I blink.

Terror fills my chest as she continues to scream. The old man on the other side of the partition stares wide-eyed back and forth between me and the panic stricken woman, my phone still to his ear. I stand up but am at a loss for what to do. Three people hustle over to see what the trouble is. Someone immediately starts wrapping her stump without a word, probably a trained ER nurse. Someone else lays her down on an empty cot. So many people are suddenly demanding to know what happened, and my brain just halts. I’m unable to provide them with answers. All I can do is stand there, mouth agape. Tom’s missing head comes to mind.

“Hey, you,” says a tall brute in gray scrubs. He shoves a finger in my chest. “Care to explain?”

“I don’t … I’m so sorry,” I say. “I … I’m not sure what’s happening to me.”

“To you?” he says.

I look at my hands. “I’m so sorry,” is all I can say.

The man grabs my forearm. “This is her blood? What did you do?”

“Don’t touch me,” I warn, tearing free of his grip. I shove past him and move towards the woman I just unintentionally maimed. I slip in between two people attaching an IV to her arm. “I’m so sorry,” I say to her, leaning over her cot. “I’m so, so sorry. I—”

“Get away from me,” she growls through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Back off,” says another man, grabbing my shoulder. I shove him off me. Two other men take hold of me and pull me away. They drag me to the entrance of the tent. Before I’m shoved out past the canvas flap, I catch Timmy Tellmon’s eye. He looks just as scared and confused as I feel. Someone behind me is calling for the police and I realize it’s for me. So I run. Again.

I run out of the stadium, down the street past the medical complex, and back to my car. The street is now packed with parked cars. So I pull out my keys and maneuver into a field. By the time I’m able to access another road my arm starts to hurt again. This time the pain is mostly in my shoulder and in my palm.

I manage to make my way to an entrance ramp and get back on the highway. I’ve no idea where I’m going, I just need to go. So I drive and drive until the pain is nearly unbearable. The monument sign for a retail center catches my eye. It’s got a Walgreens and a Walmart right next to each other. I pull off the highway and make my way to the joint parking lot. I park in front of the store, don’t even bother finding a spot. There aren’t many available anyway.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Pain meds, that’s what I need. I need to stop the pain.

The 24 hour Walgreens is the closest to me. I get out and run towards the entrance. I only stop for a moment to consider the broken electric sliding door. It’s bent inwards. I duck under the bent frame and hurry to the back section where the medicine is. The overhead lights of the store are flickering. There’s no one else in here, save for two people who are making their way to the exit with armfuls of stuff. I watch them leave without paying before I start scouring the shelf for pain meds. At this point I can’t even use my right arm.

The strongest thing I can find is Tylenol. Lame. I look back at the pharmacy. No one is there. I make my way to the counter, check around, then hop it. By the mess I can tell it’s already been scoured. There’s more boxes of meds on the floor than there are on the shelves. I don’t know anything about drugs, but I can recognize a few names. Percocet. Vicodin. I almost step on a plastic case of norcos. That rings true. The light back here is really dim but I’m able to determine that these are indeed painkillers. They’ll have to do.

I run out of the store and hop back into my car. I drive to the back of the parking lot and find an open spot. Oh man, my arm hurts so bad. After I park I crack open the case of pills and chomp on a handful. Water? Do I have any? There’s a warm half full sparking water over there. I reach down, crack it open, and gulp down the rest. I put my head against the window and look at my mutilated hand. I still have dried blood on me. Her blood. Probably mixed with Tom’s blood. I close my eyes. It hits me then: I am just so, so tired.

Tap, tap, tap.

My eyelids flutter open.

Tap, tap, tap.

I have this overwhelming sensation of … rejection? Dismissal? But I’m not sure why. Residue from a dream maybe? Everything, everywhere is so bright. My eyes are so heavy. I feel groggy, like I’m moving through Jello. Side effects of the norcos, no doubt. I feel like I’ve been crapped out, stepped on, then rolled over by a tank. My arm feels better, I note. That’s a plus, at least. Hopefully it lasts.

Tap, tap, tap.

What’s that sound? I look out my window to find a man standing there. I suck in a breath and squint. Oh, he’s a cop. Black uniform, sunglasses, walkie hooked to the chest and everything. A small surge of panic creeps up my esophagus as I roll down the window.

The cop peers in with, “G’morning. I’m going to have to ask you to move, you can’t park here all…” but he doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he lets out a litany of profanity and pulls his gun.

I blink.

“Hands up, get out of the car.”

I want to shout “why” but my throat is too dry. So I fumble for the handle. As I open the door and put a leg out, something rolls off my lap and onto the asphalt.

“What?” I whisper. “What was that?”

The cop is yelling at me even louder now. He’s calling on his comms for backup.

My lap is wet, I realize, and I’m sticky all over. I step out, stand up, and nearly lose my balance. Definitely still feeling those painkillers.

My eyes come into focus as I stare at the asphalt. There, staring back up at me, is Tom’s decapitated head.