A Block of Broken Houses

Bad Company (Part Four)

The faintest slice of consciousness opened before him.

Vincent's first thought was that the rippling colours—dancing hits of alternating red and blue—were the bursting results of fireworks, like the ones he had enjoyed in his grandparents' large backyard when he was a child. There were no reasons for this connection (other than the darkness and the bright light against it) but Vincent embraced it; it comforted him, felt like home. And then the black waves of waking lapped against first his feet and then his knees, pulling away sleep's thin fog and leaving only the cold bite of reality.

At first he only managed to half-adjust his vision to the sealed silence of the car's interior, a wobbling and fuzzy outlook akin to drunkenness. The car's features pulsed with the same red and blue in rhythmic succession. Although the knot in his stomach had vanished, its absence was not entirely comforting. He felt sick and confused.

He glanced through the shattered windshield at trees and bushes that were growing at odd angles, and then understood that he and the car were crooked, tipped on their side. He first heard and then saw the rain on the windshield (falling lighter than it had been) and guessed he must not have been unconscious for long. He felt no real pain, only aches, but thought he would have to get moving to know for certain.

He fumbled for the seatbelt's buckle, his fingers slowly inching forward, weighted, almost as if they had fallen asleep. He pushed what he thought was the release catch and heard the low click of it unhinging. He slipped sideways in his seat. His head was clear enough to understand that he would only be able to open his door a few inches (a foot, if he were lucky) before it connected with a thick tree trunk, and he began to climb over the centre console, a compact and uncomplicated thing that seemed like a mountain.

It was then that he realized he was alone—no Arlene, no hitchhiker.

Only now Vincent thought that the man sleeping in the backseat had not been a hitchhiker, after all, because the feeling that he had known the stranger

(PACKERS flashed in a bright stamp of solid yellow across his vision)

was stronger than ever, the connection winching away in his mind but refusing to click true.

Arlene had been there, likewise for the man with the beard; he was nearly certain they had. But then his mind worked funny sometimes—most times—and he could not say for sure.

Vincent had managed to place both of his hands on the passenger's seat when he suddenly felt many soft hands under his arms and at the sides of his head. He felt the gentle kiss of rain on his face as he was cautiously pulled into the open air, which smelled strongly of hot metal and burning wood. The dizzying red and blue (not fireworks, no—he knew that now—but the wigwagging lights of the surrounding emergency vehicles) painted everything. He attempted to shift his head, to look around, but those gentle hands held him steady. He was carried and then turned, and then he was still, set safely on a stretcher.

Faces appeared above him, some hindered by masks. Both lips and masks worked fast but he heard nothing, could make no clear sense of what they were saying. When he did not respond, attempts to communicate with him ceased and then the hands belonging to the faces were busy with pulling and holding and working on his body. He felt very little pain but knew that the pain (stiffness, at the very least) would come later.

He wondered where Arlene was. He needed to see her, to apologize.

His hearing came back to him in a rush: sirens and shouting—screaming, even; the fixed hum and sporadic clicks of working equipment and idling vehicles; the murmur of professional conversation. And underneath it all he heard the mad scratching of rain connecting with countless surfaces.

He tried to speak and could not, but the low grunt that came from him brought a young woman to his side, her dark hair pulled back in the tightest, cleanest ponytail he had ever seen.

"He's with us!" she shouted. Bright light overtook first his right eye and then his left, and when it was pulled away entirely the afterimage of it remained. Vincent felt something stiff and uncomfortable slipped over his head, neck and shoulders.

There were suddenly more people above him—an older man with glasses, another with a long, droopy face and bushy beard—and they were all speaking to him with a calm urgency. He caught some words, snippets of others, but was unable to piece any of it together.

"Arlene?" he said, so weak he barely heard himself. The young woman with the ponytail leaned in close and asked him to repeat what he had said and, as much as he had wanted to, his tongue refused.

Above everything—the equipment, the conversation, the rain—he heard someone wail, the words cutting cleanly through the night: "He's gone and you killed him!"

Vincent could not see the man standing four car lengths away, his eyes wide and wild, his teeth hungry and on display, blood smeared across his cheeks and neck. He could not see the three uniformed police officers clutching at the crazed man's arms and chest, holding him back. He could not see the twisted car bent around a smouldering tree thirty yards away. He could not see the woman pinned in the passenger seat, her leg broken in three places, the remains of her nose spread across her right cheek, the frightening amount of blood pooling in her lap and staining her oversized sweater. And Vincent could not see the small, twisted shape on the forest floor hidden by a heavy white blanket in the darkened distance.

"Arlene?" Vincent repeated, just like they had asked him to do, and it gained some attention from the people standing over him. He could not explain himself further and they let it go, knowing they would make the connection eventually.

When they do, they will find Arlene slumped in the kitchen sink, a pool of blood in her lap, her severed tongue laying lonely and useless on the counter top. They will also find Andrew Archer, his stomach open wide, his insides spilled onto the glossy kitchen tiles. His tongue will also be severed but missing, and in time the authorities will find it mixed in with the cold and partially cooked spaghetti noodles and pesto.

Arlene. The name rolled through his mind, comforting him, and Vincent wondered once again where she was and when he would be able to see her, to apologize and begin to put all of this behind them for good. He would ask her again about moving, about buying a house outside of the city with an acre or two of land. With that done, maybe they could begin to think about starting a family.

END