Light infiltrated the narrow separation in the curtains of the bedroom where Ethan Abrams lay in a shallow sleep. It irritated him as the slits of his eyes peered open and he was blinded by the unobstructed beams casting from the sun. It was 7:08 am, indicated by the ancient digital alarm clock on his bedside table, but he had only been home for three hours after working his double shift at the restaurant. He muttered a few curses in his semi-conscious state as he flipped himself over and dragged the top of his comforter over his face, finding relief in the counterfeit darkness. His dreams had been keeping him restless lately. The recurring loop of listening to his father throw a fit in the kitchen of his childhood home robbed him of the rest that was meant to accompany his slumber. It began again as he drifted deeper into a doze. His facial expression contorted as the memory grew clearer in his mind.

The screaming between his father and his mother had started upstairs and then there was the slamming of their bedroom door followed by his father’s heavy footsteps down the stairs. Ethan sat at the kitchen table, eating his afterschool snack, and staring out the window, trying to subtly remove himself from reality. These boisterous fights were nothing new in the Abrams’ household. The police had visited their home on numerous occasions over the years for domestic disputes. Neighbors called them, mostly. Only once had his mother called them herself, resulting in the arrest of Jonathan Abrams and an overnight stay at the county jail before she decided to drop the charges against him. He had apologized to her the next day when she picked him up and everything had been relatively normal since that day. For the last six months, Jonathan Abrams had seen a therapist weekly and steered clear of alcohol and other vices that had been encompassing his life.

When he had returned home late today from his job at the fiberglass manufacturing company he worked at on the outskirts of Toledo, things had not been normal. The scent of liquor was strong on his breath as he came through the door rather aggressively and off kilter. He had tossed his briefcase onto the sofa in the living room and came up behind Ethan, roughing the top of his head and downing a glass of water before making his way up to where his mother had been putting away their dried laundry. It didn’t take long before Ethan could hear the argument brewing between them from his seat. He heard his father storming down the stairs with quickness. When he reappeared in the kitchen, his anger was painted on his face. His eyes burning with rage.

His father tended to become violent during these altercations, but never more than a firm smack across the face which usually left an unsettling tension within the house as his mother would retreat to their bedroom with her silent whimpering. His mother had come down in pursuit of his father, following him into the kitchen determined to have the last word. She said something to the likes of him never being there when they needed him, and that he always chose alcohol over his family and responsibilities. That he always loved alcohol more than his family. He spun around in her direction, erupting in a fusillade of insults and then came down across her face with his right hand. Ethan had turned and looked at them then, his eyes widening. It wasn’t the first time he had witnessed his father strike his mother, but the sight of it never became any less awful. Overtaken with his emotions, but feeling removed from the situation, he waited for her to make a brisk exit as she always had in the past. But his mother did not retreat this time. Instead, she brought her own hand across his father’s face and with watery eyes and trembling lips, mustered the courage to tell him to go fuck himself. The fear crept through Ethan’s bones for her. His father was always intimidating when he was angry, but Ethan felt like he had never seen him as angry as this before.

His father stood in utter disbelief for a moment. He then turned to his right and looked at the drying rack next to the sink where the plates and silverware were waiting to be stacked away in their respective homes within the cupboards. He removed one of the large porcelain dinner plates from the set they had owned Ethan’s entire life. They had a vaguely oriental design running full circle around the outer rim. An exotic floral pattern was depicted directly in the center of each plate. He remembered that plate so vividly in his mind’s eye, burned into his memory until death or dementia removed it from him. His seven-year-old eyes watched in horror as that plate came down on the top of his mother’s head and shattered with such force that he wouldn’t expect a man of his father’s stature to possess. The blood flowed instantly. His mother shrieked in pain and the sound was like nothing he had ever heard before. Her hands raced instinctively to the side of her head in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. His father’s face still cemented in rage showed no signs of remorse or empathy for his actions.

Ethan, standing in complete shock, watched as his father leaned into his mother’s now crimson-colored face and said, “You’re lucky I don’t kill you for that, you fucking bitch.” The words snaked through his teeth with every bit of malice he had.

“No!” Ethan cried, running to his mother’s aide, and helplessly trying to shove his father away from her.

“Ethan, go to your room!” he barked at him, little droplets of spittle showering Ethan’s face as he did. “This is between me and your mother.” He added the last word coolly.

“Leave her alone!” Ethan protested and gave another shove with his hands into his father’s midsection.

He felt his father take a step back this time, but it was too late before he realized it was to throw a full punch at him. The pain shot through his left eye in a lightning strike. He didn’t even make a noise as his head throttled back and his body collapsed on top of his mother. Full consciousness evaded him for an unknown amount of time as the sounds of his mother screaming his name sounded far off. It was as though his head were enveloped in a glass jar and the world was swimming around him outside of it. His mind and his thoughts trapped in a fishbowl while his body was in some other, distant place. He was already to his feet when his vision started coming back to him. His mother was pulling him hard by the wrist and screaming at his father to stay away from them. He watched the fuzzy silhouette of his father following them slowly through the house, demanding that they come back to him.

“You’re going to get what you deserve one way or another, Doris. Don’t make me chase you.” The words were matter of fact from his lips.

She had rushed Ethan with her into the master bedroom and locked the door behind them, squatting down and shielding him in her arms as the blood from her face soaked into his shirt. “It’s going to be okay,” she said to him with the hair on the side of her injury matted against her face, little jagged pieces of porcelain still embedded in her skin. She was shaking violently as she held him by the shoulders, fixing his hair with one hand in a display of common motherly affection, but her eyes told him something else entirely. Her eyes were wild, and as they darted around the room searching for something that could be used to defend them, they negated her attempts to comfort him. They listened to the slow, steady creaking of the steps under his father’s feet as he ascended the stairs. Ethan began wailing then, his eye puffed out from his face and sealed shut, the pain drumming through his head with the rhythm of his heart. The saltiness of his tears mixed with the metallic flavor of his mother’s blood as they traveled through the patches of it smeared along his cheeks on their gravitational journey towards his mouth. He could taste it so distinctly.

“Doris don’t do this to yourself. Come out here and get what you deserve. You’ll only make it worse if I have to come get you,” he said from the other side of the door. His voice was eerily calm and even-tempered.

His mother grabbed the carafe from her nightstand that she filled with water and brought with her to bed each night, ushered Ethan into the closet, followed him in, and closed the door behind her. She pulled the drawstring of the light above them, filling the tiny space with a murky, yellow glow. She gripped the glass carafe painted in brightly colored polka dots firmly in both hands. The blood running down her face had slowed considerably since she was struck in the face but was still flowing and dripping down to the floor by her feet. His father pounded on the bedroom door hard with the side of his fist, filling the room with a deafening percussion. 

“Open this fucking door right now, Doris!”

“Just leave us alone, Jonathan! Haven’t you done enough already?” she pleaded with him.

“Leave?! This is my fucking house. I pay for this fucking house. You think I’m going to let some ungrateful bitch treat me like this in my own fucking house?!” he snapped.

“I’m badly hurt and so is Ethan, Jon…. Please leave us alone. You’re going to kill us.” The words came out of her mouth in uneven pitches as she choked back her tears.

“I’m going to kill you, you little cunt!”

His father was now bombarding the door with blows, attacking it like a raving lunatic. Jon Abrams wasn’t a large man, but what he lacked in size, he made up for with pure aggression. He was screaming so loud that the words seemed to lose all meaning and were merely sounds that mirrored the feelings of rage within him. His mother’s back was against the wall in the closet and she slid down it choppily until her butt hit the floor. She was sobbing now, her eyes closed tightly, with her face directed up towards the ceiling as though she were asking God for help with her thoughts. She grabbed a blouse from the rack above her and held it against her bloody face, letting the carafe roll from her other hand along the floor until it came to an abrupt stop at the base of the closet door. Ethan held her tight and they cried together, listening to the incessant banging on the door and the unintelligible screams his father was emitting. Ethan had no idea how long it had really been since his father had bloodied his mother’s face and sent the late afternoon of this otherwise ordinary Thursday into a life-altering tailspin, but the faint sound of sirens floated through the window in the bedroom now. That sound made his father even more irate.

“These fucking cocksuckers never mind their own god damn business in this fucking town!” he shouted as he flung his whole body against the door, finally getting the thick mahogany to give a little. It creaked in protest against the force of his impact. He began stepping forward and kicking the door then, the echo of the blows against it changing subtly, yet distinctly. They became even louder as the bottom of his father’s black Oxford work shoes connected squarely on each kick with the full momentum of his weight behind them.

The sirens were now blaring directly outside as officers pounded on the front door below. His father was putting everything he had into breaching the room now, successfully weakening the hinges at the top of the door. The cracking sound of the wood splintering along the doorframe was unmistakable, and his mother covered Ethan’s left ear with her free hand, pushing the right side of his face into her breast as she screamed in horror.

“I’m going to fucking kill you, and no one is going to stop me, you stupid little bitch!” he roared.

There was the sound of glass breaking downstairs, followed by that of the police screaming as they entered the house.

“Police! Police!” accompanied by the marching of several pairs of heavy boots along the hardwood floor in the hallway directly below them.

“Please help us! Oh god help us! We’re upstairs! I have a little boy!” Doris Abrams screamed through her tears. Ethan could feel her chest heaving beneath his head and the sound of her heart racing was so loud in his ear that it reminded him of the way it would sound through a doctor’s stethoscope.

 “Get out of my fucking house!” his father demanded.

The stairs led to the second-floor landing and directly ahead was his father’s study, followed by Ethan’s room to the left. His parent’s bedroom was around the wall that ran parallel to the staircase and down the hall to the right before the bathroom. Two officers ascended the stairs and hooked a left around the bannister, weapons drawn and trained on Jonathan Abrams.

“Put the knife down and step away from the door! Now!” an officer shouted at him. Ethan could feel his mother shudder under him in an almost convulsive way when she heard this. As they would soon find out, his father had grabbed the big kitchen knife lying in the drying rack before he followed them upstairs.

“Fuck you!” he retorted.

“Drop it, motherfucker!” the second officer ordered.

There was a short pause for a moment and then a disgusted grunt from his father, followed by a war-like bellow that sounded nothing short of maniacal. His father raised the knife over his head and charged at the officers, screaming like a savage, the cords of his neck protruding like cables of a strong bridge. His eyes were wild with hate and his jaw resembled that of a beast more than of a man. Four gunshots rang out quickly through the house, followed by the sound of something heavy, like a bag of sand, falling several feet onto the floor. It was then that Ethan realized how determined his father had been to access that room and harm them as the gunshots had been nearly indistinguishable from his blows against the door. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but his mother must have as she squeezed him so tightly in that moment that he could hardly breathe.

“We have shots fired at 18 Jackson Street. Requesting medical services to the scene now. No officers injured. One suspect has been neutralized.” The officer’s voice floated to them much clearer now that the madness and shouting had subsided.

“10-4. Dispatching medical services now,” a robot-like voice responded from the radio speakers clipped to both of the officers’ shoulders simultaneously.

There was a banging on the door again and his mother, still clutching Ethan to her in a death grip, jumped suddenly at the sound.

“Police! Come out with your hands up!”

“We’re here!” she cried. “Me and my seven-year-old son. I’m bleeding very badly.”

“We have an ambulance on the way, ma’am. Please open the door slowly and come out to me with your hands where I can see them,” he responded much more calmly.

She finally loosened her hold on her son then and whispered into his ear. “It’s alright, Ethan. Everything is going to be alright.”

They made their way out of the closet to the bedroom door, which she opened slowly as instructed and raised her hands above her head. Ethan stood beside her with his good eye opened wide with terror. The drying streaks of tears were still visible down his cheeks and his hands clutched at his mother’s shirt as the door opened.

A uniformed officer was standing as far from the door as possible, his service weapon pointed at them as Doris Abrams opened it. His expression changed instantly as he saw them. A frail woman, half of her face drenched in blood that had started to darken and harden along its path from her right temple almost all the way down to her feet. A little terrified boy, his left eye swollen completely shut, a dark hue of purple steadily approaching black, with his mother’s blood smeared and splotched on his shirt and face. The officer holstered his weapon immediately, ushering them forward with his hands.

“It’s alright now. You’re going to be okay. Come on out,” he said.

His mother staggered forward and then fell onto the officer, draping her arms around his shoulders as she began crying hysterically again. Ethan shuffled his feet forward with her, never letting the cloth of her shirt leave his hand. He was silent now despite the pain in his head and the sounds of his mother’s agony filling the space around him. He watched as the officer hugged his mother gingerly, turning his attention to him then and telling him it’s okay.

“Everything is over now, little man. It’s going to be okay,” he said to him.

His voice drifted to Ethan. It sounded like the words were floating from somewhere distant again, like the glass jar had been placed over his head once more. It wasn’t from a solid hit to the head this time, but rather his inability to cope with the situation and the lack of realism that accompanied the whole thing. Ethan felt like he was watching the world through someone else’s eyes at that moment, and although his bottom lip quivered slightly, he stayed utterly silent. He focused on nothing but clutching at his mother’s shirt.

The officer guided them towards the stairs and as they went, they passed the other officer who was squatting beside the body of Jonathan Abrams. His mother grabbed the officer that had ordered them out of the room and muffled a cry into his shoulder at the sight of her husband’s motionless legs.

“Don’t look. It’s going to be okay,” the officer said as he tried to move them past the gruesome scene more quickly.

Ethan almost lost his footing as the pace quickened in front of him and he was yanked forward by his mother’s movements. As they approached the steps though, he did look. He saw his father lying there, a pool of blood slowly expanding beneath his lifeless body. One of his hands was contorted by his side, reminiscent of the way the hand of the crippled boy in Ethan’s class always was. The second officer made eye contact with him briefly and then dropped his head back down as if too ashamed to acknowledge his gaze. His good eye transfixed on his father’s face then. The unadulterated rage was frozen there. His eyes were wide open still and his mouth was agape in a silent scream. There was still an empty threat in those soulless, hollow eyes and the last image of his father that Ethan ever saw, was that of his face when he had meant to murder him and his mother.

“Fuck!” Ethan shouted as he was jolted out of his dream. His pulse was throbbing in his throat and he could feel his sheets damp with sweat beneath him as they always were when he broke free from the memory that haunted his sleep. He let out a long breath as the present resettled itself around him. He lay there on his back, studying the ceiling above him and allowing his breathing to return to normal as the image of his father’s face began to fade away. He had had this nightmare often as a child in the years after his father had died, but it had recently begun again over the last several weeks. The anniversary of that day was drawing near and with it, the merciless loop of reliving it every time he closed his eyes. The lack of sleep was beginning to interfere with his daily life. He had seen a doctor at the walk-in clinic and was given a prescription for some sleeping pills, but they worked a little too well for Ethan’s taste. He wouldn’t have the dream, but he also wouldn’t wake up for about twelve hours when he took one. He had made plans to visit his friend Eric later today and see if he had something else that might help without turning him into a complete zombie. Eric was a low-level drug dealer on the side, and although Ethan hadn’t seen him for quite some time, he felt confident he would have something that could help him. For now, he decided that five hours was about all he could have hoped for and that being tired would be better than seeing those dead eyes staring back at him again.

