Prodigal Blues

He nodded, then said:  "All in favor."

We both held up our hands.  I couldn't speak for him, but even that much physical effort hurt too damn much for me.

"We really should get the gun," I said.  "Somebody's going to notice it."

"But we're… we're protected by the bus."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you Pete Townshend—the magic bus protects us all."  I started pulling myself to my feet.

I failed.

Miserably.

"Your turn," I said.

Christopher pulled himself to his feet, almost lost his balance and fell, but caught himself against the side of the trailer in time.  "Jesus, Mark—you take martial arts or something?  That was… ouch!… damn that was a nasty kick."

"Blind shithouse luck."  I lifted my arm.  "Help me up."

He did, and the two of us lurched slowly toward the front of the bus, hanging onto each other for balance.  When we reached the tire beside which lay the gun, we stopped and looked down.

"I'm not go

"We could just leave it here."

"Right.  A murder weapon with both of our fingerprints all over it.  That may be the most ingenious thing I've ever heard.  Thank God we picked you, if we hadn't been careful we might have grabbed someone stupid."

"Get in, I'll get it."

Christopher did not so much climb into the bus as he did flop like a fish onto the floor of a boat, then pulled himself over into the driver's seat.  He bumped his swollen nuts on the gearshift once and made a girlie noise.  It was very entertaining.

But not half so entertaining as when I bent over to pick up the gun and fell face-first onto the road.  I was lying flat, covered in road dirt and the remains of a milkshake that had been tossed out by someone else before we got here, but at least I had the gun.

From inside, Christopher called:  "I think Mecca's in the other direction."

"Not helping."

"It wasn't intended to.  My balls really hurt, Mark."

"Tell it to my nose."

"We need to get moving."

"Famous last words—hold your horses."  I grabbed the edge of the door and pulled myself around and then up, tossing the gun in onto my seat, then grabbed the inside door handle and used it to for balance.  All in all it only took about a minute to get back inside.  Not that bad, considering….

"That was very graceful," said Christopher.

"Your praise means all to me."  I slammed the door and sunk into my seat, wondering why my ass suddenly hurt, then realized I was sitting on the gun, which I somehow managed to pull from underneath me without ever once lifting myself up.  "I think this is yours."  I handed him the gun.  "By the way—not that I don't trust you or anything, but—would you mind checking to make sure you didn't lose your pills."

"I didn't."  He picked them up off the dashboard and shook them.

I nodded my head, then said:  "What now?"

"Kentucky," he said.  "We dump the load of shit in the back, then go to my folks' place so you can do your little act."  But he didn't start the engine, he just sat there, staring out at the road and breathing hard.

"What is it?" I asked.

"…nothing…" he said, but I could hear the tears in his voice.  A few seconds later he looked at me and I could see them in his eyes.  "I keep thinking about Thomas.  How… it shouldn't have happened, y'know?  None of it should've… shit!  I was supposed to be looking out for the rest of them, for all of them!  I was supposed to be the one who thought ten steps ahead, just in case!  They trusted me, and I… I…"  He looked away, lowered his head, and wept.

After I moment I reached out, hesitated, then put my hand on his shoulder.  "It wasn't your fault, Christopher.  What happened with Thomas and the fire wasn't any of your faults—except Grendel's.  You did everything you possibly could, given those goddamn lousy circumstances.  He's alive, and he's home, and he'll be happy.  Maybe not right away, maybe not for a while, but eventually he'll be happy again, and he's got you to thank for that."

"How do you figure?"

"You're the one who decided to take action and then did.  Do you think for one second that either Arnold or Rebecca would have been able to do that—just walk right up to that sick worthless evil pile of puke and jam that bone saw in his kneecap?  Because I sure as hell don't."

"They're damn brave kids."

"I know that!  I'm just saying that of the three of you who were in that room, no one else but you could've made that first strike.  The rest of them didn't have that weapon in their hand; the rest of them didn't have the presence of mind to figure out that you had him outnumbered in a very enclosed space; they didn't have it in them to commit that kind of violence against another person, not alone, not by themselves, but you did—and you know why?  Because the rest of them didn't have twelve years of god-awful nightmare memories to call on for strength—don't look at me like that.  Yeah, I said 'strength'.  That's what you showed then, Christopher.  Okay, maybe it was vicious and brutal and ugly as hell but it was necessary—and it was still strength.

"You should be proud of yourself for what you did.  I don't know that I could have done it—I don't know that anyone could have done it, anyone but you.  You took four incredibly frightened kids by the hand and led them out of a dark place of torment so unspeakably horrible that most people can't even begin to imagine it; you took them away from any more suffering at Grendel's inhuman hands.  Their anguish is back there, you understand me?  Yes, they'll have painful memories, and they'll have nightmares, sure—how the hell could they not?—but because of you their anguish has been left back in a damp basement along with the chains on the walls and the shadows in the corners and the echoes of all that screaming from below.  And I hope it rots.  I hope it lays there and sputters and becomes so rancid even the rats won't want it.  Because that's where it belongs; not out here with you.  You're beyond all that now, you're above it.  You always have been.  You just didn't want to believe it was possible that you were still a decent human being.  Well guess what?  I watched you kill a man in cold blood and I'm sitting here, looking right at you, and saying that you very well may be the single most decent human being I've ever met.  It may be the only genuine distinction of my life to be able to say that I once knew you.  I look at you and think about what you've been through, what you've done, and I feel completely and utterly insufficient.  You're one of the best people I have ever met, Christopher.  I'm proud to be here at your side, buddy.  You bet I am."

He was looking at his hands in his lap.  They were quite still now.  He took a deep breath, looked at me, then slowly reached out his hand, grabbed my nose, and yanked it back in place:  the crack! that sounded in my skull filled the world and I screamed, doubled forward, and cupped my nose in my hands.

"What the hell did you do that for?"

"If you have to set a broken bone, it's best to do it when the other person isn't expecting you to.  Hang on and I'll get a splint and some other things."

I was in so much pain I couldn't move, so arguing with him about it didn't seem the constructive thing to do.

He came back with another can of sanitary wipes, some medical tape, and a metal nose-splint with foam padding on the inside.  "You're go