Dig Ten Graves Read online

  The shoes stepped back a little, and a voice that seemed to come from miles above said, “Well. You don’t look so good, friend.”

  It was a deep, confident voice, like the voice of a really good telephone solicitor. Bridges said, “Ah…” but couldn’t manage anything else.

  The pant legs went up slightly and the stranger crouched down on his haunches. Bridges could see the open raincoat now, the well-made suit and tie under it. He tried to roll his eyes up to see the face but couldn’t manage it.

  “What happened to you?” the man said.

  “Sh… sh…”

  “Shot? You’ve been shot?”

  “Ah.”

  “Well,” the man said. “That’s pretty goddamn interesting. It’s not often you stroll around the block in the rain and come across someone who’s been shot. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Help,” Bridges wheezed.

  “What’s that?” the man said.

  Bridges squeezed his eyes shut. “Help,” he said.

  The man chuckled. He actually chuckled. “Help what?”

  Bridges was confused. He couldn’t think straight. Did this stranger just laugh at him? He was sprawled out on a sidewalk in the rain, a bullet in his back, dying for Christ’s sake, and this man laughed at him?

  He said, “Please,” but the word was barely audible even to his own ears.

  The stranger said, “I’m just kidding. You need help, like medical help, right? You’re asking me to, I don’t know, call an ambulance or something. Right?”

  “Please.”

  “An ambulance, or the cops. Because if you don’t get medical attention right away, well, you aren’t going to make it. Right? You could die, any second now.”

  Bridges moved his fingers, trying to reach out and grab hold of the man’s pant leg. He couldn’t muster the strength.

  “And here I am,” the man said. “Yakking away while your life bleeds away in the rain. What sort of Good Samaritan am I, huh?” And he laughed again.

  He moved a little closer, close enough that he shielded some of the rain from Bridges’ head. He said, “Wow. This is really something. Here I am, walking along, and bam, outta nowhere, I stumble across a guy dying from a gunshot in the back. I mean, what are the odds?”

  Bridges didn’t know the odds, and he didn’t care. He was beginning to suspect that this stranger wasn’t going to help him.

  “So, where’d they get you?” Bridges felt the man’s fingers on his shoulder, probing. He felt the fingers travel down his back and come to rest on the place where the bullet had entered.

  The man pressed hard on the spot.

  “Right here?” he said.

  The pain came roaring back, and Bridges cried out weakly and nearly passed out.

  The man let go of the spot and gently slapped Bridges on the head. “Don’t black out,” he said. “You do that, you’re not going to wake up again.”

  Bridges couldn’t think through the pain. Every part of him was clenched—his fists against the sidewalk, his eyes squeezed tight, his teeth scraping against each other.

  After a long moment, the pain started to recede again and Bridges was sobbing. The stranger crouched there, not moving.

  “Wow,” he said again. Then, “Hell of a night, huh? They say it’s supposed to rain all night.”

  Bridges said, “Wh…”

  “Still, it’s good for the trees, right? We haven’t had a good rainfall in weeks. It’ll really cool things off, I hope.”

  “Wh… why?”

  The stranger said, “Why? Is that what you just said? You really need to speak up, did anyone ever tell you you mumble sometimes?”

  “Why?”

  “Why, well. That’s a good question.”

  “You… you sh… you sh…”

  “Shot you? Me? No, I was just passing by. Funny how things like that will happen sometimes. I don’t even know you, buddy. Why would I shoot you?”

  “Crazy…”

  “Me?” the man said, laughing. “No, I’m not crazy. I’m just a normal guy, like you. Or at least, I assume you’re a normal guy. But I could be wrong. Normal guys, as a rule, don’t get shot, do they? You must’ve pissed someone off pretty good, that’s all I can figure.”

  “Help me.”

  “I am helping you. I’m keeping you company, aren’t I?”

  “Call… call ambulance…”

  He heard the stranger let out a thoughtful breath. “No, I don’t think I’ll do that, buddy. No ambulance for you.”

  Bridges said, “Wh… why?”