He groaned as he swung one leg over the side of the bed and then the other. Hunching over with his elbows resting on his knees, he placed his hands over his face and gently massaged his eyeballs. He grabbed his phone and looked at the time. 9:17 now. Eric wouldn’t be close to being up. Ethan sent him a text message telling him to give him a call when he awoke and placed the phone back on the night table beside him. Standing up and cracking his neck side to side, he made his way to the toilet. He groped for the light switch along the wall, flicked it on and took a piss. After shaking off the last drops, he grabbed the sides of the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. His face looked even more tired than he felt. Large, discolored bags supplanted his eyes, becoming the most notable feature on his otherwise plain face. He noticed he was getting thinner, the skin of his cheeks drawn in the way of a terminally ill person. He ran cold water through the faucet, cupping his hands beneath it and splashing his face. He felt the prickly stubble of his beard course over his palms and knew that he was overdue for a shave, but the prospect of grooming himself felt like more trouble than it was worth. The cold water on his skin zapped some life back into him and he studied his face once more as it trickled its way down his bony chin and dropped into the basin below.

At twenty-eight, Ethan looked quite a bit like his father now. He had been born with his mother’s slender, pointed nose, but the remaining features of his face were all but an exact replica of his paternal inheritance. He had the square jawline that jutted out in a slightly unnatural way from his face and his hair was the same jet-black color his father’s had been. It seemed to have its own innate sheen in the absence of products. His father had been balding by the time his life was cut short, but Ethan still had a full head of hair and for that, he was thankful. The most distinguished thing about his face that he shared with his late father were the eyebrows. They were thick and bushy, almost unruly, requiring regular maintenance to prevent him from looking like a mad scientist in a children’s cartoon. They were fixed above his tired eyes like two woolly bear caterpillars. He had been ridiculed as a teenager for them but figured there were worse things to be bullied over. As he stared at himself, the memory of his father’s face was hard to shake. He cupped more water from the flowing tap and drank it, feeling refreshed as it made its way down his throat. The thrashing and sweating that accompanied his nightmare always left him dehydrated.

Ethan walked back through his room, picking up a pair of undershorts from the floor and holding them to his face to see if they were not yet too ripe to salvage another day from. He was satisfied by the merely faint odor of his manly stench and put them on, losing his balance and nearly doubling over as he snuck his second leg into them. He walked into the kitchen, ignoring the mess of it. The sink was filled almost to the top with dirty dishes. He had to remove a pan caked with pasta sauce from it so that he could fill the coffee pot with water. Ethan religiously started each day with three cups of black liquid energy. He topped off the mountain of carefully measured grounds with a tablespoon of espresso, enjoying the extra bite it added to each sip. As he waited for the coffee machine to brew his lifeforce for the day, he dragged his feet into the living room and snapped on the television. There was an overweight woman wearing a dress about three sizes too small for her on the screen, claiming that her estranged boyfriend had taken her car without permission and totaled it while he was high. As the camera panned out from her face, an equally large man in a wrinkled bright blue button-up shirt was standing behind a podium adjacent to her, looking rather amused and shaking his head in disagreement. Ethan always wondered what the motivation was for people to take their civil lawsuits into a televised courtroom for the entertainment of the public. He imagined that they were willing to take any attention they could get, but he still felt embarrassed on their behalf. Clearly there was no law against exploiting poor and stupid people for ratings. He was just astounded by how many there were to fill the timeslots each day.

He changed the channel, sitting in his underwear with one leg up on the sofa. As he scratched his balls, an elderly woman was claiming to have reinvented a planting pot that would change his life. The magic behind it was that it somehow monitored the condition of whatever plant you put inside it and would alert you on your smartphone if the plant needed to be watered, or if it was too hot or too cold, or if it wasn’t getting enough light. For $30 a pot, Ethan figured a lot of gullible assholes watch television on Saturday mornings. He changed the channel again and the local news came on. There was a large truck overturned on I-80 outside of Elyria. The truck had caused a chain of accidents on the highway and a young mother and her two children had died in the collision. Ethan shook his head, wishing just once he could turn on the news and hear something positive first thing in the morning. He figured there was enough coffee in the pot now to pour himself a cup and he went back to the kitchen. Ethan owned exactly four coffee mugs that had all come in a set he bought at Ikea when he first moved into his apartment. All four of these coffee mugs were dirty and strewn about the sink. He picked up the one that looked least mucky to his naked eye and ran some hot water over it. Taking his fresh cup back to the living room with him and placing it carefully on the glass table that was centered before the sectional, Ethan plopped down in his spot across from the television again.

He reached for the remote and saw that his phone was flashing green. The signal that he had a missed call from someone. When he checked, he saw that it was Eric who had called him exactly two minutes ago. That seemed odd to him, because Eric typically spent every Saturday morning of his life confined to his bed after a night of excessive drinking and partying. He hit the call back option and placed the phone to his ear. It rang a few times before Eric’s jovial, albeit intoxicated, voice came through the other end.

“Ethannnnn! What’s up, man?”

“I’m surprised you’re up. Never thought I’d see the day you became an early riser on the weekend.”

Eric laughed heartily and then said, “Of course I’m up. I’m still up.”

“You haven’t gone to sleep yet?” Ethan asked curiously.

“Nah. Me and my man Mike have been going hard all night. Just went and picked up some more blow so I think that option’s out.” He laughed again.

“Jesus, Eric. You’re going to kill yourself one of these days with that shit.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a big boy, Eth. Anyway, I’m going to be home in a few. You want to come by?” he asked.

“I was planning on later, but I don’t have anything going on so I can do that,” Ethan responded.

“Sounds good, man. See you soon,” Eric said before muttering something unintelligible to another person just as the phone clicked off and the call dropped.

Ethan took a long sip of hot coffee and leaned back on the couch to stretch. He started laughing at the thought of Eric being up all night. Ethan had done cocaine a few times over the years, not coincidentally every time being with Eric, but he never really understood the appeal of it. It made you feel good for a little bit, then made you feel like absolute dog shit for a long time. The only way to beat the latter half was to spend every dollar you had keeping the party going and that made it a habit only a rich man could enjoy. Then again, Eric wasn’t the best decision maker in the world. Once upon a time he had been going to Michigan State on a full-ride scholarship as one of the best college recruit baseball players in the country. Eric never had the best defense out in the field, but he could smoke one out of the park on any given pitch. He was on a roll at the collegiate level too and might have even made his way into a Major League Baseball farming system if he had stayed the course, but his off-field trouble and partying cost him that dream.

One night during the spring semester of his sophomore year at Michigan, he had been arrested after driving a Jeep onto the University’s football field and tearing it up while very drunk and very high on acid. Ethan never really understood how he escaped the financial liability of that fuck-up, but Eric still reveled in telling the story whenever he was in earshot of a woman. Since being kicked out of school for destroying the Spartan’s field, he had been living back at home with his mother and working low-paying jobs that he never held onto for long. Eric didn’t have a strong work ethic and he certainly wasn’t a punctual person. His overall lack of responsibility and prioritization of getting as high and drunk as possible in his free time had caused their relationship to falter over the years. Ethan worked more than full-time most weeks and was attending school part-time. Eric spent most days getting high and lying around his mom’s house. Ethan had set him up with a few jobs when he could, but Eric always ended up quitting abruptly or getting himself fired, so he stopped sticking his neck out for him.

When they were little, they had been inseparable. Their friendship started when they were two little boys in Miss Simmons’ kindergarten class. A few years later, after Ethan’s father was killed and his mother’s emotional and mental health started to deteriorate, Eric’s family took him in so he wouldn’t have to change schools. Eric had been the closest thing to a brother that Ethan ever had and when he thought about it, he supposed he still was. He felt guilty, but he couldn’t spend as much time with him anymore. Ethan had aspiration for his life, and watching Eric go down the path he was on was too difficult for him to bear.

He had tried talking to him about it on several occasions, but Eric isn’t the easiest guy in the world to have a heartfelt conversation with. His quick temper and general lack of caring for anything that doesn’t give him a buzz is far from conducive to an intervention. He had started smoking and drinking when he was fourteen, around the time his father picked up his things and left him and his mother high and dry so that he could start a new family with a woman he had been secretly having an affair with for a number of months. That was a tough year for Ethan. He watched Eric go through a series of rage-induced fits and fall deeper into a dependency on drugs and alcohol over that summer between their last year of junior high and first year of high school. Eric assumed the identity of a cocky jock, flipping his long blonde hair out of his face to swoon the high school girls with his baby blue eyes and bad boy attitude, while letting the foundation of his adulthood erode from lack of attention. As Ethan excelled in his classwork, Eric’s grades slipped, and he began the first of his annual summer school dependent years to graduate on time. When Ethan tried to help him, Eric would ridicule him for caring so much about school and tell him to fuck off. Eric’s mother, Shannon, didn’t have many answers for her son’s problems either as she struggled to keep a roof over their head in her husband’s absence and developed her own issues with alcohol.

The precipice of Eric’s anger and out of control behavior came during their lunch period at school one day their freshman year of high school. He and another boy had gotten into a heated argument over the value of a baseball card Eric was trying to sell so he could buy more drugs. The boy had sneered at him and said, “I guess your dad never told you how much it’s really worth… oh, that’s right.” Eric’s face had turned magenta in a flash as the ooh’s and ah’s and laughter of the other students around them filled the cafeteria. He closed his fist and swung at that boy the way he swung at pitches on the baseball diamond. His feet planted, his hips twisted into it and Eric broke his eye socket without much trouble. He then pounced on him, wrapping his hands around the boy’s throat, screaming in his face “Say it again, fucker! Say it again!” He looked crazed in that moment and when Ethan tried to stop him, Eric shoved him so hard he flew into the table behind him and staggered over it. By the time the teachers were able to loosen Eric’s grip and send him to the principal’s office, the other boy’s lips had started turning blue and he cried hysterically as he gasped for air and clawed at his throat. Ethan had not seen terror like that on a person’s face since he was a little boy, looking up at his mother’s face while they hid inside the tiny closet of his parent’s bedroom.

At that point, Eric had been mandated to attend a special state-sanctioned school for students with behavioral issues. Between the military-style routine of his schooling and his weekly therapy appointments, Eric was able to get his act together just enough to rejoin Ethan at their public high school the following year. He still partied and he still didn’t give a shit about doing well, but he did just enough to skate through his classes, welcoming Ethan’s help on some of his more intensive projects throughout the years. Despite his lackluster GPA, Michigan State couldn’t help but fall in love with Eric’s homerun power and that was really the only chance he ever got to make something of himself. Now he was a deadbeat party boy just shy of thirty with no hope in sight.

Ethan made his way back to his bedroom and grabbed one of the polyester t-shirts hanging in his closet and pulled it over his head. There was a pair of Ralph Lauren shorts crumpled on the floor in the corner and he put them on, yanking at the pantlegs in a futile attempt to rid the myriad wrinkles that spread across them like mountain ranges on a topographic map. Making his way to the bathroom to inspect himself in the mirror once more, he noted that despite coffee’s ability to make him feel more alive, it lacked the magic to make him not look like shit. He splashed himself with more cold water and reached for the hand towel hanging on the wall next to him. He looked at the soiled fabric in his hand, wondered if he had ever washed it since he bought it, then shrugged and used it to pat his face dry. Once he finished getting ready, he checked his pockets to make sure he had the essentials. Running down the mental list of (phone, wallet, car keys) in his head as he fondled the outline of each item through his shorts, he made his way out of the house. He flipped the switch on the coffee machine to the off position on his way by the kitchen, feeling pained at the sight of how much would be going to waste. He really needed to invest in an on-the-go thermos, he thought to himself. As he was standing in the kitchen, he heard the loud and obnoxious melody that signaled breaking news was about to be reported from his television. As annoying as that sound was, he’d be damned if it didn’t grab his attention.

He turned the corner into the living room as a man with a serious face and a mustache that appeared to sprout from his nostrils began filling Ethan in on the breaking development. MASS SHOOTING IN PROGRESS AT KANSAS CITY MALL was printed along the bottom of the screen in large letters as the man spoke.

“We have reports at this time of a mass shooting in progress at Oak Park Mall in the Kansas City area. People are fleeing the scene as police arrive. We will hope to have live footage of the event coming to you soon. Early reports are that multiple gunmen with rifles have entered two separate entrances of the mall and have opened fire on the shoppers there. Please stay tuned as we will be bringing you detailed coverage as we learn more.”

Ethan stared blankly at the television, hearing the words but not reacting to them. This sort of thing had become so frequent that it no longer shocked him, but rather disgusted him. He knew there was going to be plenty of time to hear all about the details later tonight, maybe all week depending on the body count by the end of it. Grabbing the remote and cutting the monotone man with the thick mustache off mid-sentence, he walked to the front door of his apartment. He doublechecked his pockets again, forgetting whether he had passed the initial inspection. When he was satisfied that he had everything, he stepped out into the cool air of a fall Ohio morning.

Eric lived about fifteen minutes from Ethan, and he pulled up to the curb outside of his house a few minutes past 10:30. He looked at it for a moment, noting how nothing had changed about the outward appearance since they were children. It was dirtier, and the lawn was poorly manicured compared to when his dad had been around to care for it, but it was still the same faded yellow color it had always been, and the same pair of white rocking chairs graced the front porch of the home. When they were younger those rocking chairs had seemed inviting in a way, but their filthy exterior and chipping paint made them seem more like haunted house decorations now. Ethan noticed Eric’s decade-and-a-half-old Honda Civic parked in the driveway. His mother’s car wasn’t there. He figured she was probably working an overnight shift at the hospital where she had been a CNA since long before they were born. Ethan got out of his car, closed the door behind him and hit the lock button on his keys twice out of habit until the horn went off signifying that it was protected from theft. He didn’t want any bad guys making off with his cupholder change or the breath mints in his center console.

“No one wants to break into your shit box,” he heard Eric’s voice drift down from the second story window above the porch. His face was concealed behind a black screen and the shadow that the sun was casting across the front of the house, but Ethan could feel his grin all the same.

“You’re one to talk. I can’t believe that hunk of trash still runs the way you drive,” he responded while motioning towards the Honda to his right.

“Door’s open, dickhead. Come on up.” 

Ethan opened the gate that separated the stone walkway to the front door from the sidewalk and stepped through. The hinges squealed dramatically as he pushed it open and then closed it behind him. As he approached the house, he could see the silhouette of Eric’s dog, Daisy, dancing behind the screen door and chirping gleefully.

“Hey Daisy,” he said in his quietest baby voice as he reached for the handle on the door. Daisy hopped up on his thighs, her tail wagging ferociously behind her. She was a pit bull, either eight or nine years old now, Ethan reckoned. Eric had taken her when she was just shy of a year old from a random man he and Ethan encountered while they were vacationing in South Carolina. It was their first road trip and they had made the spontaneous last-minute decision to go for spring break. They were partying on the beach and were pretty drunk by that point, tossing a frisbee back and forth with some other guys they had met earlier in the day. Daisy came running in like a bat out of hell and snatched the frisbee out of midair. Catching a case of the zoomies and refusing to return it, a man had come over hollering at her at the top of his lungs. Ethan couldn’t remember what the man had called her back then, but Daisy dropped that frisbee fast and had gotten low to the ground, her tail receding far between her legs at the sound of his voice. He walked over to her and slapped her hard across the face, from which a high-pitched yelp of pain and fear followed.

