I’m so sorry…
“Open the door!” I holler as I close in the distance between us and Vito. I can tell the kid is scared, yet his unwavering bravery forces him to scrabble around with the controls to the garage door. Within seconds, the sound of metal retracting fills the street as the door begins to lift.
Yes, yes, yes…
“Go! Go! Go! Go!” I scream aloud while waving my hand to Vito as he ducks underneath the rising gate. With all the vitality I have left, I throw Corver into the garage and turn to shut the door behind us manually. With the mechanism still raising the door, my efforts to pull the gate down are fruitless. In an act of desperation, I raise the pistol to the control panel that Vito exposed and fire a round. The combustion that follows interrupts the gate’s retracting mechanism, and I take that brief moment to slam the gate down just in time to lock the Spectrals outside.
Empty.
When the banging on the garage door subsides, the Specs on the other side begin moving away from the damp garage; I have no doubt their sudden change of behavior is attributed to the noise coming from the Consulate, but I let out a sigh of relief before falling to the ground right next to Corver in exhaustion. Vito immediately runs to check on me, yet I usher him to turn around as he approaches. Noticing the multitool hanging on the side pocket of the book bag he’s wearing, I am confident it is mine. Vito takes off the bag and places it down beside me. I guess the question I was about to ask is written all over my face, so Vito wastes no time answering.
“I didn’t know what to do…” he says as I hoist myself against the nearest vehicle and unzip the bag. With what little strength I have left, my hand reaches down to grab the bottom of the bag and flip it upside down until all the contents within fall to the peeling floor below. “I went to look for you in your office, but you weren’t… I- I put a lot of your stuff in there, though,” Vito confesses as he points to the empty bag beside me.
“That’s when Heath found me, and we-” Vito continues before being interrupted as Corver turns to his side and begins coughing ferociously. Blood is protruding from his mouth and covering the floor beneath him. I begin frantically looking for gauze that I usually keep in my bag, but I can’t find it in the pile of items strewn around my feet.
“Crap, help me lift him to the car over there…” I say as I grab the keys lying on the ground. I place my arm behind me and use the vehicle I’m leaning against to carry myself to my feet. With that, I bend down to grab Corver while Vito tries his best to assist me with carrying an adult who is twice his height and weight. We stumble nearly three parking spaces before stopping near the bed of the truck. “Lift his feet,” I quietly instruct as I yank the door to the truck bed open.
As Corver is placed into the rear of the Tundra, he exerts a few painful groans while his body begins to contort from the discomfort; not wanting to waste any time, I ask Vito to go to the back seat and grab the plastic crate with various medical items in it. Without stopping to catch a breath, I begin cutting away at Corver’s clothing with the knife until his torso is fully exposed. Carefully turning him to his side, I can see the exit wound where the bullet passed through.
Thank god…
As the crate is thrown up on the tailgate of the truck with as much force as Vito can manage, I desperately comb through the items until I find a half-empty bottle of nearly expired Hydrogen Peroxide, a Skin Stapler, Clean Gauze, and a small packet of Pain Medication. I open the bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide and pour some onto my hands before rubbing them together and shaking them dry. The liquid sanitizing the various cuts on my hands from the fall causes me to wince slightly due to the sting that follows.
“Get me a shirt from the duffle over there,” I instruct Vito as I point at the black duffle bag on the other side of the opened cabin window leading to the backseat. When he comes back with one of the thin shirts I had packed from Scarsdale all those months ago, I hastily snag it and douse it with Hydrogen Peroxide before turning to Corver and wiping his wound clean. The agonizing screams resulting from the alcohol should’ve been expected, but I can’t risk anyone or anything finding us when we’re so vulnerable.
“Cover his mouth, Vito,” I instruct while turning Corver to his side again to disinfect the exit wound. The truck shakes slightly as Vito lifts himself onto the truck bed and makes his way behind Corver’s head. He kneels and uses both of his hands to cover the injured man’s mouth as I position him on his back again.
Before closing the bottle, I take a deep breath and pour some of the disinfectant onto my shoulder, which seeps in through the thin shirt I’m wearing, before letting out a muffled scream myself. With the hard part over, I tuck a portion of clean gauze through the neck of my t-shirt and place it over the wound with ease. With little blood seeping through Corver’s bullet wound, I wipe off as much excess as possible before grabbing the Skin Stapler.
“Be ready. He won’t like this, kid…” I say to Vito as he closes his mouth and nods in acknowledgment. With that, I bring the stapler to the edge of the wound while holding it shut with my other hand and begin stitching it in place. Corver’s whole body starts shaking due to the pain, enough for me to have to position myself on top of his legs in a desperate attempt to hold him still, yet Vito is doing a great job at suppressing the sound coming from his mouth. As I finish with the last staple, Corver seems to fall back to his previous state of unconsciousness as his body becomes motionless.
“Good job. Hand me that, will you?” I ask while pointing behind my right foot at the clean gauze pads. With clean gauze in hand, I begin wrapping Corver’s abdomen as best as I can before unwrapping the small, first-aid-sized packet of pain medication while reaching over to the backseat to grab a water bottle; the packet only contained two pills, so I lift Corver’s head and place one of the pills on his tongue before reaching around and bringing the water bottle up to his lips.
