The Company

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Relax, Relapse, and Everything In Between

It was a sleepy-looking janitor with a scruffy white mustache. He looked at us for a few seconds, took a drag of his cigarette, and reached down to a walkie-talkie at his belt.

"Hey, Frankie? Yeah, we've got a problem down- oof!"

He was interrupted by the Washington throwing a mop at him.

The IV and your hospital bed...

I turned to the Washington and asked, "What the heck was that for?"

"No witnesses?" he said, although his tone sounded unsure. "Now he can't tell anyone that we were here!"

"Dude. He was in the middle of doing that until you hit him! Now they'll be sending in security!"

The Washington looked to the janitor, then back to me. "Oh. Crap. Well, I'm outta here!"

"What?"

And with that, he bolted out of the closet as fast as he could, leaving a very confused, terrified, and not to mention helpless Michael Jones standing there.

This was no accident, it was a therapeutic chain of events...

I opened up the mag of the pistol to see if he was right. Sure enough, there were three bullets.

What was I to do? I was a helpless asthmatic with three bullets. I had to face the music without the music. And I was alone.

"Not for long, buddy."

I turned to the side. The Not-Michael was there, wiping the glowing green blood off his chin with his sleeve.

This is the scent of dead skin on the linoleum floor...

"You're kidding," I said. "You? What'll you do, tell me I'm doing awful? Do your normal 'you'll never wi-' oh. I get it. I'll never win, but we could if we work together!"

He cocked an eyebrow and snorted. "What? No! I am here to say my usual 'You'll never win' spiel. Nice try, Hemingway."

This is the scent of quarantine wings in a hospital...

My excitement deflated. "You can't be serious."

He wiped more blood off his chin. It seemed a lot worse than before. "As the plague."

"Well, here I was, thinking you'd changed."

"Now tell me," he said. "It'll probably never work, but just indulge me. What're you going to do now?"

I paused. "Someone's gotta save the Academy. And if it has to me, then so be it."

I heard him laughing from behind me. "You're kidding! You're actually kidding! You, Michael Alexander Jones, save the Academy? And all by yourself? You're hilarious!"

"If that's what it needs to be," I said.

"Whoa, what?" His smile dropped. "You can't be serious."

It's not so pleasant and it's not so conventional...

I looked at him and simply said, "As the plague."

He rushed in front of me and put his hands out. "Michael. Listen to me. You don't need to do this."

"Yeah, right," I chuckled, cocking my gun. "Nice joke. Tell me more, will you?"

"I'm serious, Michael." His face looked dead serious. "If you die, I die, and I'd rather not die! Think about what you're doing! Use your head!"