Eric kicked that guy’s ass pretty good that day he thought as he stared into her big brown eyes and massaged behind her ears. Besides the way it started, the rest of that situation was comical. Eric was shit-faced in a pair of ridiculous swim trunks he was coaxed into purchasing the day before by a group of cute girls that were hanging out on the boardwalk. They had tiny beach umbrellas, pink flamingos and ice cream cones printed on them, and they were hugging his nuts so tight that Ethan wasn’t even sure he had any. But there he was, storming up the beach towards a middle-aged man in his tiny trunks, screaming while transferring his beer to his left hand so he could deck him with his right. And deck him he did. The guy doubled over on his back and then tried jumping up to tackle Eric, catching a knee straight to his bird beak of a nose. He let out his own high-pitched yelp of agony and Eric stood over him, tossing his beer into the sand and pointing at him. He told the guy that if he was going to hurt an animal, he wasn’t going to keep it. That if he didn’t intend to care for her with love, that he would be happy to do it for him. The guy studied him cautiously for a moment and then told him if he wanted her, he could take her for a hundred dollars.

They had pooled together the cash they had on them and borrowed the remaining ten from one of the guys they had been tossing the frisbee with, who was thoroughly impressed with Eric’s heroics. And that was that. Ethan bent over slightly and kissed her on the top of the head, feeling her tongue frantically trying to reach his face. He heard footsteps upstairs and looked up. Eric was standing at the top of the staircase shirtless, smoking a cigarette and holding a can of beer by his side.

“Alright, Daisy. Let him alone, girl,” he said, chuckling at the sight of her enthusiasm.

“It’s a little early to be drinking, no?” Ethan said to him concerned.

“You don’t come around much for someone so worried about my health,” Eric quipped.

“Yeah, sorry. I’ve been struggling to keep my head above water for a while and I don’t see or talk to people as much as I should.”

Ethan climbed the stairs now and extended his hand to Eric. He stuck the smoldering cigarette into his mouth and grabbed it, pulling Ethan towards him in a half hug that lasted less than a second.

“You look like shit, Eth,” he said to him frankly while staring at his face.

“You do too,” Ethan responded with a half-smile.

He looked at Eric as he said it and noted how his eyes had seemed to sink further into his face since the last time they had seen each other. Dark circles surrounded them, and he was aware he had been up all night, but he looked as though he hadn’t slept in five years. His lips were dry and cracked on his face, the corners of his mouth showing two little spots of dried blood on either side. His nostrils were caked with white residue around the rims and his pupils were rather enlarged. He looked less like a guy who liked to party on the weekends and more like a full-blown crackhead. As he turned slightly to make room for Ethan at the top of the stairs, Ethan noticed a tattoo on his left shoulder. It was a bland tattoo. An isosceles triangle pointing downward, creating a “Y” in the middle where the lines originating from the three points of the triangle intersected. Ethan was curious as to what it meant.

“New ink?”

Eric looked puzzled for a second and then took a glance down at his arm. “Oh, yeah. It really has been awhile since I’ve seen you, huh?”

“At least six months,” Ethan said. “What does it mean?”

Eric had a weird look in his eye when Ethan asked him that. Then he smiled and said, “Ah, it’s nothing. Just one of those pre-drawn tats they had at the shop I went to. Thought it looked cool I guess.”

Ethan had known Eric his whole life and as much of an immature degenerate as he could be, he never struck him as the type of guy who would get a permanent tattoo of something that didn’t mean a great deal to him. He also knew when Eric was lying, and when he told him about it, he knew he was telling him a load of bullshit. He figured maybe he was embarrassed about it or it was something deeply personal and let it go. As he opened his mouth to speak, something clattered to the floor behind the door of Eric’s room down the hall and there was a muffled curse.

“You good, Mike?” Eric said seriously.

“Y-yeah, man. I’m good,” a shaky voice responded through the door.

“We’re coming in in a second, so wrap it up,” Eric said. A twinge of anger mixed into his voice and Ethan watched him curiously. He sucked air through his nose, making a sickly sound as snot accumulated and traveled into his mouth. He made a choking noise and then swallowed, taking a drag of his cigarette afterwards.

“God damn that’s some good shit!”

Ethan forced a laugh. Eric looked at him and punched his arm playfully and then motioned with his head towards his bedroom. They walked up to the door and Eric knocked on it with three dainty taps.

“You can come in,” the squirrely voice said.

Eric opened the door and the pungent scent of hard liquor and stale cigarette smoke hit Ethan in the face instantly. There was a slender white guy in a dark green windbreaker and Levi jeans sitting on Eric’s futon. He appeared to be a few years younger than Ethan and Eric, probably in his early twenties. His skin was very pale, and he had short brown hair, with a cleanly shaven face and glasses. There was a large duffle bag on the floor beside his leg. Eric walked past him and sat in the swivel chair at his desk where his laptop was. The rest of the desk was cluttered with various things, mostly stationary items. The entirety of it was covered in a thin layer of ashes that seemed to be everywhere but the ashtray on the corner, which was filled with old cigarette butts. There were empty liquor bottles and beer cans all over the floor and a half-full bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey atop the desk with its cap missing.

“Mike, Ethan. Ethan, Mike,” he said as he turned away from them and opened the top drawer closest to him and took out a pack of cigarettes.

“Hey,” Ethan said, trying to sound friendly.

“Hey,” Mike responded, but without looking at him.

“You got everything?” Eric said to him without turning. He had shaken the pack of cigarettes over the top of his desk and a plastic bag with a considerable amount of cocaine had dropped out. He picked it up and studied it, flicking it with his finger several times to settle the contents into the bottom of the bag.

“Yeah, I got everything,” Mike said. He was chewing at his lower lip. His eyes were bloodshot, and his pupils were also exceptionally dilated.

“Good. Take that down and put it in the trunk and then go home and rest. I need you to be fresh tomorrow,” Eric said with his back still turned to them. He was pouring cocaine out on the desk now in a pile, being extremely meticulous about it and looking incredibly focused as he worked.

“It’s pretty heavy, but I think I can handle it,” Mike said timidly. His eyes darted to Ethan and then back to his hands, which he was fidgeting together between his knees now.

“You want a couple more lines before you go? I know it’s a bit of walk for you,” Eric said, finally breaking his concentration and looking in their direction.

“Yeah,” Mike said without any hesitation. “Please.”

Eric pulled out his wallet and removed what looked like a gift card from a department store and cut two generously large lines from the pile. There was a piece of a straw lying on the desk, the kind they gave you with thick milkshakes, that was cut down to about four inches in length. Eric picked it up and held it out for Mike. Mike took it from him as he got to his feet and walked to the desk, snorting one of the lines up his left nostril. He exhaled unnaturally with his eyes closed as the sudden euphoria washed over him, then bent down again and snorted the second line through his other nostril. He brushed the back of his hand across the bottom of his nose and sniffed loudly when he was finished.

“Thanks, E,” He said much more surely than Ethan had heard him speak since he arrived.

“No problem, man. Just take that down with you and I’ll give you a call tomorrow morning,” he said.

Mike walked back to the futon and bent down, grabbing the handle straps on the side of the large duffle bag and hoisting it up with his legs. There was a rattling sound in the bag, like metal on metal and then it was silent. He walked past Ethan, still not making eye contact with him, his body weight shifting to one side to compensate for the weight of the bag.

“Nice to meet you,” Ethan said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as suspicious as he felt.

Mike walked out of the room hurriedly without saying anything. When he opened the door to the hallway, Daisy slunk through the crack and trotted in with her tail wagging. Ethan sat down on the futon where Mike had been and Daisy jumped up next to him, placing her head softly in his lap. Scratching the side of her neck with his left hand, he looked at Eric carefully. He had turned toward the desk again as Mike exited the room, preparing two more lines for himself.

“You want one, Eth?” he asked without turning around.

“I’m good, man. Thanks though,” Ethan responded.

Eric laughed and then repeated the same sacrilegious procedure as Mike had done, exhaling emphatically between doing each line. He turned to Ethan when he had finished, licking his finger, and dipping it into the remaining pile of cocaine and then rubbing it on his gums before facing him completely. He regarded Ethan, who was staring at him skeptically, his eyes wired and hyper-alert now.

“What was in that bag he took with him?” Ethan asked cautiously.

“Oh that? Just some tools and supplies for a project we’ve been working on,” he said smoothly, as if he had rehearsed the answer to Ethan’s question ahead of time.

“What project?”

Eric grinned at him arrogantly and plunged his hand in his pocket, removing a pack of Marlboro red label cigarettes and a miniature lime green Bic lighter. He unsheathed a smoke with the tip of his thumb, lifted it to his mouth and grasped it with his lips. He lit the cigarette calmly, not rushing himself to speak. He took a long, exaggerated drag from it and blew the smoke out slowly in a foul-smelling jet stream. Leaning back in his chair, he studied Ethan with his eyes.

“I could tell you that, Eth… but then I’d have to kill you.”

He took another puff of his cigarette, squinting his eyes as the smoke trailed up his face from the burning end. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and Ethan could feel his muscles tense up. Then Eric burst into hysterical laughter.

“The look on your fucking face! Man, that was a good one,” he said, still chuckling to himself madly.

Ethan let his shoulders relax a little bit, smiling at Eric and laughing halfheartedly with him.

“Yeah, you had me for a second there,” he said, wondering to himself if maybe he had been a little paranoid about the whole situation. Whatever was in that bag was probably harmless, or harmless enough, he thought. He shook his head in disbelief at himself and started to feel a little better.

“I actually wanted to ask you something, Eric,” he said and looked at his feet.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve been having that dream again lately. For weeks. The one where my dad’s face is looking at me. I tried sleeping pills, but they knock me out for way too long. Do you know if anything would help? Not sleeping is killing me, man.”

Ethan picked his head up to look at Eric when he finished speaking. Now the smile faded from Eric’s face as he took another drag of his cigarette and then pressed it into the ashtray on the desk, leaving it still partially smoldering and trailing thin streams of smoke. He became serious, a stern look blooming over his face.

“How many times have I told you to try smoking weed for this, Ethan?”

Hearing Eric use his full name while addressing him was strange. He looked at him and smirked.

 “How many times have I told you I don’t like weed, Eric? It makes me anxious.”

Eric grinned again and nodded his head up and down, thinking to himself. He looked across the room past Ethan at the dresser near the foot of his bed. He raised his arm and pointed at it.

“Second drawer down and to the right. I have some pills I don’t take anymore that might help you,” he said, turning back to his desk and his tiny mountain of cocaine. He flipped his laptop open and turned it on.

Ethan patted Daisy’s side and moved her head off his lap as he stood up. He walked over to the dresser and pulled the knob on the second drawer. It began to open and then snagged onto the drawer below it, partially opening it as well. Ethan looked to the right side in the drawer, seeing nothing but a long sleeve shirt folded there. He stuck his hand inside and felt the pill bottle hidden underneath the shirt and pulled it out. It was filled with large white tablets. He spun the bottle in his hand, and studied the label printed on it.

“What’s Seroquel?” he asked without taking his eyes off the bottle.

Eric was typing on his laptop and he looked up at Ethan for a moment and then lowered his head again.

“My therapist gave them to me. They’re supposed to help level me out or something, but they make me tired and I only take them sometimes when I’m coming down off a coke bender. You can take them.”

Ethan continued looking at the pill bottle in his hand as he pushed the dresser drawer closed. The drawer below it stayed open a crack and he had to bend down to close it. As he did, he noticed the black grip of a handgun in the corner of the drawer and his blood ran cold. He pushed it closed and turned around quickly. Eric was still occupied with his computer, typing rapidly in his coke-fueled stupor. Ethan felt his heart start pounding in his chest like a triphammer. His mind raced to the duffle bag that was on the floor and the way Mike had been fidgeting the whole time before he left. He thought about the clattering he heard before they came in the room, and the metal-on-metal sound the bag had made when Mike took it with him.

Ethan’s heartrate elevated further as he started to feel as though something awful was going on. He stuck the pill bottle in his pocket before turning and walking back slowly to the futon where Daisy was still lying on her side. He stared at the back of Eric’s head as he continued typing rapidly, seemingly enveloped in writing a novel. Trying to calm his breathing and summon the courage to speak, Ethan stroked the top of Daisy’s head softly and deliberately. After a few moments, he finally felt in control of himself again and inquired about Eric’s rampant typing.

“What are you working on?” he said as casually as he could muster. 

Eric stopped typing immediately and turned to face him, a sneer across his mouth and a piercing sharpness in his eyes.

“You’re a really nosey motherfucker, Eth. You came here to ask me for my help, and I helped, didn’t I? Are you staying just to pry into my business now?”

Ethan felt the side of his neck twitch involuntarily as his body began to tense up again.

“Sorry, I was just trying to make conversation,” he said feebly.

Eric’s face softened then, and he turned slightly to his left to close his laptop and then back to look at Ethan. He regarded him for a moment in a studious sort of way before he spoke. Watching Daisy fall asleep next to him as he lovingly stroked her head. He clasped his hands together between his legs and lowered his eyes to the floor and then said, “I need you to do something for me too, Eth.” He looked back up at him now, making direct eye contact as he did.

“Um, yeah… sure. What is it?” Ethan asked him nervously.

“I need you to take Daisy with you when you leave today,” Eric replied somberly.

“What do you mean? Why?” The alarm in his voice was no longer concealed.

Eric chewed at his bottom lip with force and seemed visibly unsettled as he thought of how to answer the question. He opened his mouth for a moment, exposing a bright red bead of fresh blood starting to emerge from his inner lip, paused, then closed it again and looked back down at the floor.

“Eric, what is going on? You’re really starting to scare me, man,” Ethan said with legitimate concern.

“I know. I can smell the fear on you,” Eric replied softly.

Ethan ignored how disturbing and creepy that response was and instead chose to push forward on his quest for clarity.

“Well?”

“I’m… I’m not going to be able to care for her anymore and she loves you the most and I know you love her too,” Eric said without raising his head.

“You can’t care for her anymore?” Ethan said in shock. There were very few things in life Eric had shown considerable love and attention to in all the years Ethan had known him, but Daisy was one of them. In fact, she was probably the biggest commitment Eric had ever made and followed through on. She was, in a way, the most important thing in life to him.

“No, I can’t. And you’re the only person I would trust to care for her in my absence. Will you please do this for me?” He said it in a way that almost sounded desperate but had an underlying tone of impatience to it.

“You mean permanently? I can’t even have a pet at my apartment, Eric. You know that.”

“I know, I know. But you’ll find a way, Eth. I know you will. There’s really no one else I can ask. Please? I’m begging you.”

“Eric, are you in trouble or something? I don’t understand what the fuck is going on and everything has seemed off here since I showed up. Please talk to me,” Ethan pleaded with him.

Eric raised his head and a little grin reappeared across his face, though it was void of any humor or genuine happiness. He looked as though he was emotionally vacant, trying to find the words to arouse Ethan’s cooperation without explaining anything more to him than he deemed necessary. He looked utterly checked out from reality and Ethan had to fight the urge to jump up, grab him by the shoulders and shake him violently. He didn’t like any of this, but he had no idea what to do about it. He felt helpless, and as he started thinking about what he was going to say next, Eric broke the silence first.

“I’m not in trouble. I just have something I need to do, and I won’t be coming back after I do it,” he said. He took a breath, exhaled in a deep sigh the way a man who pities himself would do, then continued.

“I know we haven’t been as close lately and we both drifted apart from each other over the years, but you’re still the best friend I’ve ever had. The best friend I ever will have. I know I’m asking you to take on a lot of responsibility that you don’t need on your plate right now, but I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option.” He looked at Ethan to read his facial expression, trying to identify any indication of surrender.

