“stop. . . stop please. . .”
It’s the weakness of the voice, not the resistance of flesh against fist, nor the hot blood gushing over his hand, that clues Abe in that this is real, not another daydream.
He would never daydream someone making such desperate pleas.
He stops stabbing. Takes a step backwards, along the side of his car, to get a better look at his assailant.
Assailant. That’s rich. You’re the one who just ventilated his torso.
He’s looking at a young man. A kid, really—probably only a year or two out of high school.
Thin. All elbows and Adam’s apple. A faint spray of acne. A mop of unruly hair. Huge, innocent eyes. Even huger now, in their shock.
The kid is hunched over, holding his stomach where Abe just introduced a new series of speed holes, but Abe is able to see the kid is wearing baggy jeans and a loose, red and white polo shirt that bears the gas station’s logo on the upper-left of the chest.
A loose black backpack was slung over the kid’s right shoulder; now it droops off of his elbow.
“Sorry,” the kid wheezes. His voice is high and reedy. Barely pubescent. “I’m—”
He collapses against the car.
Almost instinctively, Abe steps forward to catch the kid before he hits the ground. He’s babbling apologies, too.
“No,” the kid manages in a high, quavery voice. “My fault. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you, I was just. . . stuck in the storeroom so long, I was so glad to see some—ohhh, God.” He loses his ability to speak in a wave of wooziness. His eyes roll up, revealing the whites. Abe thinks he might even pass out, but the kid manages to stay conscious with obvious effort.
“Fuck,” Abe says. “You’re hurt bad. Um. Fuck!”
The clerk’s midsection is slick with blood. He’s so heavy. Almost dead weight already.
“Did you see him?” The clerk asks. “The. . . eyeballs?”
“Yeah.”
“Any. . . other survivors?”
“No.”
The clerk gives a wheezy laugh. “I woulda done the same thing.” He hisses in pain clutches at his stomach wounds. “So stupid. . . Didn’t want to make too much noise, so I didn’t yell first. I’m really sorry.”
“Stop apologizing! I’m the one who’s—I’ve gotta help you. We gotta get you to a hospital.”
“Feeling. . . dizzy. . .”
He’s probably losing too much blood. He might not even make it to a hospital. Shit. Fucking shit.
Leave him, his grandmother hisses in his head. You’re so close.
“We’ve gotta stop the bleeding.” Abe’s eyes fall back on the convenience store. “There are bandages and stuff in there.” Abe doesn’t move, though. Not yet. Because. . . well, what if this is a trap?
The clerk looks at him, bent over his wounds. His eyes are so big and brimming with tears. It’s as if he reads Abe’s mind.
“You don’t know me, man. Just go. Get help. Save yourself. Please.” He looks at least three shades whiter already. Like he’s literally draining in front of Abe. Ashen circles above his cheekbones. His acne-haunted face slick with sweat.
Abe looks at his car. Looks at the man—the kid!—he might have just murdered. Looks at where the CR8H8 van used to be.
Don’t you DARE, Abraham.
The clerk echoes his grandmother’s sentiments.
“Don’t.” Voice cracking like a goddamn thirteen-year-old. He clutches Abe’s arm with one bloody hand. “Please. Get out of here while you can.”
The kid’s hand feels so small against Abe’s arm. So light. So desperate for Abe to be selfish. To be like his goddamn, awful grandmother. But what’s the point of surviving if he sacrifices his damned humanity to do it?
“Hey,” Abe says, breaking free of the kid’s grip without difficulty and holding up his glass shard. “I can defend myself.” He gives the kid a pained grin. “Or didn’t you notice?”