Their necks start to hurt from staring up at the metal door.
“You think they’re gone?” Sweet says the blood from his throbbing thumb wound running down his forearm so that every minute or so he’s forced to wipe it away with a filthy dishrag. “You know what we need, Picasso? We need ourselves one of those periscopes like they use on the nuclear submarines that run under the ice at the North Pole. Then we could periscope up and see exactly who we’re dealing with. Make a surprise attack.”
The pain in Moss’s leg is beginning to ease. Rather, he’s bleeding so badly now that a pool of his dark red DNA has formed on the floor directly beneath his chair. The blood-letting is making him feel woozy and drugged. The pain that had been stabbing at his nervous system with every beat of his heart has been replaced with an almost euphoric feeling.
“Question is, asshole,” he says, “how do you get that periscope up through a layer of ice that must be a hundred feet thick?”
Sweet bleeds, stares at his partner like he just farted something wet and foul.
“Can you for fucking once just go with something I say? Can you just for once accept it for what it is and not analyze the fucking living snot out of it? Can you just give me a little fucking credit for once?”
Moss smiles. “I’ll give credit when the credit is due, asshole. And right now, the only credit I can give you is for being an asshole . . . a stupid, dumb fuck, computer geek asshole.”
The throbbing in Sweet’s right hand is so bad, it feels like a blood-filled balloon about to pop all over his chest and face. How the fuck is it going to be possible to hold a rifle or a shotgun? At least he’s got his left hand to work with. He uses the hand to reach for the riot shotgun laid out on the tabletop, grabbing it by the pump, cocking the weapon one-handed by snapping it up and down, John Wayne style. He then turns the barrel on Moss while shifting his hand from the pump lever to the trigger grip.
“Apologize,” he says.
Moss looks at him for an extended beat. Then, feeling himself growing a smile, he starts to laugh.
“Now that’s funny, stupid periscope-up-against-the-ice asshole.”
Sweet stands fast, kicking the chair out from under him. “Apologize.”
“What, you say something, asshole?”
“Apologize, Picasso. Or I’m going to blow your brains out.”
Moss laughs some more. “You and me, asshole. In case you hadn’t already noticed. We’re fucking as good as dead. No Mexico, no sandy beach, no crystal clear blue water, no señiorita tettas in your mouth, no freedom, no Shawshank Redemption of any kind whatso-fucking-ever. So, what difference is it going to make at this point if you blow me back to hell?”
A single, sad tear falls down Sweet’s cheek. Heart pounding in his throat, he feels the weight of the shotgun in his awkward hand, feels his finger on the trigger, and he’s amazed to see the lack of fear in his partner’s face. It’s almost like the son of a bitch wants to die.
Sweet sniffles, swallows a wad of bitter-tasting post-nasal drip.
“Well, well, Picasso,” he says, “if you wanna die that bad.”
Extending his shooting arm, he aims the barrel at Moss’s stubbly, round face. Pointblank. But Moss is laughing so hard now, he can’t get a breath. He’s going to pass out.
“Shut up!” Sweet shouts. “Shut up! Shut! Up! Shut the fuck up!”
The cloud of smoke becomes noticeable then. It’s beginning to pour into the room from two different places—from the vent opening directly to Sweet’s right-hand side and from the identical ceiling-mounted vent on his left-hand side.
“What the fuck is that?” he says.
Moss’s smile fades. He suddenly finds himself perked up, and along with it, the severe pain returning to his shattered leg.
“They’re trying to smoke us out.”
The smoke pours in, and along with it, the oxygen is replaced with toxic air.
Sweet starts coughing. “Jesus, I can’t fucking breathe.”
He jogs over to the vent on his right, aims the barrel of the shotgun at the vent, fires. The round of heavy buckshot blows a hole into the acoustic ceiling, and at the same time, causes the source of the smoke to catch fire. The fire immediately spreads to the old, dried-out ceiling tiles.
“Nice going, asshole,” Moss says. “Now we’re on fire. Maybe we should periscope up, see if the coast is clear.”
“Shut up, Picasso!” he screams. “For once, shut the fuck up!”
The smoke spreads so thick it’s blinding. If not for the fire, the place would be entirely fogged in with a thick gray-black toxic cloud.
“We gotta get out of here,” Sweet says. “We gotta leave.”
“I can’t make it,” Moss says. “You go. Shoot whoever is doing this and leave the hatch open. I’ll get out on my own. Go, get lost. Be gone, asshole.”
Sweet looks at his partner. It’s hard to see his face through the smoke. But he sees it well enough.
“You don’t have to tell me twice, Picasso,” he says, dropping the shotgun back onto the table and shoving one of the pistol barrels into his belt. Digging for the padlock key in his pocket, he makes his way to the steel ladder. “Been nice knowing you, fat cock. Have a nice life and an even nicer slow death.” He laughs, then sings, “I’m going to Mex-i-coooo,” to the tune of the 90s’ Dada classic, I’m Going to Dizz Knee Land.
Climbing the ladder, Sweet unlocks the padlock. Pushing the steel hatch open, he looks one way and then the other. But the last thing Moss sees before passing out from smoke inhalation is Sweet’s gun falling through the thick gray cloud, slow motion, to the shelter floor.