Ethan was still stroking Daisy’s head and he looked down at her then, almost feeling envious at how peaceful she was despite the tension emanating all around her. He looked back at Eric and his shoulders slumped in defeat, knowing he couldn’t say no. Not because he felt like he had an obligation to Eric, but because he knew he couldn’t live with being the one to send Daisy into a life of displacement and unfamiliarity. Possibly even death.

“Fine. I’ll do it,” he said reluctantly. “But what are you doing and where are you going? You owe me those answers at least.”

Eric’s face turned to stone at that, almost resembling the way soldiers look as they stand at attention awaiting orders. His eyes, with their giant pupils, seemed to be a portal into some vast darkness that contained an evil Ethan never recalled seeing there before. It made the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand straight up. The image of his father’s face frozen in his murderous rage popped into his head and he shut his eyes tightly to ward it off.

“I’m going hunting,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Hunting?” Ethan echoed immediately like a confused parrot as his eyes popped back open again. Eric was many things, but a hunter was not one of them. None of this seemed to make sense to him and it was almost dizzying trying to process the way the day was unfolding.

“I’m going hunting,” Eric repeated.

“Hunting for what? Is that what that gun in your dresser drawer is for?” Ethan asked him timidly.

Eric was already about as pale of a white guy as you could find, but he turned paper white when he heard that. He snapped his head left in the direction of the dresser and little droplets of sweat started to appear across his forehead.

“Motherfucker,” he whispered under his breath.

He turned back to Ethan and closed his eyes in a Zen-like way, taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly before opening them again and digging the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He pulled one out, lit it, then took a puff and started chuckling to himself while shaking his head side to side.

“It is so hard to find good help these days,” he said to no one in particular.

Ethan didn’t require any clarification on that. He knew he was referring to the squirrely little nervous kid he had met briefly just a short time ago. Mike. He knew that gun was supposed to be in that big duffle bag he had carried out of the room with him when he left. He stared at Eric sitting there smoking his cigarette and felt the pallor of his own face setting in as waves of nausea washed over him. His anxiety climbed to new heights by the millisecond as he sat in utter stillness. His mind started whirling in all directions and it felt like the sound of a freight train screeching to a sudden halt was coursing through his veins.

MASS SHOOTING IN PROGRESS AT KANSAS CITY MALL flashed across his mind’s eye a hundred times.

“What are you going to do, Eric?” He was barely able to find the air to get it out, his lungs filling with each breath but seemingly not absorbing the oxygen.

Eric seemed to forget he was there as he pondered to himself and looked surprised at first when he heard his voice. He sat up straighter, leaning back in his swivel chair and looking smug, if not chipper. His body language exuded an arrogance that had been previously absent. Almost as if to communicate the charade was over, but that it didn’t matter. That he viewed Ethan as non-threatening, even as he had become more aware of his intentions. That Ethan was powerless compared to him. That he thought himself somewhat of a god among men.

“If you must know, I’m hunting for the truth. For generations, the vast amount of society has walked around ignorantly blind to the fact that filth has crept into and infiltrated the highest levels of power in this country. Quietly seeking to undo the natural order of things as the citizen-slaves generate their profits for them. Too distracted with their material things and individual wants to see what is happening. It is up to those of us who can see through their bullshit and tyranny to pull the curtain back and expose their vile affronts. We must restore order, Ethan.” His eyes gleamed as he spoke, the way a proud father would look as he reveled in the story of his son’s first homerun or his daughter’s first appearance on the school honor roll.

Ethan squirmed in his seat, opened his mouth to talk, but Eric put his finger to his lips in a shush gesture and Ethan followed the instruction swiftly.

“We have nothing left to talk about. You already know too much, but it won’t make a difference either way. Daisy’s food and bowls are on the kitchen table and her bed and toys are in the living room. You’re a good man, Eth. Don’t ever change.” Eric said this so casually to him that Ethan remained speechless. He just stared at him with wide eyes.

There was an awkward silence between them now which made the seconds feel like minutes. He stopped petting Daisy and just looked at Eric’s face, which didn’t tell him much as it was frozen in a deadpan state, his eyes staring back at him without so much as blinking.

“It’s time for you to go now,” he said, finally.

Ethan knew it wasn’t a suggestion and he stood up slowly, trying to feel his legs beneath him as his face started tingling and the sensation of possibly fainting overcame him. He took a step toward the door and Daisy raised her head. Ethan looked at her and then at Eric, who still hadn’t moved. Then he patted his leg and she jumped down quickly and happily led the way out of the room. He turned to walk out and then paused for a moment in the doorway, speaking without turning around.

“Please don’t do this, Eric,” he said in a way that lacked any confidence at all.

Eric continued sitting in silence for a moment and then responded without looking his way.

“It’s bigger than me, Ethan. It’s bigger than all of us.”

Ethan felt his heart sink in his chest, and he took a step out of the room and then stopped as Eric said his name again.

“Oh… and Ethan.”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to feel too bad about ratting me out. I know you have to try, but they’re not going to be able to stop me. I don’t want you to live the rest of your life thinking you could have changed anything.”

Ethan picked up his pace, quickly descending the stairs and grabbing Daisy’s leash off the end of the bannister. He affixed it to her collar and started out the door but stopped and ran into the living room to grab one of her toys first. He would worry about the other things later. She galloped alongside him to the car, her tail wagging frantically behind her once more as she jumped into the backseat of his Jetta with little convincing. He circled the car and hopped in the driver’s seat, key already in hand, and had the car rolling away within three seconds, foregoing his usual habit of fastening his seatbelt and checking for oncoming traffic. He sped off down Eric’s street, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel with crushing force. He blew by the stop sign at the intersection and a commuter came to an abrupt stop and swerved slightly out his way to avoid a collision while laying down on their horn. Ethan didn’t even register what had happened until he was halfway down the next block. He did stop at the next intersection, his heartbeat thudding through his head as his face started to take on the fuzzy feeling that used to accompany his panic attacks as a teenager.

He pulled the car over to the side of the road, threw it in park and punched his steering wheel hard multiple times until the flesh tore loose on his knuckles and a dark red stream began flowing from them. He was crying now, and Daisy poked her head over his shoulder and gently licked his cheek. He pulled her face close to his and squeezed tightly as he tried to compose himself. After a few minutes, he was able to breathe easier and he fished his cellphone out of his pocket. His hands were shaking erratically as he unlocked it and scrolled through his contacts. The first call he made was to Eric’s mother, but it went straight to voicemail.

“Shannon, it’s Ethan. Call me back as soon as you get this… it’s urgent,” he managed to say through trembling lips before ending the call.

He squeezed the phone in his hands and tapped it gingerly against his temple as he tried to prepare for the next call he had to make. Knowing that every second was too precious to waste, he dialed 911 and waited for the operator to pick up.

“911, what is your emergency?” A soothing voice said from the other end of the line. It sounded to Ethan like an attractive young woman, which felt void of logic to him, but he imagined an exceptionally pleasant face anyway.

 “I need to report a threat,” Ethan replied weakly.

“What kind of threat, sir? Are you in danger?”

“No. I… my friend… I think he’s planning to hurt people.”

“Okay, sir. Can you explain the situation to me? Is there an active threat where you are?”

“No, I just left his house. Something wasn’t right. There was another man there when I arrived, and he left with a big duffle bag and then I saw a handgun in his room, and he was talking like… really crazy. I can’t explain it. I just… I think he’s going to shoot something up,” Ethan said. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, frustrated that he couldn’t find the words to convey how imminent the situation was.

“Okay. Where are you now, sir?” she replied with genuine concern and curt professionalism.

“I just pulled over on the side of the road a few streets from his house. I had to get out of there and I don’t know what to do. I was on my way home, but this couldn’t wait.”

“Okay. Where does your friend live and what is his name?”

“Eric. Eric Davis. You have to get to him before he slips away. It sounded like whatever he has planned is happening soon.”

“Okay, sir. Can you tell me Eric’s address? We will send officers there right away. We will send officers to speak to you as well.”

Ethan gave her Eric’s address as well as his own and pleaded with her to be quick again before hanging up the phone. He let out a long breath as he sunk into his seat, feeling like the weight of the world was being lifted off his shoulders a little. He looked at Daisy and told her it was going to be alright, but he was really saying it for his own benefit. He put the car in drive again and started off down the street towards home to meet with the police.

When he arrived at his apartment complex about fifteen minutes later, there was a police cruiser already parked outside of his building, adding to his reassurances. He pulled up to one of the spots near them and lowered the rear window a few inches for Daisy before stepping out of the car. Ethan walked towards the cruiser and saw two cops, an older white man who looked as though he hadn’t passed a physical in about a decade and a Hispanic woman, who appeared much younger than her partner, but also much more rugged. He waved at the officers and they exited their vehicle.

“Are you Ethan Abrams?” the male officer said while gripping the sides of his belt like a sheriff in an old western movie.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said with a forced smile and extended his hand to them.

The officer reached for Ethan’s hand and then noticed the blood covering the back of it that had partially seeped between his fingers.

“What happened there, son?” he asked while retracting his hand.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. I had a bit of an episode in the car. Before I called you guys. I didn’t realize I had cut myself,” Ethan replied, now visibly embarrassed.

The officers introduced themselves as Hanson and Garcia. Daisy whined in a high-pitch squeal and let out a few chirping barks from the backseat of the car as they spoke to Ethan. Officer Garcia looked at her and smiled as Daisy tried to fit her oversized head through the tiny crack in the window and was thrashing her butt around behind her in excitement.

“Who is this?” she said kindly while approaching the car and offering the back of her hand for Daisy to sniff, but she instead tried to lap at it with her giant tongue.

“Daisy. That’s Eric’s dog… my friend that I called about. He told me to take her with me.” The last sentence came out through a lump in his throat and his eyes lowered toward the ground.

“Do you want to do this out here or would you rather go inside to talk?” officer Hanson asked him, motioning with his head towards a window above them from which one of Ethan’s neighbors was peeking out behind the blinds at them.

“We can go inside, just let me get her out of the car.”

Ethan walked around to the other side and grabbed Daisy’s leash as she made a mad dash from the backseat, with her stuffed bunny which at some point had forcefully lost an ear, firmly in the grasp of her jaws. She nearly pulled his arm out of its socket trying to jump up on the officers to say hi, but he was able to wrangle her in and bring her to the door. Once they got inside his apartment, he offered the officers a seat on his couch, which they declined, and put Daisy in his room. He closed the door behind him, which she immediately began protesting from the other side of. 

He returned to the living room and slumped onto the corner of the couch and the police began questioning him in a rudimentary sort of way. They asked him to recount his visit with Eric and he told them about how he looked sick and cracked out. He told them about the heavy drug and alcohol use he witnessed and about the little nervous wreck of a man named Mike that had been there when he arrived. He told them about the bag that had looked overburdening with its weight and rattled when it was taken out of the room and the handgun that had been in Eric’s dresser drawer. He explained that he had not seen Eric in a considerable amount of time and that something had seemed distinctly different about him since they had last hung out. He told them about the vacancy in his eyes and the things he was saying about undoing the natural order of things and going “hunting”. He told them everything he could remember about the encounter, except the part about him being there to get drugs from Eric. Ethan looked at their faces while he spoke and noted that their seriousness, which made him feel good, was also mixed with an element of confusion as well.

“Did he name any locations or make a specific threat on a person or place?” Officer Garcia asked.

“No. He just said I wasn’t going to be able to stop him and that he was going hunting.”

“Did you notice anything while you were in the home that might indicate any violence that had taken place or give us an idea of what he might be planning?” Officer Hanson asked this time.

“No,” Ethan said again.

“Do you know if Eric has a pistol permit or if there’s any documented reason, aside from the drug use, that he wouldn’t be legally allowed to possess one?” he followed up.

“I don’t know,” Ethan said shortly this time. All the hope he had had after reporting Eric to the police was beginning to evaporate as the line of questioning continued. He was getting a pretty clear idea of where this was heading, and that place was nowhere.

“I understand your concern, Mr. Abrams. I assure you that we are treating this as a credible threat to the public, but we do have to ascertain all of the information so that we can act effectively,” Officer Hanson said to him as he rehearsed his script for telling people they were shit-out-of-luck in cop talk, courtesy of the academy.

Ethan was opening his mouth to quip back at him with something smart, but a cellphone started ringing in Officer Hanson’s pocket and he pulled it out, looked at it and held a finger up at him before he had the chance. Officer Hanson took a few steps away from them toward the door and appeared to be listening intently.

“Nothing suspicious on the premises either?” he asked.

He nodded his head up and down as he listened again and then said, “Alright, copy that. Thanks for the update, Chip.” He then hung up and put the phone back in his pocket.

“That was one of our officers that went to your buddy’s house. They knocked on the door for a while, but it sounds like no one is home. No vehicles are parked in the drive and they couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary through the windows or around the house that would have given them probable cause to enter. One of his neighbors said she saw two young men leave close together, both speeding off in opposite directions. They did get a description of his vehicle and they are trying to locate it now,” he said, but without much hope. Not even of the artificially manufactured variety.

“You need to send a manhunt after him,” Ethan declared authoritatively. “He said he needed Mike to be ‘fresh’ for tomorrow morning. It’s happening tomorrow.”

“Look, son,” Officer Hanson began to say when Ethan cut him off.

“My name is Ethan.”      

“Ethan,” he corrected himself with discernible annoyance on his face. “I really do believe that your friend is intending to do something terrible and that we need to catch him, but the Chief of Police isn’t going to sanction off a city-wide manhunt based on what we’ve got here. It would help if we could search the house for clues, but we have rules to follow and I’m going to need more than a guy who owns a gun was sniffing coke, speaking cryptically and sent his best friend home with his dog to get a judge to sign a warrant to go turn his place upside down. The best thing we can do is try to locate his car and bring him in for questioning. Which, by the state he was in according to you, shouldn’t be difficult if we catch him behind the wheel. We are going to look for him.” He looked Ethan in the eye as he finished speaking and Ethan could see he meant what he said.

“Alright,” Ethan replied reluctantly. He knew there wasn’t much use in arguing with a cop who already thinks he’s John McClane. He also knew that this wasn’t going to be sufficient. Overcome with a strange mixture of contempt for their ineptitude and the fact that if not for a police officer, he probably wouldn’t be alive today to be pissed off at one, he conceded on the issue.

“Would you like to give me your cellphone number? I probably can’t offer much in the way of details on an active investigation, but I can notify you if we locate Eric. It would be helpful if we need to follow up with you, also,” Officer Garcia chimed in. She looked at him as though she was guilty of something and he sensed that they both believed him, but that they didn’t have the pull to persuade the necessary action from the right people.

After he exchanged numbers, Officer Hanson and Garcia left his apartment. Ethan shut the door harder than he intended to behind them and flipped the lock over immediately. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the cool metal with his hands flat against the door. He was scared and exhausted and just as he was about to scream on his own accord, Daisy barked loudly from his room and forced it out of him prematurely.

“Jesus Christ!” he shouted as he nearly jumped out of his skin. He put his hand over his heart and then started laughing at himself on his way to the bedroom door. As soon as the door opened, Daisy pounced on him, barraging him with kisses and affection. He closed his mouth tightly to avoid an unpleasant situation while ruffling her ears around and patting her sides. It didn’t register in the moment, but this was the happiest Ethan had been in a long time. It was going to be the happiest he would be for a much longer time too. He just didn’t know it yet.

