Bad Glass

“Women,” Danny said as he collapsed into the sofa next to me. “Fucking hell.”

“What did you see at her house?” I asked. “You followed her, right? That’s what you were talking about? What did you see?”

“I didn’t see shit. I followed her a couple of weeks ago, saw her mom through the window, and I left. I was just fucking curious, man. I didn’t mean her any harm.”

He grabbed the bottle of gin from where it sat at his feet. I let him take a drink before I continued my line of questioning. “Why’d you tell me about it, about her house? Why’d you send me there?”

“Because she likes you … and I thought it would help. Her. You. Whatever.” He shook his head and took another swig. “I guess I was wrong.” And then, exasperated: “My fucking bad!”

He offered me the bottle, and I studied it for a moment before taking a drink. The label was blurry. I was losing focus.

“I can’t wait for this shit to be over,” Danny said. “I can’t wait for the mushroom to burn and the air to clear. I don’t do well with chaos. I prefer things in their place. God in His house and man on his horse. Starbucks and movies and reliable heating. And booze on every street corner.” He gestured for the bottle, and I handed it back. My aim was off, and he had to grab for it a couple of times.

“Yeah,” I grunted. “Traffic and homework. Part-time jobs and cell phones on the bus.”

“And Internet porn,” Danny added.

“And commercials on TV.”

“Fuck it,” Danny said. He took another drink and lowered his head to the sofa’s armrest. He handed me the bottle and shut his eyes for a handful of seconds. “If you want, if you hate modern life so much, you can start a motherfucking commune when we get out of here. I’ll visit. I’ll help you weed the corn and milk the cows. Or milk the corn and weed the cows … or milk the bulls and fuck the corn.”

I was drinking when he said this, and I sputtered a laugh around the mouth of the bottle, getting the burn of gin up my nose. “Jesus Christ,” I sighed in mock exasperation. “It doesn’t even exist yet, and you’re already ruining my commune.”

“That’s what you get for being a good person, Dean,” he said, the words making their way out around a loud yawn. “Next time, try being a complete fucking asshole.”

I woke to a loud thunk.

I opened my eyes and saw Mac standing over Danny’s unconscious body. He had a splintered, weather-stained plank of wood in his hands. Danny’s head lay still against the sofa’s armrest. Blood seeped from a wound on his brow, and his eyes twitched beneath shut lids.

The room was dark. The fire had burned down to embers.

It was just the three of us here now: Mac, unconscious Danny, and me. There was no sign of Floyd or Charlie or Taylor.

In the dim light, Mac looked crazy. Absolutely insane. His hair and beard had grown wild in the days since we’d last seen him, and it looked like a dirty red corona around his face. He was absolutely caked in mud, head to foot. I couldn’t tell what color his sweatshirt and pants had originally been. His eyes were wide, and his lips were pulled back away from his teeth.

He stood there for a second, staring down at me. There was a bright glimmer in the shadow of his face: reflected light in his eyes. Then a hissing sound escaped from his mouth, and he started to swing the plank.

I tried to scramble back, tried to push my way onto the floor, but I was too late. Mac, wielding that giant piece of wood, slammed a dozen pounds of darkness into the back of my head.

And, once again, I slept.

Danny woke me up. He patted my cheeks—gently at first and then harder—until I managed to shake my head. The shaking made my head swim. There was a searing crater of pain in the back of my skull, cutting through the remnants of Vicodin and alcohol.

“What, what, what?” I sputtered, cringing away from Danny. He was a macabre specter hanging above me. A wide stream of blood had congealed against his face, cutting from his hairline down to his left eyebrow, where it had pooled and dripped down to stain the shoulder of his uniform shirt. His eyes were wild. There was spit on his lips, and his chin was wet.

“It was Mac,” Danny said, his voice hoarse and unsteady. Then a hint of doubt surfaced on his crinkled brow. “At least I think it was Mac. It happened so fast. He hit me pretty fucking hard.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “The man can swing.” I reached up and touched the back of my head, then immediately pulled my hand away. I didn’t feel any blood, but the skin up there was ridiculously tender. My touch set off a siren-paced throb, and I hissed in pain.

Danny stood up straight. His eyes turned toward the ceiling. “Upstairs,” he whispered, his voice hushed, cautious. “C’mon. Get up. We’ve got to check on the others.”

He grasped my hand and pulled me to my feet. I almost toppled forward onto the floor, but Danny grabbed my shoulder, and the room settled into place around me. I gave him a nod—meeting his questioning eyes—and tried to act strong, even as I felt the blood drain from my face, even as starbursts of light obscured my vision.