  “Oh, just because. See, I’ll tell you a secret, Mr… what’s your name, anyway? Oh, never mind, it’s not important. I’ll tell you a secret.”

  “Please.”

  “Hey, you plan on dominating this whole conversation? I let you talk, now it’s my turn.” He cleared his throat. “See, it’s like this. Me, I get up every day at seven. I have a cup of coffee while my wife is still in bed. I take a shower, I shave, I get dressed, and I go to work. Just like everyone else. I work all day for a boss I hate, see. I sell advertising space, if you wondered, but it doesn’t really matter. Whatever job you have, you’re doing it for someone else, aren’t you? In any case, I sell ad space all day long, and some days I do pretty well and other days are a wash-out. I get off at five and I drive home through rush hour traffic and my wife usually has dinner ready, and even though her dinners are barely edible, I eat. While I’m eating, I have to sit there and endure a bunch of mindless small talk about my day and her day. Then I help her with the dishes and I sit down in front of the TV and watch it until ten or so. And then I go to bed.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, as if expecting Bridges to comment. A soul-crushing despair had opened up in Bridges’ heart and he couldn’t say anything even if he’d wanted to.

  The man said, “But here’s the thing. Here’s the thing, buddy. Some nights, I get up in the middle of the night and I put on my coat and I go for a walk. Just around, you know, up and down the street. I walk and I think, and it makes me feel better. Even when it’s raining like right now, it always helps. I walk and I think about killing people. You know, just snuffing them right out. I think about stabbing someone or choking them to death or putting them in a wood chipper. Just anybody, you know? Not my wife or my boss or whoever. Just anyone.”

  Bridges moaned.

  “I’m still talking,” the man said. “Don’t interrupt, okay? I was saying, you know, fantasizing about killing someone just makes me feel better. Ie fe>/ve never actually done it before, mind you, and more than likely I never will. But thinking about it, God, it just cheers me right up.”

  He shifted on his haunches, and the rain shifted too, angling in so that it pelted Bridges directly in the face. The edges of Bridges’ vision were dimming.

  The man said, “So imagine my delight at finding you out here tonight. I didn’t have anything to do with you being shot, but regardless, it’s almost like a little slice of my fantasy world just appeared out of nowhere. And the weirdest thing? I had the crappiest day today, you know? I mean, it was worse than usual. Way I figure it, God put you here on this sidewalk, dying with a bullet in your back, so that I would have the strength to go on. God is good, isn’t He? He’s always there when you need Him.”

  Bridges could only see the man’s shoes and pant legs now. He felt his life slipping away from him.

  The man laughed again and said, “Those must seem like pretty hollow words to you right about now, huh? I guess He’s not always there for everyone. He’s not doing much for you, for instance. Ha.”

  Bridges felt the man’s hand on his back again, slapping him heartily on the hole where the bullet had entered him. It didn’t hurt at all this time.

  The man said, “The funniest thing about it, to me? You’ll never even know who shot you, or why. Right? I mean, was it someone you crossed? Someone you did something to, and you don’t even remember? Maybe from years ago. Or maybe it was someone who was going to rob yo
u, but then got scared and ran off. Or maybe it’s nothing like that. Maybe it’s just some random nut. Just some guy with a gun, wanting to shoot someone. And if that’s the case, who can blame him?”

  Bridges said, “Bastard.” The word came out without hesitation or struggle, which was good, because it would wind up being the last thing he ever said.

  The man said, “Bastard? Hey, those are fighting words, mister. You wanna piece of me?” And then he laughed. “I’m kidding again. You can call me whatever you want, that’s okay.” Then, “Tell you what. I’m on my way home now. I should be there in about ten minutes. When I get in, I’m going to have a drink, maybe read a little bit. And then, just for you, I’ll call the cops and tell them I thought I heard a gunshot. That sound okay? I’ll tell them I heard shooting, and that they should probably check it out. They’d more than likely find you right away. Okay?”

  Bridges didn’t say anything. The man’s words sounded far away and the imperative to listen to them not near as pressing as before.

  “It’s the least I can do,” the man said. “After all you’ve done for me. Thanks, buddy.”