Ethan got up off the floor and made his way into the kitchen. He opened his fridge and surveyed the contents, hoping to find something that would be suitable for both him and his new roommate. Grabbing the remnants of some about-to-be-expired cold cuts and sliced cheese, as well as a less than half-filled bag of stale pretzels, he made his way to the living room and onto the couch. He pulled two pieces of ham out and tossed one to Daisy, which she inhaled so fast it looked like an optical illusion. He stuck the other piece in his mouth and reached for the remote, clicking the television on.

There was still a large graphic in the bottom left corner of the screen declaring breaking news. The anchor with the thick mustache had been replaced by a younger woman with curly blonde hair and spectacularly green eyes. Her face was solemn as she began to speak.

“There are at least fifty-two people dead and thirty-four people injured after what appear to be militant-style terrorists opened fire on shoppers at a Kansas City Mall. We are hearing that four gunmen in full tactical gear with assault rifles and handguns entered the mall through two separate entrances at approximately 10:15 this morning. One witness has told our crew on the ground that the shooting started coming from two directions within the mall, forcing a large crowd of people attempting to flee into the open food court area in the center of the structure where these gunmen unloaded what is believed to be over a thousand rounds of ammunition on their victims and the police. Multiple explosions were heard when police first arrived on the scene and our initial reports are that some sort of IEDs were involved and that several officers are among the dead and wounded. At this time, we are told that all four gunmen have been killed and that the situation is now under control.”

Ethan sat there emotionless as he listened to her describe the events to him. His mind was overloaded by the magnitude of his reality. Eric’s face as he sneered at him from his chair invaded his thoughts and he knew it was the face of a demented man. One capable of doing something as heinous and evil as what he was watching from the sofa in his living room right now. It was unthinkable to him that someone could see such little value in the life of another human being. Or none at all, he supposed. But there was no choice but to think about it now. The news anchor continued talking as images of the mall showing utter carnage and devastation were being rotated across the screen. Broken glass and shell casings littered the floor. There was blood spatter visible everywhere and a thick smoke hanging in the air. Some of the photographs were intentionally blurry, concealing the identities of the dead and sparing the viewership of the mental trauma that would accompany any detailed glimpse of them. A man of Mexican descent appeared on the screen now, his eyes watering profusely while his whole body was shaking, and his left arm was hanging awkwardly by his side.

“It was a massacre,” he said as tears began to fall freely down his face.

“I can see you’re extremely distressed, but you weren’t shot. You appear to be injured though,” a reporter holding a microphone said to the man. They were standing in a parking lot across the street with the mall in the background.

“I wasn’t shot. It was just absolute mayhem in there. I think I broke my arm when I fell trying to get away. People were pushing each other and jumping over things looking for anything they could find to hide behind. I was just trying to get away. I didn’t want to die.”

The view changed back to the female news anchor in the studio and she promised more pain and sadness after a brief consumerist grooming session. Ethan felt his stomach tighten as he struggled to fight off the desire to vomit. His heartrate had a quickness to it as the anxiety settled back in, nestling itself into its dwelling place within his mind. He grabbed his phone and called Eric’s mother again. Straight to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message this time.

Hunger was the last thing on his mind, but he forced himself to split the last of the deli meat and cheese with Daisy. A few commercials for unbelievably low rates on car insurance and breathable jockeys shared the spotlight before the news came back on and announced that the Chief of Police and Mayor of Kansas City were holding a press conference. Ethan scooped a handful of pretzels and turned the volume up.

The Mayor came out first, ascending the little steps of a platform that held a lone podium adorned with multiple microphones. His face was noticeably pale in the well-lit room of city hall. The tie around his neck was sloppily fastened and too loose, revealing a patch of his impeccably white shirt between his collar and chin. His hair was unkempt atop his oddly square-shaped head and his glasses amplified the size of his eyes to the point that they looked disproportionate to the rest of his features. Ethan had never seen a mayor of a city that looked like his life was in total shambles before and it made him consider if maybe holding a public office was in his future. He made his way to the podium and dropped his head for a moment, clearing his throat before beginning to address the crowd of news cameras and presumably, the millions of people watching around the country and the world.

“We have suffered a great tragedy here today,” he started. “The people of Kansas City are mourning the loss of a great many individuals after an unspeakable act of terror and violence occurred at the Oak Park Mall. The investigation is in early stages and I do not have much that I can share with you in the way of specifics, other than that I understand that at least fifty people have lost their lives today in this despicable deed inflicted upon our community. I wanted to hold this press briefing immediately to let the residents of Kansas City know that the police have this situation under control and that there is no suspected ongoing threat to the public at this time. I will now hand the podium over to Police Chief Alan Swartz.”

The Mayor exited the stage in a hurry as an older bald man with a bulging midsection concealed within his decorated uniform stepped up to the microphones. His beard was stubbly, and his face looked hardened, as though he had seen some real action in his heyday. The skin of his face looked like leather to Ethan through the television. A combination of wear and tear from decades in the sun and a steady drinking problem all the while. He stared around the room for a moment, allowing the incessant clicking of cameras to fill the silence. Straightening himself and tugging at the front of his jacket, he finally spoke.

“What has taken place here today is an act of pure evil. Many lives have been lost, and our city will never be the same. I am beyond proud of the Kansas City Police Department and their efforts in saving as many lives as possible and engaging with these terrorists head-on. I have been told that five officers are among the dead and another three are fighting for their lives right now at St. Luke’s. We ask that everyone keep them and their families in your prayers tonight.”

His eyes shifted around the room again as the sound of a thousand cameras going off at once flooded the audio. Ethan noticed that despite the occasion and the fact that this press conference was impromptu in nature, the Chief of Police did not seem emotional or distressed whatsoever. He seemed incredibly calm and deliberate under the circumstances. It made Ethan feel uneasy watching how businesslike he was managing to treat the situation.

“I am told that our brave officers have killed all four of the gunmen involved in this heinous crime. They acted swiftly and with the utmost bravery to commandeer the situation and their heroics will never be forgotten. I want to assure the great residents of Kansas City that we have full control of this situation and that there is no further danger posed to the public in relation to this attack. There is no known association with any established terrorist organization. I ask that you all remain vigilant and report any suspicious or concerning behavior to the police right away. We will find any and all additional persons responsible for the events that occurred today and bring them to justice. We will restore order.”

The last sentence hit Ethan off guard and a pretzel fell from his lips onto the floor as his mouth dropped open and Daisy raced between his legs to eat it. We willrestore order. We must restore order, Ethan. The words were nearly identical to the ones Eric had spoken to him just a few hours earlier. Spoken with the same conviction. The same… intention. Ferocity. Ethan stared into the television, watching the man’s face as he stood there. Nothing had changed, but there was something menacing about him now. It was nearly imperceptible, but it was there. He could sense it. There was a darkness befalling his face and Ethan knew that if not for the bright lights in the room reflecting back off his corneas, that evil vacancy would be in his eyes. Like black holes leading into the depths of madness. His eyes continued to bounce around the room beneath his furrowed brow as reporters began asking questions. Most of them were expected and currently incapable of being answered. Who? Why? Were the guns legal? The usual politics of mass shootings in America.

After about five minutes of Chief Swartz dancing around the basics, a small female reporter towards the back of the room stood up and projected her voice clearly through the circus act performing around her.

“Do you know if there is any legitimacy to initial reports that each of these men had identical markings on them, sir? A tattoo of some kind. I’m told that it is called the Dragon’s Eye,” she said.

Chief Swartz regarded her in an unhappy way, seemingly unamused by the question. “I cannot answer that at this time,” he responded plainly. “I ask that you all, as reporters, use your best judgement to decipher fact from fiction regarding this tragic event as our investigators do their jobs. Speculation of this sort could inflame the situation and create undue stress and anxiety for our already shaken community. I doubt that information was obtained by any credible source and it is imperative at this time that we do not allow our imaginations to run wild.”

The woman began speaking again and sounded as though she was about to add an element of authenticity to the claim, but the Chief held his hand up abruptly in a dismissive gesture at her. “As you can all imagine I have a lot of work to attend to right now. Kansas City PD will keep you all informed on any and all further developments regarding this situation. Take care and thank you for being here,” he finished and then walked off the stage as reporters began shouting over each other and the flurry of cameras shuttering and flashing took over once again. The view switched from the press conference back to the news anchor in the studio who added a less than insightful recap of the event before announcing that surveillance footage of the attack was obtained by their network.

“What we’re about to show you is extremely graphic and disturbing. Viewer discretion is advised,” she said instructively. Ethan grabbed the remote and snapped the television off before the video started. His discretion told him that he couldn’t handle seeing it. He sat there for a moment, thinking to himself. His thoughts were whirling around within his skull at a hundred miles an hour again and he wished he could turn them off for just a minute or two, but any form of respite seemed like wishful thinking. As he sat there, the female reporter’s voice kept popping into his head over and over again. The Dragon’s Eye.

Grabbing his phone and opening up his internet browser, he typed the words into Google and hit the search button. Links for actual dragons and fantasy novels dominated the results at first. He clicked on the images tab and sifted through pictures of the mythical beasts and nerdy games, figurines, and other unrelated things he wasn’t interested in. After what felt like a considerable amount of time, a picture flashed through his screen quickly with the pace of his scrolling and his heart stopped. He pulled the page back down slowly with his thumb and his eyes grew larger as he steadied the screen on the picture that had stricken him with a sudden dread. There he saw, depicted on his phone, an upside-down isosceles triangle with lines extending from each of its points intersecting in the middle of it, creating a “Y”. It was the exact same thing as the tattoo that was on Eric’s shoulder.

Ethan could feel his stomach turning as he hesitantly clicked on the picture and was redirected to a webpage that contained a more thorough description of the symbol. “The Dragon’s eye,” it began, “is an ancient Germanic symbol. An isosceles or equilateral triangle pointing downward, with a ‘Y’ in the middle connecting the three points of the triangle together. It combines the triangle meaning ‘threat’ and the ‘Y’ meaning a choice between good and evil.” He held his phone in his hand, not realizing that his arm was trembling involuntarily now. If the terrorists in Kansas City all had that tattoo on them and Eric did too, he thought… the phone dropped out of his hand and fell to the floor as he sprinted to his bathroom. He vomited all the meat, cheese, and pretzels he had just eaten into the toilet, the bile from his stomach stinging the back of his throat as he did. There were several more painful dry heaves, the violent retching of which made his spine feel as though it were trying to break through the skin of his back. When the sickness subsided, he spit into the bowl and flushed it, picking himself up shakily while wiping his mouth with his forearm.

Ethan walked back to the living room slowly, feeling weak and disoriented. He picked his phone up and looked at the picture again, which vindicated all the fear and angst he had felt throughout the day beginning in Eric’s bedroom that morning. He pulled up the contact he had saved for officer Garcia before she and officer Hanson had departed earlier and allowed his finger to hover above the call button for a moment before eventually committing. It only rang twice before she answered.

“Ethan?” she said with a little twinge of surprise in her voice.

He said nothing. The shock of his new discovery was still holding a firm grip on him.

“Ethan? Is everything alright?” she said more sharply this time and it snapped him out of it.

“Yeah… I mean, no,” he said confusedly.

“What’s up?”

“Did you hear about the shooting in Kansas City today?”

“Yeah, it’s awful. Why?” she responded curiously.

“The police chief just held a press conference and one of the reporters asked about tattoos on the shooters and she called it ‘the Dragon’s Eye.’ I looked it up and Eric had that same tattoo on his left shoulder when I saw him. I asked about it, but he lied to me and said it was just some pre-drawn thing he got at a shop one night,” he said dully.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” officer Garcia said quietly. “You think he’s connected to what happened today?”

“I don’t know,” Ethan said, closing his eyes tightly as he did. He did know. He just didn’t want to accept it.

“Alright. Well, that sounds a little farfetched to be coincidence to me. I was actually going to call you soon. We found his car.”

“But not him?” Ethan asked, already knowing the answer.

“No. He left a note for us on the driver’s seat.”

Ethan felt the hair on his arms and the nape of his neck stand up again as gooseflesh spread over his body.

“What did it say?”

She hesitated for a moment before answering him.

 “It said, ‘Too late.’” There was a brief pause and then she added, “’Society had their chance.’”

Ethan’s heart sank again, but further this time. Seemingly dropping out from the safety of his ribcage and through a trap door to where his intestines should be. The rest of the conversation between them was awkward and unproductive. Officer Garcia tried to reassure him that they could still catch Eric before he was able to hurt anyone, but it was an unsuccessful attempt at consolation. The tension was tangible and both of them knew deep down that Eric had the ball in his court now. Whatever the police could do was almost guaranteed to be reactionary as opposed to proactive or preventative.

“So, what now?” Ethan asked for no reason other than that he had nothing else to say.

“We wait,” officer Garcia replied. “We’re going to keep looking for him all night, Ethan. There is still hope.” She said it, but the doubt she had in her own words was evident in her voice.

“Yeah. I hope you find him,” Ethan said unconvincingly and then hung up the phone.

He sat there staring at his palms in his lap for a long time, transfixed on nothing in particular. Reliving the day in his head was tormenting him and he really wanted to just curl up and die at that moment. Feeling helpless and not knowing how to cope with the merciless task of sitting there and waiting for whatever was going to unfold to happen, he remembered the pills he had taken from Eric’s dresser drawer. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket and studied it again, then twisted the top off and tapped not one, but two of the thick white tablets into his hand. They were horse pills, but he swallowed them without water, perhaps secretly hoping he would choke on them and have a shot at a merrier day in the afterlife. No such luck. He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling with his hands clasped on his chest, waiting to be taken into the comforting arms of unconsciousness. About half an hour later his wish was granted as he drifted away into a deep sleep.

Eric Davis sat behind the wheel of his mother’s gray Volvo V60 station wagon in the parking lot of Big Rob’s Burgers ‘n Brew. It was a hopping spot in the city, especially on Sunday afternoons when they offered a buy one, get one half-off special for lunch. He had been watching the restaurant for approximately fifteen minutes and estimated between forty and fifty people were inside, depending on how many workers were in the kitchen. Mike sat in the passenger’s seat beside him, fidgeting with one of the straps of his tactical vest. Continuously ripping the Velcro open and refastening it so he could rip it open again. Eric was beginning to grow irritated with him.

“Everything alright?” he asked coolly.

“Huh? Oh yeah… I’m good.”

“Stop doing that then.”

Mike did as he was told immediately. Eric could smell the fear on him now, the same way he had smelled it on Ethan the day before. It wasn’t a literal scent. God knows he probably would never be able to smell anything again after the amount of cocaine he’s done the past week, but that was the closest thing he could equate it to. Once you accepted you were going to die, you were able to pick up on those who hadn’t yet accepted their own imminent demise. Not only did Eric know he was going to die today, he also knew he was the shepherd of an early death for everyone inside Big Rob’s Burgers ‘n Brew on this crisp, fall afternoon. There was a little boy sitting in a booth along one of the big plate glass windows with an elderly couple across the table from him, shooting the tip of a straw wrapper at what Eric presumed was his grandmother. He felt more than human sitting there, peering through the windshield at his prey. His heart was fluttering lightly underneath his bulletproof attire and his palms were beginning to sweat a little. It could be the drugs, he thought. No. It wasn’t the drugs. It was… stage fright. Yeah, stage fright felt more like it. He chuckled to himself and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. His adrenaline was starting to take hold of him now. There was a lot of preparation and hard work put into getting to this moment. A lot of training. A lot of sweat. Even tears. He had traded away his entire life for this moment and it was finally here. Today is the big day. It’s showtime.

