Remo Went Rogue (8 page)

PART III

15

This is not REM sleep.

This isn’t even REMO sleep.

This is what happens after a guy called Chicken Wing beats you to a pulp.

There are no dreams. No tits, no pussy, and no aerial sex with a blue chick. There’s only a thick, swollen mass of nothing.

A cerebral shit sandwich.

If there’s a state of being wedged somewhere between awake, asleep and dead…this is it.

Remo drifts in and out of consciousness a handful of times. There’s a flash of being dumped into a trunk and landing on a spare tire. He vaguely remembers not liking it. Later there was a red glow, of brake lights he guesses, flashing off and on while Remo rolled back and forth like a grocery sack
.

Other than that bit of fun, all Remo knows is that it feels as if his skull was thrown down a hole, with demons and ghouls spitting on it all the way down.

He also retains a smeared vision of Chicken Wing wailing on him, and noticing that Mr. Wing was really, really enjoying it. Remo can’t wait for Johnnie Blue to take that memory out of his head. That is if he ever sees his good buddy Blue, or his favorite mix of R&B, again.

During one if his brief blips of consciousness, Remo thought he was going to die. For a fraction of a second, before he drifted off again, he thought that Chicken Wing was going to cut him up and spread his remains all over the city.

His eyes go heavy.

Roll back.

Back to black.

Remo comes back online again, remembers reading in the files that the Mashburns have done this bit before. They caught up with a witness, a cab driver who said something he shouldn’t have…the truth. They hacked the guy into pieces with an axe and then fed those morsels, bones, guts and all, to some pigs down south.

He thinks it was in
Georgia
, maybe
Arkansas
.

Fortunately, Remo’s been unable to maintain a consistent state of consciousness. Thank God for that. Not that Remo is a religious person at all, but where else is he supposed to go with this? He’d rather not watch the axe come down. Rather not be a treat for a pen of pigs. He’d rather just wake up later, in heaven.

That’s right.

Remo thinks he belongs in heaven.

Fuck you for thinking otherwise.

He feels the car slowing down. Remo’s mind scrambles, screaming inside his head, Please let me pass out again.

The brakes squeak and the trunk lights up red as the car comes to a complete stop.

Remo’s heart races, skipping beats, slamming harder and harder inside his chest. His lungs can’t find air. His mouth robbed of all moisture.

16

A swollen, raw hamburger of an eye struggles to open. When it finally does, red spider webs decorate the white of his eye.

Remo is in a familiar spot; a stiff chair in his dining room. His face resembles road kill. His limp body hangs off the chair like bachelor's laundry. Looking around, he’s not sure how he got here.
 
Sitting up he scans his home, wincing the whole way. Even his hair hurts. Nothing is out of place, not a single thing moved, everything right as he left it. The front door is closed.

The leather bag he packed for his escape rests next to him. Even his baseball bat is against his chest, wrapped in his arms. He sees his customary bottle of scotch, a full glass on the table in front of him.

For a moment, he thinks maybe this wasn’t really happening. Like in the movies. It was a dream or he is really dead—well, not that—or something along those lines. How sweet would that be? If all this shit was some big hoax his mind was playing. Or, maybe, he took a few too many whacks to the head from Chicken Wing and his brain crammed too far to side or the other. Perhaps he had a few too many sips of the sauce and blacked out. Not like it’s never happened. Perhaps he miscalculated his R&B and took a little snooze. That hasn’t happened for a long time, but still, it’s completely plausible. These thoughts bring him comfort, until he moves the bat from his chest and finds a note pinned to his shirt.

Comfort shot to shit, he gives the note a rip. As he reads it his stomach sinks to the floor. His hands vibrate, his good eye twitches. Penned in the same writing, and skill level, as the previous note, it reads:
Told U not 2 fucking run cunt.

Remo springs from his chair as a panic-fueled freak-out bubbles up and spills out. The chair flies backward, crashes hard against the wall causing an overpriced painting to fall to the hardwood, breaking the glass.

He grabs the bat and searches the apartment.

Races to the bedroom, yanks open the closet door. Empty.

Heads to the bathroom, rips back the shower curtain. Nobody.

Back to the living room, Remo stumbles through. His eyes sink back into his skull. The weight of it all crashes down on him as Remo leans his back against the wall he slides down in a heap. Complete break-down at his finger tips. He battles hard to keep it at bay. His options are complete shit, his life pretty much the same.

He looks to his iPhone on the floor. It lies there, mocking him, begging him to make the call. Almost slapping him with the obvious choice he needs to make.

Remo pulls up the text that Victor sent him earlier, the one with Hollis' contact info. This is the last call he ever wanted to make, but does it anyway. Like calling your parents for rent money when you’ve blown everything on booze, like asking your wife for one more chance, like asking someone you’ve wronged greatly to help save your life.

He dials. Each ring is like a vice grip to his testicles.

Finally there’s an answer to his call of desperation.

A strong voice answers. It’s only one word, but it has a tone, a coolness that gives you nothing but tells you everything. The voice of Hollis answers, “Hello.”

Remo has no idea how to start this conversation, even the mere sound of Hollis’ voice make him want to piss himself and hide under the table.

“Hello . . .” Hollis presses.