  Bridges’ eyes were closed now, but he heard the man stand up, pause for a moment, and then the footsteps were moving away again. He heard them receding down the street, and he heard the soft patter of rain, the gurgling of water rushing down the grate.

  And he heard the whistling again, as the man picked up his tune where he’d left off.

  Always Too Late

  “What if it’s already too late?” the woman said. “What if all the things we dread happening have already happened, and it’s too late to save us?”

  “It’s never too late,” I said, and she gave me a sort of smirking, half-pitying grin. She shook her head and knocked back the rest of her bourbon and water.

  We’d gone out on the veranda, away from the heat and noise of the party inside, and now the night air was cool on our flushed faces and I was very aware of how close she stood to me. The Belle Isle property stretched out below us, lush and green, and wind rustled through the ornate shrubs and landscaping of our host’s private garden.

  I said, “What? You think that’s naïve of me?”

  “Maybe a little,” she said. “But maybe some willful optimism is necessary to survive in this world. If we knew the truth, we might just kill ourselves right now and be done with it.”

  I frowned at her. “That’s a pretty bleak assessment.”

  “It’s a pretty bleak world. And believe me, it’s going to get bleaker.”

  “Let’s walk,” I said, as much to change the subject as anything else. She nodded, and we left the veranda and made our way down to the gardens.

  She was a tough nut to crack, this one. Very doom and gloom. Me, I’d always been an optimist, but I’d be lying if I said her pessimism didn’t interest me. It seemed to come from someplace deep inside, someplace that actually knew something the rest of us didn’t know.

  We walked, and I said, “If things are really that bad, there doesn’t seem much point in going on, does there?”

  She said, “No. Not much point at all,” and then, “So why don’t I kill myself? That would be your next question, if you weren’t so polite. Why don’t I end it all, if life is really that awful?”

  I didn’t say anything, and after a moment she said, “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  We walked on in silence.

  The sky above was black and pinpointed with glittering white stars and a warm wind swept through the gardens and pushed her hair into her face. At that moment, she was so beautiful it made me ache.

  We stopped and I put my hand on the smooth curve of her jaw and kissed her.

  After a moment, she put her head against my chest and whispered, “You’re in danger. You have no way of knowing what’s in store for you.”

  I held her out at arm’s length, puzzled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so very sorry for what’s coming. I came here to… to tell you. But it won’t do any good, and I’m so sorry.”

  I started to ask her what she was talking about, but before I could form the words a low, buzzing sound, like a swarm of bees slowly descending, reached my ears. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

  She took a step away from me. “Oh God,” she said. “He’s here.”

  “What—“

  The buzzing grew louder, and out of nowhere a tiny speck of white light appeared in the air between us. I stepped back from it, and it grew bigger and bigger, a light so raw and white it hurt my eyes.

  The sound of it was like a roaring now, and I covered my ears. Cold fear gripped me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away. I couldn’t see the girl anymore, just the awful light that got bigger and bigger, until it was the size of a man.

  And then a figure stepped out of the light. He stepped right out, as simple as crossing a threshold. A tall, gaunt man with wavy blond hair and a tight-fitting suit. He had a gun in his hand.

  I stumbled back and fell on the grass.

  The woman said again, “I’m sorry,” but I wasn’t sure which of us she was talking to.

  The buzzing sound faded, but the horrible white light stayed, like an open door into nowhere. The man stood before it, glaring down at me, his fingers tight around the gun. He spoke, and his voice was like gravel: “I’m disappointed,” he said. “I’m so thoroughly disappointed in you, Mona.”

  “Please,” she said. “Don’t hurt him.”

  The buzzing white light hung behind him, and he shook his head. “I’m not going to hurt him. But you, Mona, are coming back with me. You have a lot to answer for.”

  “No,” she said. “Please. I don’t want to go back. Please. Can’t I stay here?”

  “You belong with me.”

  He grabbed her wrist and started to pull her toward the white light. She fought against him, punching and kicking, but it was no use.

  I was starting to finally come to my senses. I pushed myself off the ground. “Leave her alone. I don’t know who you are, but she doesn’t want to go with you. Leave her.”