He pulled the Marlboro Reds out of his pocket. There were five cigarettes in the pack and one of them was upside down. Every time Eric bought a pack, he would flip the front and center cigarette upside down and save it for last. He called it his “lucky cig.” Knowing there wasn’t going to be time to wait until last, he picked that one out and put it in between his lips. He then offered Mike one by extending the pack to him. Mike reached for it and Eric noticed his hand was trembling as he pulled one out for himself. Eric lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply and then tossed the lighter without looking into Mike’s lap. He struggled to light up as the tip of his cigarette bounced around and danced away from the flame with the spasmodic shuddering of his body. Trying one last time to steady himself unsuccessfully before giving up, he let his head drop.

“I can’t do this, Eric,” he said in a small voice.

“I know,” Eric replied smoothly, cigarette smoke puffing out from between his teeth as he talked.

“Are you mad?” Mike asked him like a frightened child.

“No.” 

Eric reached over and grabbed the cigarette out of Mike’s hand and stuck it in his mouth. He used the lit end of his own cigarette to light it as he took a few drags while touching the ends together. Then, he handed it back to Mike and reclined his seat and closed his eyes. He wanted to clear his mind and be relaxed on his way inside. There were few people better prepared than him for what was about to go down and even Toledo PD was in for a day with him when they showed up to the party. Eric had enough toys and enough bullets with him to facilitate a real skirmish. He was smiling to himself and savoring his last smoke when Mike started intruding on his meditation.

“I’m sorry, Eric. I really thought I could do this.”

“It’s fine, Mike. I can handle it myself,” Eric said without opening his eyes.

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” he squeaked the last two words out about three octaves higher than the rest of the sentence.

Eric popped one eye open and smiled serenely while looking at him, then closed his eye again but continued grinning.

“Nah man, I’m not going to kill you. But where do you think you’re going to go now?” he asked.

“I know they’re going to catch me. I’m just going to do my time, I guess. I won’t say anything about the group… about Patrick. Any of it. I promise.”

Liar, Eric thought to himself. How dare you sit here and lie straight to my face you spineless, miserable insect.

“I trust you,” he said flatly. “It’s not going to be of much concern to me anyway after today.”

Mike let out a sigh of relief that made him appear to be a human-shaped balloon deflating. He raised the cigarette to his mouth with his still trembling hand and took the first puff from it since it had been handed to him. There was a brightness on his face and Eric could feel the solace radiating off of him. He straightened his seat and looked at Mike while pulling the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket again. Flipping it upside down and shaking it out, the three remaining cigarettes and a plastic baggy of white powder fell into his lap.

“One last time for the road?” he asked with a sly smile.

“Sure,” Mike said with his own cheerful grin spreading across his face. He still looked extremely uncomfortable, but he was looser. The way a man would look after escaping near certain death, but still knowing he wasn’t quite out of the woods yet.

Eric untied the knot in the baggy and pulled it open, placing the whole thing gently in his left hand. He then leaned forward and popped open the leg sheath wrapped around his lower right leg and removed the seven-inch, solid black steel KA-BAR knife that was holstered in it. Mike’s eyes grew large at the sight of it and he instinctively scooched himself closer to the door of the car. Eric gently dipped the tip of the knife into the bag of cocaine and balanced a neat little pile on the point of it, which he then transferred to his nose and snorted. Mike’s shoulders fell again, looking as though a semi-truck barreling down on him had hit the brakes and slid to a stop half a foot before making impact with his frail body. Eric dipped the knife again, the finely sharpened blade gleaming in the sunshine that penetrated the windshield as he did and snorted another pile of coke with his other nostril. After he finished, he repeated the process twice for Mike and then dropped the baggy into the cupholder next to him.

“I’m ready now,” Eric said, sniffing obnoxiously to get every last particle of illicit substance into his system.

“Alright. I had better get going then. Good luck, Eric. I know you’re going to make everyone proud,” Mike replied and reached for the door handle.

Pop.

All of the doors of the vehicle locked as Eric hit the button from the driver’s side master control panel. Mike pulled on the handle and pushed the door, but it didn’t budge.

“Hey E, you have to unlock the door,” he said nervously.

“You forgot to pack the Browning Hi-Power yesterday.”

“What?” Mike turned back to look at him now.

“You left it in the bottom of the dresser and Ethan saw it after you left. You almost destroyed everything we worked for the last six months. Every. Fucking. Thing. I was going to let it go, but now you’re trying to bitch out too?” Eric’s mouth had taken on a sneer and his eyes were piercing through Mike, as if he had x-ray vision and was sizing up the inner workings of his cardiovascular system, choosing a target as he clenched the grip of his combat knife tighter. Mike’s eyes started to water, and he put his hands up in a pleading gesture.

“Eric, I am so sorry. Please don’t do th-“

Eric swung the knife back while fully extending his arm at the elbow. It slid through Mike’s esophagus with ease all the way down to the handle. The width of the blade was enough to slice through both the internal and external carotid arteries on the left side of his neck, with the end of the knife emerging through the other side of the headrest by about a quarter of an inch as blood began to spew out around the sides of it and cascade down Mike’s chest. His hands reached at first for the blade, then he grabbed hold of Eric’s wrist. His eyes were shifted as far as they could manage to look at Eric and Eric looked back at him, smiling. He tried to say something, but the only sound he managed to make was a high-pitched wheeze.

“Shhh. You take the day off,” Eric said, still holding the knife firmly in his hand. He started to twist it and it offered some resistance. Probably caught against Mike’s vertebrae, he thought. He moved it back to its original position and then put some oomph into it. There was a snapping sound as the blade broke through bone and tore through the surrounding ligaments and tendons rather than slicing through them. Once the knife had been rotated a full ninety degrees within his neck, Eric ripped it out with the same force he had inserted it with. A torrent of blood followed the knife out and splashed the dashboard as Mike’s head flew forward and left his body hunched over his legs. He continued twitching slightly as the remaining life spilled out of him and Eric wiped both sides of the knife on the back of his shirt before re-holstering it on his leg. He sat there and finished his cigarette while listening to the sound of Mike gurgling as some of the blood filled his lungs.

When he was done smoking and Mike had fully expired, Eric opened the door and stepped out into the parking lot. His camouflage pants were tucked into heavy duty, black leather steel-toed boots. Underneath his ballistic vest was a plain white t-shirt, the right sleeve donning dark red stains from his first victim. He circled around the back of the car and opened the hatchback. There was the large duffle bag filled with his equipment. He unzipped it and removed his sidearm holsters and then stuck his 9mm Browning pistol on his left side and his 9mm Uzi carbine on his right. Also in the bag was a Winchester 12-guage pump-action shotgun, locked and loaded. The rest of the weapons weren’t needed now that Mike had been relieved of duty. There was a smaller bag in the trunk area filled with hundreds of rounds of ammunition. He stuck loaded clips for the handguns into the pockets on the front of his vest and stuffed shotgun shells into his pant pockets before he slung the smaller bag over his shoulder and closed the hatch. He whistled a lighthearted tune to himself as he strolled towards the front door of the casual eatery that he was momentarily going to turn into a morgue with milkshakes.

Eric walked into the front of the bustling dining room, shotgun in hand and looked around at the oblivious patrons enjoying their last meal. A young employee was walking by him with the dirty dishes of a recently vacated table and he pointed it at him. 

“Hey, John, look out!” someone shouted from the far side of the room. The boy turned and looked at Eric and took a step back from him. Eric pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. Looking unamused, as though someone just tried to play a distasteful prank on him, the kid started to walk away. Eric felt himself beginning to panic as he inspected the gun in his hands and the employee who had shouted at him started marching towards him.

“I am going to call the police,” she began saying.

Eric unjammed his shotgun and fired it towards the ceiling, capturing the attention of everyone inside and then removed the Uzi from his right hip and fired a single shot into the woman’s face, just beneath her left eye. She died instantly. He then raised the shotgun at the pimply-faced boy holding the dishes again and fired it, striking him in the chest and arm. The boy sprawled backwards onto the floor in a mangled and bloody mess, the pint glasses from within his arms crashing down around him.

“Everyone get on the ground!”

People began screaming from all directions as hysteria took hold within the restaurant. Some put their hands up to the sky and the sound of plates breaking and silverware clattering to the floor filled the room as others huddled beneath tables.

“If anybody moves, they fucking die,” he declared while stepping over the body of the teenage boy he had just shot, who was still writhing in pain.

“Please don’t shoot anyone else,” a voice came from behind him. Eric spun around with his weapons aimed and ready. There was a Hispanic man in his mid-twenties with his hands up and palms facing outward.

“What did you just say?” Eric asked him nastily.

“No one else needs to get hurt. Please just let these people go,” the man said.

Rage welled up inside of Eric in a fearsome tide of emotion. He pointed the Uzi at the man and started unloading rounds into his body while walking towards him and yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” he roared over the gunshots and the man screamed in pain before eventually falling silent. The Uzi held fifteen shots at a time and Eric unloaded the fourteen remaining in the clip, only stopping his relentless squeezing of the trigger when bullets ceased to fire. The feeling of power he was experiencing was euphoric and his eyes had turned wild now. The effects of the cocaine paled in comparison to his newfound drug of absolute authority. He felt like some supreme being, with the ability to choose who lived and died, divinity coursing through his veins now as the underlings of society cowered in their corners from him. 

Eric turned his attention to the group of people who were with the man he had just murdered. Two women and two children, including a girl he suspected to be about ten and an infant of less than a year old, were sitting in the booth. The woman closest to him was crying hard, covering her mouth while shouting the name of the now dead man across the table from her.

“Victor!” she shrieked in unadulterated horror.

“Victor!” Eric mimicked her while making exaggerated expressions with his mouth and moving his head side to side in a cruel, taunting manner. He reloaded the Uzi as he moved towards them and shot her in the chest once. Her body recoiled back against the red leather cushion behind her and her eyes went blank. There was more screaming from all over the room and Eric closed his eyes momentarily and soaked it in, breathing in deeply through his nose.

“Why are you doing this?” the other woman asked him through the babbling of her tears. Mascara was leaking down her cheeks in black rills and he looked her in the eyes, crouching lower so that their faces nearly touched. 

“Because you don’t get to push us out without a fight,” he said. “People like me are here to make sure people like you don’t continue to pollute the population and steal this country from the ones who fucking built it and who they built it for.”

He proceeded to fire upon the woman nine times, striking her in the stomach, cheek, thigh, hip, leg, chest, back, armpit and head. She was later identified as 19-year-old Maria Torres and she died between her 11-year-old niece Aurora Rodriguez and eight-month-old son Carlos Torres. The girl had been murdered after her aunt with a shotgun blast to the chest. The infant was shot in the back with a single bullet from a pistol. Survivors would go on to tell investigators that the boy had sat up and began wailing after his mother and cousin were savagely killed and that Eric Davis had screamed a slew of racist and anti-Hispanic insults at the child before shooting him.

Eric walked further into the dining room after that. He stopped by the booth he had been watching through the window in the parking lot and shot and killed 62-year-old Laurence White, his wife Rebecca, and their grandson Nathan. He continued walking around the perimeter of the dining area, firing indiscriminately at his helpless victims. Justin Weaver, an Iraqi war veteran and long-haul trucker was shot six times in his stomach, chest, arm, hip, shoulder, and head while shielding his son’s twelve-year-old friend Keith Fishwick whom had accompanied the Weaver family to the burger joint for lunch today. The boy was shot in the shoulder, arm, wrist, and left elbow, but was not critically injured. Justin and Keith survived the shooting, but Justin’s wife Gloria and their son, Robert, were both killed by multiple gunshots to the head. 

It had been approximately five minutes now since Eric had initiated his homicidal rampage inside Big Rob’s. The first of many calls to police was placed at 4:02pm, seven minutes after the first shot was fired according to surveillance footage later reviewed at the scene. Due to a miscommunication error, and one that remains cloudy and lacking a satisfactory explanation, responding officers were originally dispatched to an incorrect location. When all was said and done, that monumental fuck-up gave Eric Davis an additional ten minutes to walk around the restaurant unobstructed while shooting, terrorizing, and murdering. He shot as many people as he could find. The only ones who were inside at the time that remained uninjured when it was over were a few people who had been eating at tables in an alcove near the back of the restaurant and six employees who had hid themselves in a utility room in the basement of the building. Before police arrived, witnesses said Eric Davis had walked into the kitchen and discovered more people crouching behind the service counter.

“Oh, there’s more!” he exclaimed. “Are you trying to hide from me?!”

There was screaming and someone began shouting “don’t kill me!” in Spanish. A radio was playing music near the front of the kitchen where the five cooks and the dishwasher were huddled together, and he walked over to it and cranked up the volume. The sound of Evil Ways by Santana filled the entire restaurant and Eric danced a jig to it. Playing the air guitar on his shotgun and spinning in circles to the rhythm of the song, he began shooting them one-by-one.

This can’t go on,

Lord knows, you’ve got to change, baby, 

Shots rang out between the words for all to hear.

Baby, when I come home, baby,

My house is dark, and my thoughts are cold,

Bang. Bang. Bang.

He stepped over the fresh bodies towards a service window that operated as a drive-in for the restaurant. The sound of a man shouting outside was coming through the glass panes to him.

“Don’t go that way! He’s shooting! Go back!” he heard in muffled spurts. He turned his head the other direction and saw a group of three boys on bicycles cruising towards the window. David Coleman, the only one of the three to survive, said they had traveled the half mile from his house to purchase sundaes when he was later interviewed. The boys stopped peddling as they heard the unintelligible commands coming from the older man wearing a ball cap who was frantically waving his arms at them from across the street. Eric fired two slugs from the shotgun at them first, sending two of the boys flying off their bikes and onto the pavement. He then opened fire with the Uzi, unloading an entire clip on them. David watched as his friend Joshua Hernandez was slain with a bullet to his frontal lobe. His other friend, Alonso Coleman, convulsed and vomited on himself while bleeding out in the parking lot, as a gaping hole through the middle of his torso where the slug had torn through him leaked blood profusely into a large puddle. David himself had been critically wounded in the back, arm, and leg.

Police sirens were starting to grow increasingly louder and Eric stopped for a moment to pull more loaded clips from the bag on his shoulder and secure them in the pockets of his vest. As he did, the bell atop the front entrance signaled the door had been opened and he turned to look that way. An elderly couple in their mid to late seventies were attempting to make an escape. A sick grin played at the corners of Eric’s mouth as he ran towards the service counter and vaulted over it with his shotgun in hand. The old man was reaching for the second door to open for his wife when Eric interceded them. He raised the Winchester towards the side of the woman’s face, blowing it clean off and mutilating the man’s arm as well in the process. He crawled to his wife and cradled her in his arms, wiping blood from around the massive cratering wound that had been her face a moment before.

“You god damn son of a bitch!” the man shouted at Eric as he wept. “I hope you burn in hell for this!”

“How would I end up in hell when I’m doing God’s work? You’ll be the one burning with the rest of the niggers and the Jews,” Eric responded before pulling the Browning off his left hip and shooting the man between the eyes. A squad car pulled in near the front entrance then. Eric didn’t skip a beat before opening fire on the car with his shotgun. The officer slammed the car into reverse and peeled out backwards through the parking lot and into a bush out of sight from Eric’s location.

“One white male, blonde hair, camo pants, shooting off a shotgun at Big Rob’s off Jefferson Ave. Looks like there are at least a few DOA,” he shouted into his radio before exiting the driver’s side door and circling the vehicle for cover. Within minutes, the entirety of the police force had descended on the area. A lockdown was imposed on a six-block radius from the restaurant and 175 officers were deployed to strategic locations, surrounding Eric and removing any possibility of escape. The SWAT team rolled in a few minutes later and joined the containment protocol.