“I need you to drink this…” I whisper as Corver starts sipping on the water while fighting in and out of consciousness. I hear him forcefully swallow the medication before letting out a nasty cough that only serves to get blood on the inside of the cabin’s windows. I reach down and use the previously clean t-shirt to wipe the blood from his mouth before pulling the duffle bag through the window and positioning it for Corver to lay his head on as I turn him to his side for rest.
I drag myself out of the truck bed and use one of the blankets I had lying in the backseat from a camping trip I went to in Maine last winter to cover my resting ally as he sleeps. As the blanket is pulled over his body, I move my hand forward to grab the wet and bloodied paper hanging from the seam of Corver’s pocket. In doing so, I lean against the back of the truck as I unravel the paper and immediately recognize one of the first names on the list: Luca Silvio. The dark, crimson substance on the paper makes it nearly incomprehensible. As I lift myself from against the truck and fall to the ground, I begin to phase in and out of consciousness myself. The room seems to only get darker with every passing moment, and seeing Vito running over to me was the last thing I remember before being surrounded in complete darkness.
14
With each bump the truck runs over on the road, it becomes increasingly difficult to rest. The wounds plastered all over my body are causing me a seemingly endless cycle of discomfort. I pull the handle under the passenger seat until my body is reclined as much as possible. Vito grunts as the back of my seat unintentionally collides with his body.
“Sorry, kid…” I let out in a groggy tone. I glance at the center console to determine the time. It’s 12:43 P.M. Not caring whether the clock was adjusted for Daylight Savings or otherwise, I shift my body to get a better look at Corver. His seat is positioned closer to the wheel than usual so as not to stretch too much and possibly reopen his stitches, and I notice his face contort in pain with every bump. He looks at me from his peripherals before refocusing on the semi-open road ahead.
“It’s not as bad as it was,” Corver says jokingly. His laugh is interrupted by another bump, causing him to reach for his abdomen.
“Who’re you telling…” I say before clearing my throat as best as I can. I reach down to the side of the door and grab a half-empty MRE. It’s our last one. Corver, Vito, and I have been conservative with our food over the last week we’ve been on the road, but such frugality will only last for so long. I fumble in the bag until I grab a pack of crackers and a packet of cheese spread. After peeling the corner of the cheese spread apart with my teeth, I hand the packet over to Vito. “You need to eat something,” I confess as he quickly takes the packet and begins sucking some of the processed cheese through the opening. He hands me the packet back after a few seconds.
“You, too,” I say before extending the cheese packet to Corver, who glances down at me a couple of times before hesitantly taking it from my hand. I begin unwrapping the crackers as he places the remainder of the cheese spread upright in the cupholder. I break the crackers into three pieces and hand them out, giving Vito the largest piece before savoring my end. As heavenly as the meal seems, it only lasts a few short minutes before ending abruptly. Corver wastes no time adding to my distress as he points at the fuel gauge.
“We’re on less than a quarter,” he says.
“Of course we are…” I say while bringing my palm up to rub my forehead. “Look, we’re almost there, anyways. Just cut through the woods up here,” I instruct while repositioning my seat back up. I point nearly half a mile up the road to a clearing meant for off-road vehicles or hikers. As we approach the clearing, I grab the edge of my seat to hold myself in position as the truck climbs off the asphalt and lands on the soft dirt leading into the visually desolate forest.
“Keep going straight for another two miles or so,” I say as I extend my hand behind me. Without a word, Vito hands me the Glock 19 lying on top of the clothing in the duffle bag beside him. I rack the slide and place the loaded handgun on my knee; with Vito following closely, I can hear him doing the same with his PPK/S.
“Look, man, I’m sorry about the rest of the guys… I-” Corver says before I intercept.
“Drop it,” I mutter as the inside of the vehicle falls silent. With the sounds of various animals in the forest peering into the cabin through the slightly cracked windows, I can’t help but feel a sense of guilt overshadowing every other emotion I’m feeling. The silence doesn’t persist for long.
“Miles, what else were we going to do? We waited in Duchess County for days…” Corver says before pausing. He’s talking slower than usual, yet I can’t tell if it’s because he is trying not to upset me or because he’s awaiting a response. I see him look into the rearview mirror, presumably at Vito, and then back at me. “Even if they did make it out, we wouldn’t be able to-” he whispers before being cut off again.
“What did I just say?!” I bark out with a tone that demonstrates a loss of patience. Corver shoots me one more look before gluing his attention back on the dirt road. After a minute or so, I shift in my seat and do my best to determine our location based on the seemingly identical scenery around us. Vito taps me on the shoulder, breaking my observational trance, and points to the only structure nearby.
“Is that it?” Vito asks as his finger remains in front of him. Corver, now silent, looks to me for confirmation.
“Yeah, that’s it. Stop right here. We can walk the rest just in case there are people nearby,” I mutter cautiously as the truck slowly comes to a halt. Corver reaches into the center console to retrieve his Beretta, which we partially replenished with a few extra .380 ACP rounds Vito had for his handgun. After glancing at the seemingly abandoned cabin through the bug-ridden windshield, Corver sighs as he opens his door and steps out onto the dirt below.