No choice, Remo swallows big and replies “Hollis, its Remo.”

Deafening silence from the other end of the call.

“Hollis, its Remo. I don’t know what to say here, but I really need you to give me a minute . . .”

Click. Hollis is gone.

What little color Remo had in his face washes white as his thoughts do jumping jacks. He rocks back and forth, face wrapped in his hands. Pulls them away and stumble-crawls to the bathroom with as much speed as he can muster.

He flies to the bowl, flings up the lid, and vomits violently. It’s the rare type of sickness that can only come from the knowledge that you will certainly die in a horrible, horrific fashion. From knowing it’s all your fault and that things could have gone much, much differently if only…if only…

Fuck it.

 
Remo falls back from the toilet, pulling down a towel from the rack.

Wipes his face and gives an oddly timed laugh.

Dead man puking, he thinks with a giggle, a twinge of pain spiking up in every part of his body.

The cold reality of the situation hardens his expression.

17

The last thing Lester remembers is really enjoying a handful of that delicious fried rice. Then there was the familiar crack of gunfire, some shattering glass, screams and then darkness. Now that he thinks about it, he recalls a flash here and there of an ambulance ride. There’s also a fuzzy recollection of being rushed down a corridor by many people. Words and phrases like, “Not gonna make it,” and, “Fucked,” being thrown around.

       
As he opens his eyes and looks around, he realizes he’s in a hospital room.

       
God bless them.

       
He did make it.

       
Lester scans the room with his eyes. He doesn’t want to make any sudden moves that might draw attention or frighten the young woman checking his vitals. She’s standing next to a tray that contains an array of medical things. He can’t quite make out what they are. She’s pretty, he thinks, real pretty. For a moment, in his weakened state, his mind reverts back to his old self. His old self would love a piece of this young, pretty nurse. His old self would do things, even if she didn’t want to do them with Lester.
 
He was inside for a long time—a long time without the touch of a woman.

He’s only a man, he thinks, and man was born a sinner.

What’s the harm?

       
He allows his fingers to graze the young nurse’s hand. She jumps back, more startled than anything, as she exclaims, “Oh my God!” The words, and the sweet sound of her voice, snap Lester back to a correct frame of thinking. Like a windshield wiper on his damaged psyche, his impure thoughts are wiped away.

His head gets right.

       
The Lord.

       
His new calling in life.

       
Remo.

       
Lester jumps from the bed, tearing the tubes from his arms. He wraps his thick, tattooed hand around the nurse’s mouth. Her eyes bulge as her voice is reduced to a muffled murmur under Lester’s vice grip. He shushes her with a soft, caring tone. Reassuring her that he will not harm her, he just needs a few things and some information.

       
He speaks to her in a warm, friendly voice, barely above a whisper. “Blink once for yes, twice for no. Is there someone guarding outside?”

       
She blinks her green eyes once.

       
“Is he armed?”

       
One blink.

       
He moves her to the window so he can get a look outside. The windows are sealed shut—he can work around that—it’s more about the height. His room appears to be a few stories up. Nothing crazy, but still a long way down. Lester takes note of the ledge along the side of the building and a dumpster farther down the way, delivery trucks passing by. At least there are a couple of options. He won’t know what will work best until he gets out there, but thank the Maker there are options.

       
Neatly folded in the closet is a pair of sweats and a nondescript white t-shirt. They must be there for when he wakes up and needs to go down to physical therapy.
 
He takes a moment for personal inventory. Doesn’t feel great, but he’s felt worse.

       
He scans the tray the nurse brought in. It contains gauze, tape and some syringes.

       
Again he addresses her in a kindly tone as he instructs, “Please take everything off that tray, and whatever you have on your person, and place it all in the trash bag from the bathroom. I have no intention of hurting you, but I will not hesitate snapping your pretty little neck if you prevent me from completing the Lord’s work.”

       
The nurse’s heart pounds, reaching a level of fear she’s only seen on TV.

       
Lester continues, “I also need you to assist me in changing into those clothes and dress my wounds for travel.”

       
She’s frozen. Terrified. Can’t even muster a nod.

Lester recognizes the symptoms. He’s caused this response in men and women many times before. That was in the old days, of course. Perhaps he should have left out the snapping her pretty little neck bit. He’s still learning to maneuver within his newfound faith.
 
But, damn, it was easier in the old days. In those days he would simply resolve the situation with some violence. It would be quick and painless, for Lester at least.

No. While following his current path, the righteous path, he must stop and seek to understand what the other person is feeling. Seeking to understand is slow and somewhat painful at times, but it does keep a man in step with the Lord. This, for better or worse, is the path Lester has chosen.

Damn, it’s hard work.

Lester takes a breath, forces himself back into his calming mode, and addresses her again. “Everything is going to be fine as long as we work together on this. Can you help me? Please blink once for yes, twice for no.”

She starts to calm down. There’s something in his eyes. She believes him.

Lester gives her the slightest of nods, as if he’s willing her, leading her to the correct answer.

       
She blinks once.

       
Lester hides his shock. That actually worked? Perhaps this isn’t as hard as he thought. One last thing before they get started. He asks, “I had a bible with me. Do you know where it is?”

       
She blinks once.

       
Good girl.