Eric had now jumped back to the other side of the service counter and was firing bullets rapidly at them and alternating between weapons. Rounds started striking and ricocheting off police cruisers as law enforcement struggled to identify how many shooters were present. During a momentary ceasefire in which Eric was reloading, a SWAT member peered through binoculars at the restaurant. The shimmering glass from the broken windows reflected a glare back at him and ruined his view. He was yanked back by the collar of his vest a second before a bullet from another frenzy of shots whizzed by his face. It was now 4:15pm and the standoff would continue for another fifty minutes before chain of command would authorize all responding law enforcement to kill any suspects if given a clear shot. 

Eric fiddled with the portable radio for a minute while sitting on the floor, trying to see if he could find news coverage of his mission in progress. He was curious what they were saying about him right now, wondering if they knew his name yet. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t be long, he thought. The name Eric Davis would live on forever after today, enshrined in history alongside other righteous American warriors. Patriots that had made the ultimate sacrifice.He sucked in air through his nose and the sickly sound of snot accumulating escaped his face again. His high was starting to fade, and it caused his mind to wander to the bag of cocaine in the car. He now wished he had pocketed it before coming in. When he couldn’t figure out how to find a news station on the radio, he turned it off and threw it across the room where it crashed and clattered along the checkerboard flooring.

He cocked the Uzi and the Browning and started firing shots at the police again. This continued for a while until he grew tired of them not shooting back. He reloaded once more before standing up brazenly and walking towards the sound of a person moaning from the dining area. Not a single shot had been fired from the outside in yet and Eric decided if he was going to have a chance to take more people with him, he was going to do just that. He turned the corner into the main room and saw a fire truck through a big rectangle in the wall where one of the oversized windows had already been blown out. Pulling both pistols off his hips, he fired repeatedly at it, piercing the vehicle with bullets before it sped off. Then, he noticed a young man in one of the booths along the far wall holding his shoulder, the arm of his shirt drenched in blood as he was groaning in pain. There were two girls across the table from him, one was lying down on the seat with her blouse pulled up, exposing her stomach as the other attempted to stanch the bleeding from multiple wounds with paper napkins. Eric walked over and executed them all with a gunshot to the head.

He turned around towards the kitchen again and spotted a young Latina girl attempting to hide beneath a dead body. Grabbing a bag of french-fries from an unfinished meal sitting on a tray beside him, he hurled them at her and screamed racist remarks.

“Fucking spic!” he shouted before storming off into the kitchen and reemerging a second later with his shotgun. He shot her in the jaw and neck and although she would end up surviving, she would remain permanently disfigured from the incident. He made his way back to the kitchen, firing shots out the windows towards the street as he did. By this time, it was ten after five and the police had been instructed to kill on sight. A SWAT sniper had taken position on the roof of the post office directly across from the restaurant and was aiming through the drive-in window. Eric gave him his chance a few minutes later when he walked towards it and presented an unobstructed view of his body from the neck down. The officer fired a single round from thirty-five yards out and the bullet entered Eric’s neck right below the chin and exited through his spine. His lights were cut out instantaneously, and he was left dead on the checkered tiles of his self-made mausoleum.

A little over a month had passed now since the day of the shooting. Twenty-one people had died and another nineteen were injured. In the wake of the chaos and devastation, the city had become engrossed within a perpetual state of mourning. Other similar incidents started occurring around the country with alarming frequency, all of which ended in the perpetrators being killed by law enforcement or taking their own life before they could be captured. Each and every one of them had the Dragon’s Eye tattoo placed somewhere on their body as wind of the existence of a secret society became less of the talk of rumors on social media and hearsay in the corners of coffee shops and more of legitimate concern. The police scoured Eric’s home for multiple days after he was killed and found digital evidence of what amounted to an ultra-nationalist extremist training program. Some pundits were quick to label the group a domestic ISIS. Tons of reading material on far-right political agendas and beliefs which contained dangerous racially charged and violent ideas were recovered from Eric’s laptop. The police also recovered the remains of Shannon Davis from the shed behind the house during their raid. She had been stabbed fifty-two times, thirty-seven of which had been inflicted posthumously. Her body had been cut into fourteen pieces before being thrown into large black trash bags and stuffed into the corner of the shed next to a neglected lawnmower.

One of the most prominent figures in alt-right internet entertainment, Patrick Oliver, was particularly popular and dominating the authorship of the literature they had confiscated from Eric’s home. He had previously held a position within the White House back in the day and as he became increasingly a person of interest to multiple probes surrounding the emerging wave of terrorism, scrutiny intensified on the connected administration as well. Within weeks, a sophisticated and complex funnel for identifying and attracting recruits had been uncovered and linked to a number of politicized internet personalities. The leading theory was that they would first find those who sided politically with their general party affiliation and slowly introduce more radical and absurd ideologies to them over time, sending the ones who were most receptive to these absurdities further down the rabbit hole of extremism and keeping tabs on them all along the way. A psychologist Ethan had seen on the news one day when they were discussing the topic had called it an extremely intelligent and deliberate tactic. Tying belief systems that the individual holds sacred to their identity with much more wild and extreme ideas until the person can no longer associate one without the other in their head. For instance, tying pro-choice beliefs to an assault against one’s entire faith. Then it was instilled in the person that they were being persecuted by whomever they identified as the political, racial, or religious opposition, stoking the rage factor within them.

“It’s like panning for gold,” the man had said. “You take the mass of the earth you’ve excavated, or in this instance, the millions of people who click on your video or article, etcetera. Then you start shaking them down to find who is willing to keep clicking further through as the scope of the content becomes more ridiculous and violent and you see who continues falling through the cracks. Except instead of ending up with a golden nugget, these people are looking for vulnerable individuals that meet the criteria for what we call the devoted actor paradigm. These are the ones who are willing to give up everything – the totality of their self-interests for whatever cause they believe they are fighting for. Once they have been found, that initiates a sequence of events where the recruiter reaches out to the recruit and establishes contact. If all goes well there, then comes the financing, arming, and training portion and by the end of it you’ve turned someone who started out a perhaps troubled, but albeit normal person, into a full-blown terrorist.”  

As investigations started tying these mass shooting and mass casualty events together, a whistleblower within the FBI released documents confirming the existence of radicalized individuals in key state and federal positions within law enforcement and the government, completely eroding the public confidence and trust in American institutions that had already been weakened in recent years, creating fresh chaos within the halls and chambers of the Capitol. Security had been tightened since the Trump Insurrection of early 2021, but the potential existence of members of Congress being involved with this newly emerging group fanned the flames further. What had once been symbolic of the strongest democracy the world had ever seen, started to look much more like the Senate House of Pompey. Paranoia took hold as accusations and charges of conspiratorial behavior ran rampant. Names hadn’t been dropped, but shortly after the announcement, Mr. Oliver vanished from public eye. About a week after his disappearance, he was found dead at his desk in one of his vacation homes. A single shot to the back of his head had removed his left eye. Where it had been, a coin with the Eye of Providence had been pressed into the socket. Spray painted on the walls around his body were Hate Has No Place Here and We Are Always Watching. The Eye of Providence had also been painted on a wall of the home and speculation arose that a sort of resistance was beginning to emerge just as quickly as the right-wing terror had washed over the land. The terror attacks continued unabated even in the wake of Patrick’s death.  

Fear gripped the entire nation. Somehow terrorist attacks on American soil evolved into a polarizing subject as more and more people relocated to the fringes of the political spectrum. This resulted in more violence erupting in the streets of American cities en masse, as those who once shared communities together began jumping at one another’s throat. The Age of Rage had fallen over the strongest empire the world had seen in the last quarter millennium with remarkable quickness. The free world started to feel as though it were hanging in the balance as the country teetered on the edge of collapse.

But nothing seemed to rattle Ethan Abrams anymore. Ethan had isolated himself from the outside world since Eric’s horrific act of violence for the most part, leaving the house only for work and to replenish what little food he could keep down, or to walk Daisy. He had lost even more weight over the past weeks and was beginning to look dangerously thin, approaching emaciation. Today was the first time he had felt the sun on his face in quite a while after deciding to take Daisy to the park, her insistent gaze spurring him into guilt-propelled action. He sat on a bench with her curled on the ground beside his leg and watched as an old man with fine white hair tossed a baseball back and forth with a young boy that appeared to be a few years shy of the double-digit mark.  The man looked as though he had once been tall, but now had a slight hunchback and a trained eye could see his movements were all made with a deliberate cautiousness. Still, Ethan found it impressive for a man his age to move as well as he did. He shuffled himself to the left and scooped a grounder up and then tossed it to the boy, but it sailed over his glove. The boy trotted over gleefully after the ball, which ended up skipping off the side of Ethan’s shoe before spinning to a stop in a patch of dirt. Daisy raised her head and started beating her tail against the ground as Ethan leaned forward to pick up the baseball. The little kid had blonde wavy hair and blue eyes under a vintage Cleveland Indians cap. He stared expectantly at Ethan with his glove raised by his face. Ethan felt his stomach tighten when he realized the little boy looked a lot like Eric had at his age. The ball slipped from his hand and plunked back down on the groundas he started to cry into his hands. A perplexed expression blossomed across the boy’s face then. His grandfather walked up behind him, removing his glove while eyeing Ethan carefully.

“Hey Cameron, why don’t you head down there by the water and play for a bit. I’ll get the ball back. You stay where I can see you, ya hear now?” he said to him while touching his shoulder tenderly. There was a thick Southern twinge to his voice.

“Sure, pop-pop!” the boy said while beaming back at him.

Eric tried to stop his tears, drawing in breath in choppy rhythms while wiping his sleeve across the underside of his nose, leaving a streak of secretion along the length of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said while reaching for the ball again.

“Are you alright?” the man asked.

Ethan looked up at the man’s face then. He had kind eyes that looked down on him in a genuine gaze of empathetic concern. Ethan’s eyes flicked away at once and his lips pursed across his face to prevent another bout of hysteria. He cleared his throat exaggeratedly before replying in a voice that was forced out deeper than his natural one.

“Yeah… I um. Your grandson reminded me of somebody I lost recently,” he said.

“Mind if I take a seat?” the man replied while motioning towards the bench with his hand.

“Sure.”

“I’m Clint by the way,” he said and stuck his hand out towards Ethan. He showed a confident smile, despite his teeth being in pretty rough shape.

“Ethan,” he replied and grasped his hand with a firmness he thought was appropriate. 

“Who did you lose? If you don’t mind my askin’,” the man asked before letting out a hacking cough. It was definitely an old man’s cough, Ethan thought. One that seemed deep in his chest and married to some sort of serious illness. The old timer’s hand went for his pant pocket with a slight tremor, removing a handkerchief with bright pink spots on it which he used to wipe his mouth. He glanced at Ethan who had now assumed the empathetic gaze in the acquaintanceship.

“Lung cancer,” he said to Ethan as though he read his mind. “It’s a real bitch. If you don’t smoke, make sure you keep it that way.”

Ethan nodded his head at him to show he appreciated the advice and then looked straight ahead toward the pond where little Cameron was pulling the stalks of Japanese Knotweed that had sprouted up around the edge of the water. He thought a bit before answering the man’s original question.

“I lost a childhood friend about a month ago,” he finally said. He continued to look into the distance, rather than risk another intimate moment of eye contact with this stranger. It was the first time he had really spoken to anyone other than a few follow up interviews with the police since everything had happened.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. How?”

Ethan glanced at him then, quickly. His eyes fell to his hands as he started to knead them together between his legs.

“He was shot.” The words left his mouth matter-of-factly and it seemed as though he had no emotion in them. The man regarded him with those empathetic, caring eyes again and seemed to start putting together where the story was heading for himself.

“Was he shot during that yahoo’s shootin’ spree?” he asked in a tone that made it sound like he hadn’t expected to walk into such a morbid situation. I was really hoping your mom had died of old age or something. Not sure I’m cut out for all this it seemed to say.  

Ethan let out a deep sigh and his shoulders hunched forward as his head dipped lower from above them. “He was the yahoo.”

“Jesus,” the man said in an almost whisper before his sickly cough sent him into another fit. Ethan closed his eyes and felt the numbness that had seemed to overcome him since the shooting take hold. It was as if he had reached a level of maximum sadness that plateaued into an ethereal emptiness. He sat there and listened to old man Clint’s lungs unsuccessfully try to force out the disease from within them. After a few minutes he recomposed himself.

“Apologies,” he said almost embarrassedly. “I… I don’t know what to say. That is real heavy, friend. I am very sorry to hear that.” He looked at Ethan who was still sitting with his eyes closed. Ethan managed to curl his lips in what would have been considered a soft smile if the indescribable pain of the last month plus of his life wasn’t painted on the rest of his face along with it.

“Don’t be,” he said. “I don’t want you to think I’m crying because he died. He deserved to die for the awful things he did to those people. I wish he was the only one who had died.” He opened his eyes then to look at the man’s face, who was now staring out towards the water, watching his grandson play. His head rocked back and forth a few times and his lips thinned out in a flat line across his face as he turned to look at Ethan and there was another brief instance of commiseration between them.

“Why are you cryin’ then?” he asked with genuine interest.

The sky had begun to take on hues of red and orange as the sunlight of the day waned towards dusk and there was something calming about the mood it set. Ethan felt as though he was supposed to be here talking about this, but he couldn’t quite put together why he felt that way. There was an inviting presence in the atmosphere and an openness about this strange old man with his youthful sidearm and finite life expectancy. He felt like he could be honest and that was everything he needed right now. He trusted that there was no ulterior motive, but rather, only a friendly and sympathetic listener at his disposal and he decided to let out what he had been holding inside.

“I’m sad because I still remember the person he was before it, I guess. Eric was never a model citizen or anything, but he was a decent person, you know? The guy I grew up with… my best friend… he wouldn’t do that. I just don’t understand what happened. He had his problems, but he was never racist or hateful. Someone turned him into a monster,” Ethan finished as his lower lip quivered and fresh tears began to well up within his eyes.

The man looked at him woefully now. “I know a thing or two about those kinda monsters myself,” he said.

“You do?”

“Sure,” he replied in his accent that made it come out sounding more like shore. “I grew up in Sherman, Texas. Little ways north of Dallas. As I’m shore you can imagine, being from the South at my age, I’ve had my fair share of experiences with racism.”

Ethan nodded at him but said nothing.

“My father,” Clint continued, “was not a nice man and he suffered from that affliction. Hell, I did too before the war,” he added, reflectively.

“Which war?” Ethan asked.

“I know I look old enough to have fought in the Alamo,” he started while cracking a smile at his own joke, “but Uncle Sam decided Vietnam was where I was headin’.”

“How was that?”

Clint’s eyes winced a little bit at the question as bad memories washed over him. Then he seemed to relax and said, “Same advice as smokin’.”

They looked at each other and laughed then. Ethan dabbed at his eyes with the back of his hands as he remembered how good it felt to laugh. It had been a long time now and that period of cessation seemed to have starved his sense of self of a kind of unspoken nourishment.

“Well thank you for your service, Clint.” The old man waved him off dismissively with his hand before he could even finish the sentence. “What changed in the war?” he then added inquisitively.

Clint looked at him fondly, almost as if to thank him for being interested in his life, then took as deep a breath as he could manage before talking again.