  Struggling with the woman, he snarled at me. “This is not your concern. She shouldn’t be here.”

  I took a careful step toward him, very mindful of the gun in his hand. “Let her go!”

  He raised the gun, aimed it at me, and pulled the trigger.

  The shot boomed across the gardens, and the woman screamed, but I was only vaguely conscious of it. I fell, feeling only a split-second of pain in my spine before total numbness washed over me.

  I could hear them fighting, the woman screaming and cursing, as he fought to drag her into the white light that hovered behind them. I heard it all, and could do nothing.

  The buzzing, which had faded after the man stepped through the portal of light, started getting louder again, and I could only stare straight up at the night sky, unable to move. I heard the woman fighting, the sound of a blow, the man grunting in pain and cursing, and then something hard and cold fell on my chest.

  I was able, barely, to move my right arm. Very slowly, my fingers crawled up my torso, touched the thing on my chest.

  The gun.

  I took it in my hand, lifted it. I fired blind toward the white light, four, five, six shots.

  And the light faded and disappeared and I lost the last of my strength and dropped the gun, and the night was again black and silent.

  Thirty years went by.

  Thirty years, and I sank into some kind of cesspool the likes of which I lack the ability to describe. Wheelchair-bound, I watched with bitter eyes as the world moved on, away from me, moved on toward some darkness that only I seemed capable of seeing, out there on the horizon.

  I had lain there in the grass for over two hours before anyone found me. An ambulance had rushed me to the hospital and surgeons saved my life, but my spine was shattered and when I woke up after surgery the doctor advised me that I’d never walk again.

  There were cops, but by the time I was able
to see them I’d already made up my mind to not tell them the truth. Who would believe it? I told them I’d been walking the grounds alone, trying to clear my head, when some unknown assailant had appeared out of nowhere, shot me, and ran off.

  A puzzling case for them, no doubt. But not near as puzzling as the truth.

  They investigated, kept the case open for well over a year, but naturally there were no leads and eventually my shooting got marked down as unsolved. One of those ‘cold cases’ you hear about. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. It was too late.

  I watched the years stagger by, and every day brought us closer to the destination we’d set our compasses for. And no one seemed to notice.

  Long, strange years.

  In the early 2020’s, there was a short-lived nostalgia movement for the 2010’s, and a lot of teenage pop stars did their best to sound like their ancient idols. But with the rise of the Church of Christ Nihilist this movement ended abruptly and the country experienced an alarming spike in parents being murdered by their children to make way for Kingdom Come. After some hem-hawing, Fox News—“the Only News Allowed by Law”-- declared this a step toward a more stable and conservative society. But after the new right-wing president was assassinated by his own daughter, they re-thought the position and condemned the fervent young Christian Nihilists as ‘misguided’.

  Technology continued to evolve at a rate faster than humans could keep up with. I’d been in my chair for fifteen years when PC’s and laptops suddenly became obsolete and everyone simply had their systems downloaded right into their heads—just a small chip in the left temple, and you could do all your computing and web-surfing from anywhere in the world. The screen would appear in three dimensions, hovering in front of you, invisible to everyone but you, and subtle thought impulses replaced the mouse.

  There still wasn’t a cure for cancer, though. Or AIDS. Or MS.

  And no cure for a shattered spine.

  I’d been twenty years in the chair when the United States incorporated. By that time, big business made no bones about the fact that they were running the show and had been for decades, so they finally made it official. Without any ceremony, the U.S.I. dissolved the Constitution, took stock of the country’s assets, and appointed a CEO and a board of advisors. Share-holders bought in, and within five years every state in the country was contributing to the bank accounts of roughly a hundred very wealthy men. The rest of the country was assigned sliding pay scales, depending on their abilities. The average annual income was anywhere between 20 and 50 thousand. The unemployed were given a stipend and two years to find steady work. If no job presented itself, they were imprisoned. The mentally unstable and the hopelessly ill were shipped to rehabilitation centers where they were kept in confinement, feed two meals a day, and allowed out in the sun one hour every two days. This kept roughly a thousand people employed, but was a drain on the share-holder’s profits.