As I step out of the vehicle myself, I close the door slowly, careful not to give away our position to anyone potentially lurking nearby. Once I turn to face the two-story cabin nearly a quarter mile away, I’m immediately hit with the smell of fresh grass and feel my chest rise as I take a massive breath of air.
Damn, I missed that… The scent of nature.
With extreme caution and paranoia, I glance at Corver and gesture for him to keep his eyes on the front of the structure. He nods before turning to Vito and signals him to follow me instead. Without any audible communication, Vito turns to me and quietly scurries in my direction in an attempt to stay undetected. Vito and I circle the property as we get closer while Corver remains focused on the front entrance.
I take my support hand from under the Glock and make a hand gesture using my thumb and pointing finger, signaling Vito to draw his weapon. Even as a child, he is much more intelligent than most people would assume, given his small demeanor and age. The stainless steel finish on the PPK/S shines in the sunlight above, even with the shade surrounding us from the 20-foot trees overhead. The back door is under the patio, so Vito and I keep our backs against the cabin’s exterior stone wall as we creep closer toward the rear entrance. As Vito and I reach the back door, my weapon remains leveled in front of me.
Showtime.
While we position ourselves beside the doorway leading into the basement, I dig into my pocket to retrieve the key to the door and slowly place it into its dedicated slot. The various pins within the lock begin to wiggle as the key is delicately pushed farther inward. Once the key is in, I turn it slowly to conceal the sound of the metal lock retracting before grabbing the rusty door handle and doing the same. With one fell swoop, I push the door open while simultaneously taking a step inside with my handgun in the air.
Silence.
“Stay behind me…” I whisper to Vito, who is still on the other side of the doorway. My eyes are having a hard time adjusting to the sudden darkness. Still, the natural light from behind us makes it easier to identify the various items placed around the room.
Untouched. Wow… I wasn’t expecting that.
Picture frames. The TV. Hell, even the First Aid Box I had against the wall on the other side of the room. Everything is where I had left it all those months ago. As if on cue, Vito and I hear the front door on the floor above fling open as Corver abruptly forces his way inside the cabin through the main entrance.
Subtle.
“Miles?!” I hear him call out as the footsteps overhead echo throughout the basement. They’re sporadic yet calculated. Even though we can’t see him, I can tell he’s checking every corner as he makes his way through the first floor of the musty cabin. Vito and I start making our way toward the staircase leading upstairs.
“We’re clear down here!” I holler out and give a thumbs-up to Vito. “Watch yourself!” I yell out as the creaking below my feet emanates throughout the narrow corridor. We reach the top of the stairwell, and I push the door open before peeking around the corner with my handgun drawn. I lower my aim once I see Corver instinctively do the same. I point upstairs, causing him to turn to his right and face the stairwell leading to the upper floor. Without wasting a second, I position my body behind him and place my non-dominant hand on his left shoulder, indicating we’re clear to ascend.
One step. Then another. Every corner. Every room. Every closet. Every hallway. We check it all. The entire structure has remained untouched since my last trip here and hasn’t hosted a living being for nearly a year. As Corver, Vito, and I meet in the main bedroom, we glance out the window facing Millinocket Lake. I throw the bag slung over my shoulder onto the Queen-sized bed to my right before turning to address my remaining companions.
“Welcome to Maine, boys,” I say before placing the handgun in my waistband and turning to walk out of the room.
(Three Months Later)
Even as the heat from the stove continues to provide a comforting sense of warmth amid the cold air outside, I barely enjoy it as my intrusive thoughts overwrite any other emotion. The sporadic sounds coming from the wind chimes we had hung up a few weeks back are supposed to drown out the thoughts in my head, anything to avoid the everlasting quiet that usually accompanies such isolation. However, they merely serve as a reminder of my past indiscretions. The smell of burning snaps me out of my trance before I fumble for the fork and flip the sizable pieces of venison in the pan.
I need more pills…
After pouring some olive oil into the pan, I walk over to the bathroom and grab a nearly empty bottle of Adderall from the Alaskan white vanity. The pills had undoubtedly surpassed their expiration date, but they still seem to be slightly potent, given the fact that they’ve been helping with my focus over the past few weeks. They were prescribed when I had trouble functioning following the shooting that happened on the base. It seems that was the first time I was ever slow on the draw, and it clearly wasn’t my last. The thought of screwing up on the rooftop of the Consulate makes my hands quiver as I begin shaking the bottle until two sizable capsules fall onto my palm.
I swallow the pills without so much as a drop of water before hesitantly glancing at my reflection in the mirror ahead. With my hair longer than ever and partially concealing my eyes, my attention falls onto the thick facial hair that has sprung from out of nowhere over the past few months. My once kempt goatee was, instead, a shell of its former self as it is currently overshadowed by matted knots and finger-length strands of dark black hair. After an eternity of staring through my reflection rather than at it, I turn away and stumble toward the kitchen.