“Well, growin’ up in Sherman, everything was mostly segregated,” he started. “Wasn’t more’n two colored families in the whole damn town and the little ones were homeschooled on account of not bein’ welcome inside the schoolhouse. So, me, like most people my age back then, had little to no experience talkin’ to or interactin’ with any black people. We were taught that they were of lesser standin’ than ourselves. My father would tell me, ‘make sure you don’t get yourself caught up with any of them niggers’. Told me they were dangerous. That they were jealous of our way of life and wanted to take it from us. He made me hate ‘em by makin’ me scared of ‘em.”

Cameron’s voice floated up to them from down by the pond then, breaking his concentration from the story. “Pop-pop, look!” he exclaimed. Both Ethan and his new friend glanced towards him as the little boy half threw, half shot-putted a large stone into the water that was marked by a magnificent splash!

“Wow! You’re gettin’ real strong, Cam! Be careful not to fall in though!” his grandfather shouted down towards him in a genial voice as he and Ethan both clapped for his remarkable feat. “I won’t!” he shouted back with a big grin blooming across his face.

“Where was I now?” the old man asked while wrinkling his forehead as he wracked the inside of his brain to find the correct tracks on which to place his train of thought.

“Your father tricked you into being racist,” Ethan said rather quietly, feeling as though it were a slightly insulting way to phrase it.

“Oh, right. Well, I went about believin’ all that nonsense the entirety of my childhood and into my early adulthood. But when I turned eighteen in ’56, a little less than a year after the war started, I joined the service and things changed. See, this was the first war in American history where black and white soldiers weren’t segregated. Now, that’s not to say there was equal treatment among the ranks, cause there sure as hell wasn’t. But we were expected to live and fight alongside each other.” There was a twinkle in his eye as he cocked his head up slightly towards the sky in a state of reminiscence.

“It sounds like that probably wasn’t easy for you,” Ethan said intrigued.

“Hell no, it wasn’t,” he said while grinning. “Unfortunately, that is, thinkin’ back on it nowadays. Wasn’t easy for me or any other good ole southern boy comin’ to fulfill his patriotic duties at the time. We weren’t just mad at the accommodations, we were disgusted by ‘em,” he said the word disgusted with distinguished emphasis.

“Well how did you do it?”

“I’ll give you the short of it. When we first got to ‘Nam the whites and the blacks stayed in their own areas for the most part. One night, me and one of the black grunts got into an argument over a couple of smokes. His name was Carl Owens. I accused him of stealin’ my cigarettes after drinkin’ more than I should’ve and I convinced myself he did it because of the way he looked. I cracked him upside the head and a few other boys rustled up his friends and we told them not to wander on to the white side of camp again or else. Split his brow open real good, I did. Well, it turned out I had drunkenly slipped my smokes into a different pocket than my usual and the ones I had seen next to him really belonged to him, just like he had said they did. I tried ‘pologizin’ the next day, but he wasn’t havin’ none of it. Just stared at me like a god damned statue.”

Clint laughed in a bewildered sort of way, like he could hardly believe his own recollection of events.

“About a week later, we found ourselves in a bit of a pickle. We was crawlin’ through the jungle, dodgin’ snakes and all sorts of other ungawdly creatures and the damned Viet Cong fighters ambushed us. Bullets were flyin’ from everywhere and people were droppin’ like flies all around us,” Clint said as his gaze trailed off into a blank stare. He became immersed in his thoughts as he spoke.

“I started blastin’ back at the bastards as my men tried to retreat. I made it across the area they had entrapped us in, going the direction most of my guys had went, but I was lookin’ behind me shootin’ still and fell backwards right into one of their god damned punji stick traps. I was lucky that I didn’t get impaled around my organs, but one of the sons of bitches pierced right through my leg,” he said while tapping down at his left calf.

“Ouch,” Ethan said with a matching face.

“Yeah, that’s one word for it,” Clint said with a chuckle. “Anyway, I’m lyin’ there in this hole screamin’ my head off, bleedin’ all over the place, prayin’ to god, you name it. All of a sudden, a head pops out over the side of it and who other than Carl Owens. Eye still swollen, stitches still in and all. I almost shot him too he came flyin’ over the side of that wall so fast. I could see it in his face when he recognized me that he thought about leavin’ me down there for a second. Shots were still going off everywhere and our guys started chuckin’ grenades. He could have left, and no one would have been the wiser. But he slipped down in that hole with me and ripped my leg off that bamboo stake and hoisted me up out of there. He dragged me by the back of my uniform so I could sit and shoot, and he was shootin’ one handed over my shoulder while pulling me. Took a bullet to his right shoulder for his troubles too.”

Ethan’s eyes were large and mystified by the old man’s story. “Are you serious?” he asked in amazement.

“Honest to God,” Clint said and held his hand over his heart and then up to the sky.

“What happened then?” Ethan asked, even more intrigued now.

“Well, we made it out alive obviously. I was pretty much out of commission at that point, but Carl and I became good friends during our stay in the infirmary tent. Started talkin’ an awful lot and eatin’ together. He showed me how to smoke grass out of a shotgun!” Clint proclaimed in a if you can believe it or not type ofexcitement. “Hell, Carl was the best man at my wedding and I’m the godfather of his children,” he added proudly.

“So… him saving you made you not racist?”

Clint looked at him and thought, puzzled for a moment. “It cured me,” he said finally.

“Cured you?”

“Yeah, I think that’s more what it was like. It wasn’t until a black man who didn’t even like me risked his ass to save my life that I realized we all got a lot more in common than we got different with each other. And as I got to know him better, the more it proved the point to me. All the stuff my dad had told me growin’ up was exposed as phony and that evilness left me. I became more openminded and appreciative of all people, you know? It dawned on me that those black soldiers loved this country just as much I did. Loved it even more, tell you the truth. Back then they didn’t do all this sneaky stuff to keep colored folk down. Businesses printed it right on the door, lawmakers signed it into law with a ceremony and a round of applause. That racism was right in your face at all times back then,” he blew out air through his mouth and raised his eyebrows like he was listening to a story that he couldn’t see having a happy ending.

“Imagine how it must have felt to go fight and die for a country that didn’t respect you worth a damn,” Clint said to him. “Could you do it?”

Ethan shook his head no. “I don’t think I could.”

“Me either,” Clint said before hacking again. “That’s when I realized I had been all wrong. That the things I thought and felt were bad. I resolved myself to treat everyone with respect after that and it’s done me a lot of good in my life.”

Ethan smiled at him again, but genuinely this time. “You keep referring to it like it’s some kind of a disorder,” he said, and Clint returned the good cheer from his own face.

“Caught that, did ya?” he replied admiringly.

“Yeah. Why is that?”

“That’s how I think of it, I s’pose. It’s just as nasty and cruel as the stuff growing in my lungs,” he said tapping at his chest now with the tip of his index finger. “Except it’s even worse. Racism is like cancer of the soul, and unlike the cancer I got, it can spread from one person to another. Passes down through generations like a family tradition. It was developed for the very thing it’s so effective at. The same thing that’s kept it alive all these years. This country has been trying to cough that sickness up for a real long time,” he said pensively.

“What thing is that?”

“Keepin’ white folk like us ahead,” he replied.

Ethan watched him observantly. He was still extremely enveloped in listening to the old man speak, but the melancholy of his truths began to settle in. The thought of Eric the last time he had seen him crept into his mind. He pictured those black vacant eyes leading into something monstrous beneath the surface. A black mass, or expanse of a sticky black substance with a consistency like tar pulsating under his flesh. Racism is like cancer of the soul. He watched the apparition of Eric sitting in his chair, staring at him with that piercing malice. Visions of the blackness stretching itself throughout Eric’s limbs like tentacles of some alien creature appeared in his head. It encapsulated Eric’s heart and squeezed it until it shriveled and died under the pressure. It all converged within the depths of his abdominal cavity in one grotesque glob. Then, it snaked up Eric’s throat and into his brain, which also became coated and engrossed in this black, viscous… thing. Suddenly, Eric’s head flung back, and his mouth fell open as the stuff started to ooze out of his eyes and mouth and nose and ears. Leaking down the sides of his face and trailing down his arms. Then the image of his father began to overlap Eric as they both looked like translucent ghosts showing through each other while the thick sludge kept flowing from every orifice of their faces. Ethan was startled by Clint touching him gently on the shoulder and he broke free from the trance he was in and its subsequent imaginings. 

“You okay?” Clint asked him timidly. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Ethan replied in a daze. “It’s just so terrible.”

“You ain’t wrong,” Clint said while nodding in agreement with him again. “For a while there it seemed like we were makin’ real progress, but things are out of hand these days. Almost like it was bubblin’ up underground or wherever it had ran away to hide.”

“I was going to ask what you think about everything going on right now.”

“I think it’s sad. I ain’t got but six months left on this Earth and I am sorely disappointed I have to go out during this state of affairs.”

Ethan’s eyes fell from Clint’s face down to his feet when he said this. He felt like he had let him down personally even though he knew it wasn’t his fault.

“You said it’s worse because it spreads, but lung cancer doesn’t have a cure and it sounds like you cured your racism though,” Ethan said partially for the explanation and partially to change the subject.

“I didn’t cure myself. What cured me was understandin’. Real understandin’. Clearly books ain’t cuttin’ it for everybody and you can’t well expect everyone to share a life-or-death situation with somebody they dislike for bullshit reasons they’ve made up in their head,” Clint stated with backwoods philosophy.

“I guess that’s true.”

“It is true. There really ain’t no cure for it that we know of. Can’t go get a shot in the arm the way we beat that god awful virus. See, people are so wrapped up in their individualism these days that they forget they belong to something greater by default too. They go around being selfish not realizin’ that they’re as much a part of the broader community we all share as each cell in my lung makes up the organ itself. When you start gettin’ that sickness, that soul cancer, it starts spreadin’ through society. Growin’. Like a tumor. And I promise you that is not a benign condition.”

“But if we can’t cure it, what is there to do about it?”

Clint paused and contemplated the question. Then his eyes lit up in an aha! moment as he raised his finger in the air declaredly. “You can’t cure it, no. But you can do things to prevent it. The way you’re s’posed to eat your fruits and veggies, take your vitamins and break a sweat every day to help ward off the type of sickness I got, keepin’ a generally healthy society prevents people from becomin’ susceptible to that sickness. Does that make sense?”

Ethan nodded his head up and down as he continued processing what he had just heard. “Yeah, it kind of does. But how do you have a healthy society?”

Clint rolled his eyes and then flashed a sarcastic grin at him while motioning towards the water where Cameron was prodding the marshy earth with a stick he had found, turning in circles as he did. “See that? He doesn’t have a care in the world right now. Just outside enjoyin’ himself. In a few years that boy’s life is going to get very competitive. Academically, financially, socially. And after it starts, it may never end. I imagine you can relate to that. Everything is designed to pit us against each other and see who is willin’ to exhaust themselves to get ahead of the next guy. If you’re not generatin’ dollars, you don’t mean squat to the system. But the system ain’t exactly setup to encourage free thought or do much other than condition us for our adult lives, which are expected to be spent chasin’ that American dream like a heroin junkie chases the dragon.”

He paused and gave a deep, dry cough that sounded painful. “The people, the cells of the fabric of society, some of them start gettin’ sick and mutatin’,” he began again. “When they get those dark thoughts and feel like there’s no one to turn to, bad people find ‘em and give ‘em a bad purpose in life. Tell ‘em black people or Mexicans or Muslims are to blame for all their problems, not themselves. Make ‘em feel justified walkin’ into a movie theatre or shoppin’ center and shootin’ it up.”

“Yeah,” Ethan said glumly.

Clint gave him a remorseful glance before continuing his speech. “All I’m sayin’ is we gotta start livin’ for the good of the people or our own greed and recklessness is going to be our downfall. If you have a lot of people walkin’ around that feel the need to take innocent lives for the way they look or where they come from or what they believe in, that right there is an indication to me that somethin’ is wrong. Because people ain’t born like that, understand? That’s a product of what we’re doing here,” he said while motioning his hands through the air around him.

“People want to sunder the nation, thinkin’ their side is pullin’ all the weight anyway, but they don’t realize this country thrives on the balance we achieve when we all share basic principles. Those basic principles were betrayed, and it opened pandora’s box on all of us. You get the good with the bad on both sides of the coin. See, I think it’s more like cuttin’ a quarter in half down the middle, as opposed to takin’ a half of a cake or somethin’. Once you split it, the two halves don’t retain their value and if you do manage to put it back together, it will forever bear the scars of the separation it endured and it probably still won’t be worth a damn anyway. People let their differences get in the way so much they forget that our differences are mostly those of method and not of purpose.”

Ethan regarded him with serious thought for a moment. “I don’t think that’s ever going to change, do you?”

Clint sighed heavily and looked at Ethan before turning to look straight ahead of himself. “No, I guess I don’t. Wish I did, but I don’t. However, that’s no reason to fall through on your obligations, follow?”

Ethan shook his head, confused. “No, I don’t follow,” he said truthfully.

“I read it in one of those yuppie Harvard guy’s books once. We got a responsibility to the ‘underlyin’ fraternity of ordinary men everywhere’,” he said with air quotes.

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meanin’ the world might go to hell in a handbasket no matter what you do, but you’re still liable for whatever you can do. You stand up for what’s right, you treat people right, you do what you’re in control of doing to make things right,” Clint said. “I can’t cure what’s killin’ me either, but I’m doing what I can to enjoy spendin’ time with the people I love and indulgin’ in some of the simple pleasures of life before I’m gone.”

Ethan looked down towards the pond at Cameron again who was now fully occupied with trying to capture a moth with his bare hands and he smiled. “And doing good deeds along the way, clearly.”

Clint laughed and it made him cough again, this time producing little drops of blood on his lips which he patted with his handkerchief. “I’m trying to do all the good I can on my way out. Do my part to give the next generation the best chance it can have by passin’ along some useful wisdom to that little one down there. Helpin’ people who look like they need a friend when I can,” he looked at Ethan with that deep empathy again as he finished speaking.

“Well, you’ve certainly helped me today, Clint,” he replied. “I haven’t felt this good in a long time and you had everything to do with it.”

Clint smiled at him and then down at Daisy, who was now sitting up with her head on Ethan’s lap. “And who is this?” he asked excitedly.

“This is Daisy. She belonged to Eric. He gave her to me the day before he did it,” Ethan said with a croak.

Clint stroked Daisy’s head gently and looked at Ethan with a profound sadness. “She’s going to be part of this healing process too. Man’s best friend was no exaggeration. Just havin’ that reliance factor will keep givin’ you a reason to get up every mornin’. Hell, she got you out here today, didn’t she?”

Ethan gave him a quick grin and nodded his head. “Yeah, she sure did,” he said while patting her on the head. Her tail started bushwhacking behind her as he did.

“Well, Ethan, it was a pleasure to meet you,” Clint said while extending his hand and flashing his yellowed teeth again. Ethan clasped it and smiled back at him.

“You too, Clint. I really appreciated this talk.”

He nodded dutifully at Ethan as though acknowledging his work were done and stood up slowly, favoring his left knee as he did so. “Hey, Cam! Come on up, it’s time to head home for supper!” he shouted down at his grandson.

“Okay, Pop-Pop!” the boy replied gleefully before dashing up the slight gradient of the field towards them.

“Clint, don’t forget your ball,” Ethan said realizing he had been holding it the entire time.

“Thank you,” he replied softly. “And you don’t forget to do your part.”

“I won’t,” he said. And he meant it.