The Infection

The cop paced around the room impatiently, sniffing the air and shouldering the walls. Todd lay under the bed and tried not to breathe, flooded with panic and fear. The emotions reminded him of school, the strange feeling that everybody hated him. He watched the cop’s boots track blood across his carpet. The minutes ticked by. The cop continued to pace and knock things over. The room began to fill with a rancid sour-milk stench, forcing Todd to breathe through his mouth. After an hour, the cop left. Todd heard him in the bathroom, splashing in the toilet. Then the man came back, coughing wetly, and resumed his march around the room.

After a few hours of this, Todd grew bored and eventually fell asleep.

He woke up dry-mouthed and sweaty and fighting a massive urge to piss. He almost cried out at the jolt of confusion he felt waking up under his bed, but remembered the danger he was in and wisely kept his mouth shut. Thank God he had not snored or farted or laughed or did any of the other things he speculated that he did in his sleep. He had no idea what time it was; the sun had gone down and he could barely see his hand in front of his face. The maniac cop was no longer pacing but was still in the room. Todd could smell his sour stink and hear him breathing in quick, shallow gasps. He wondered if the man was sleeping. Should he risk moving? The thought of leaving the security of his hiding place paralyzed him with fear. He did not know exactly what the cop would do to him if he caught him but just the idea of being dominated physically by a stronger man electrified him with revulsion. He stalled by fantasizing about his dad coming home, and warning him just in time that the cop was there, saving his life. Then he fantasized about Sheena X coming over to check on him, and saving her life, which gave him an erection. An hour went by like this while the night breezes delivered the sounds of screams and squealing tires and gunfire through his window.

He realized that he had to do something soon or he might be trapped under this bed for another full day. He crept towards the far edge of the bed, stopping to listen every few inches. The policeman panted like a dog. Finally, he left the shelter of the bed and wondered what to do next. A part of him wanted to stand up and make a run for it on pure adrenaline, but this notion was quickly overruled by his tiny but growing voice of common sense. Do nothing and you’re going to die, Todd old man, he told himself. So do something. The bedroom door was open and the cop was somewhere to his left. If the man was facing the door, he would see Todd. If he was not, then Todd might have a chance.

He slithered forward like a snake and paused at the edge of the bed, peering at the dark form swaying on its feet in the darkness. The cop was facing the corner. The white motorcycle helmet bobbed as the man breathed in his little shallow gasps, his shoulders shrugging in rhythm.

This is really freaking ninja, he thought.

Within minutes, Todd was free and gently closing the door behind him. He tiptoed to his parents’ bedroom, emptied his bladder quietly into the sink in the en suite bathroom, and began pulling boxes down from the top shelf of the closet until he found a heavy blue shoebox. Inside, he found nestled a small handgun, box of bullets and sheet of paper. He took the sheet to the window and squinted at it under the light of nearby streetlights. It was a note from his dad to him saying the gun was loaded and had no safety, so do not even think about touching it if he ever found it.

Awesome, he thought, picking up the gun.

The gun roared in his hand, punching two smoking holes through the wall. He blinked in the afterglow of the flash, his ears ringing and his nose burning from the cordite.

“Holy crap,” he said. His voice sounded muffled in his ears. “Aw, jeez. I barely touched it.”

Dad’s gonna murder me for that, he thought.

As his hearing returned to normal, he became aware that the cop was roaring and banging on his bedroom door. Todd ran to the hall, braced his legs and aimed the pistol with both hands. Strangely, the presence of the gun made him feel weaker instead of stronger. His hands started to shake. The door was shivering and splintering under the blows. He took a deep breath to try to calm himself. Picture the outcome, he told himself. He envisioned the cop bursting through the door and lunging out of the gloom. He imagined squeezing the trigger and putting two in the chest and one between the eyes. He pictured the crazy cop dying before he hit the floor.

“Screw that,” he said, lowering the pistol.

He ran down the stairs, stepped into his shoes at the front entry and bolted out of the house. Almost immediately he collided with a snarling woman coming up the driveway, the gun going off in his hands again and taking the top of her head off.

“Crap, sorry,” he said to the crumpling form, and kept running, into the night.