Three years ago, I killed a guy named Blake Davis. I was 25, fresh out of the Marine Corps, about to be a father for the first time with my girlfriend Mel. Blake was home on winter break from Yale Law School. He was standing by a pool table in a bar, trying to pick up a blonde waitress. He put his arms around her waist and yanked her towards him. His friends laughed and egged him on. She told him to get lost, once, twice, but he only grasped her tighter, his lips touching her neck. She started to cry. I drained the last of my bourbon and got up. I had known Blake in high school. I didn’t like him then, and I didn’t like him now. If the Corps had taught me anything, it was to always trust your gut.
I walked over to him. He looked up, drunk, and saw me coming. In a flash, he pushed the waitress away, raised a pool stick, and took a wild swing at my face. I ducked, pivoted, and the fight was on. His friends circled us, forming a makeshift octagon. We traded blows for a solid minute before the fateful moment came. I evaded another quick punch, grabbed him by the jacket, and drove my open palm right into his nose…
Blood spattered on his white Ralph Lauren polo. Time seemed to slow down. Everyone stared. Blake just stood there, wobbling like a Mortal Kombat character. Then he went down…hard. His head smacked the pool table, his body went limp, his eyes rolled back in their sockets. Slowly, the whole bar gathered around us. Someone called 911. Someone else felt for a pulse. An hour later, after everyone had been interviewed by the police, I was arrested. Fatality.
My mom and I were completely broke, so we went with a public defender, who informed me that the state was charging second-degree murder. “What do you mean?” I said. “He swung at me!” But Blake’s parents were both lawyers, well-connected at the DA’s office. The PD asked me to plead down to involuntary manslaughter. I would serve 4 years in state prison, probably get out in 2. That was better than taking our chances at trial. He explained that I had acted in self-defense, sure, but not perfect self-defense (whatever that meant). I felt so numb, so ashamed, that I didn’t bother to argue with him anymore. I took the plea.
Blake’s parents came to my sentencing. His mother sobbed. His father glared. I caught Mel’s disappointed eye as the bailiffs walked me out of the courtroom in cuffs. In one single moment, my life had changed forever.
-–
Killing someone – especially when you don’t mean to – is just as horrible as it sounds. The feeling clings to you like a rotting stench, no matter how hard you try to wash it away. I had plenty of time to wallow in prison. I wrote apologetic letters to Blake’s parents, all of which went unanswered. I wrote letters to Mel, begging her to wait. She visited a couple times after giving birth. I looked at our daughter Haley through the glass, longing to hold her. I promised to send toys, money, whatever I could afford. It wasn’t nearly enough. After 18 months, Mel’s letters stopped coming. I figured she had met someone else, or was too busy wrangling a one-year-old and working two jobs.
Prison life was scary, filled with Bible-thumping, bench-pressing convicts. I got into my fair share of fights until a few of them took me under their wings and kept me safe. I learned to keep my head on the swivel and my temper in check. I started to study law books and thought about going back to college. The guards and wardens noticed.
I got out after 22 months on good behavior. I said goodbye to my cell mates and told them to look me up when they were out. I stood alone in front of the prison, wearing the same clothes I had on the day I was booked. As the gates closed behind me, I got the queasy feeling all released convicts do: that the free air of America was no longer very free.
That feeling proved right. Mel had definitely found someone else – a real estate developer who lived in Malibu. Blake’s parents now ran a nonprofit charity bearing his name. I saw his angelic mug plastered on posters all over our small town. Shopping for groceries, standing in line at the DMV, everyone stared at me and kept their distance, like I had a contagious disease. I wanted to leave, but I still had no money, and in any case, a felony follows you everywhere. I decided I would have to come to terms with being the town pariah for the time being. I put my head down and applied for jobs, tried to get into night school. No luck. Turns out one wanted to take a chance on a convicted killer. Go figure.
Luckily, my mother had developed arthritis, and it was getting worse, which meant she couldn’t manage the run-down rental properties she owned anymore. She let me move into one of her houses on Camellia Avenue as long as I kept it up – mowing the lawns, painting the peeling shutters, plucking leaves out of the rusty swimming pool. She also introduced me to a young woman from her church, Emily, a chef at a local Vietnamese restaurant. Emily was sweet; she never looked at me with pity or fear. She had bags under her large almond eyes from working late nights. She gave me a job washing dishes at her restaurant, paying me under the table. We began to spend a lot of time together, walking garbage bags out to the bins or eating banh mi at the small square tables on lunch breaks. Eventually, we kissed. Her breath smelled like cigarettes and mint leaves. I told her I liked her, and she smiled.
In the mornings, I FaceTimed with Mel so I could see Haley, catching glimpses of Mel’s new boyfriend behind them in their enormous stainless-steel kitchen. Haley was starting to recognize me and call me “daddy.” And the court finally granted me my first supervised visit, set for the last weekend of January. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, but things were slowly starting to look up.
Until Ned Jacobs tried to kill me.
-–
It was a beautiful Thursday morning. I was minding my own business, smoking a cigarette on my front porch. The street was quiet, the air crisp. I tapped some sparkling ashes on the concrete steps when I suddenly heard a primal yell, followed by the sound of running footsteps. I looked up. My neighbor from three doors down, Ned Jacobs, was sprinting down the street, wearing nothing but striped pajama pants and a black satchel strung over his neck.
This didn’t exactly alarm me. Ned was a weird old guy who owned an antique shop on Main Street. I’d caught him one day a month ago letting his dog take a shit on my lawn. He apologized, picked it up, and chuckled. He was a little high, he admitted – on weed and a touch of acid. He’d been microdosing for a while now to help him with his anxiety. We chatted for a bit about some items he’d just gotten in – vases from India, Tiffany lamps from New York. He invited me to visit his shop, or to come over to his house to get high. I nodded, said I’d drop by, and that was that.
Now, he was sprinting down our street half-naked. I figured the acid had finally caught up with him. I laughed to myself, waved and whistled. I didn’t want him to get hit by a car.
Big mistake.
Without breaking stride, he turned his head and stared at me. His eyes bored into mine. Then – he shifted direction. He angled sideways and kept running…straight at me. By the time he reached the curb and leapt onto the lawn, his hands were balled up into giant fists.
Immediately, my instincts kicked in. No fucking way was this happening again. I shook my head. “Back off, Ned,” I said. “Sit the fuck down and sober up!” But he didn’t. If anything, he came at me faster.
Two seconds later, he was within striking distance. He cocked a fist, let it fly. Quickly, I sidestepped it and rolled onto the lawn. WHAM! Behind me, Ned flew face-first into the cast-iron railing on the steps. His large body flopped to the ground with a thud, face down.
A long moment went by, my pulse pounding. Thoroughly shaken, I got up and stood over him. I rolled him onto his back. Blood dripped from his forehead, a nasty gash. His eyes were closed. I knelt down and shook him. “Ned,” I said. “Come on, man, get up.” I glanced down at his chest, saw it rise and fall. Thank God he was still alive. Then I looked up, out at the street. A few neighbors had come out of their houses. They stood along the curb, staring at me. “Call 911!” I shouted to my neighbor, Mrs. Hathaway. She immediately pulled a cell phone from her pocket.
Ten minutes later, lights and sirens blazed at the curb. I cringed when I saw Sheriff Jack Nelson get out of his squad car and give me an unmistakable well, well, well glare. Nelson and I went way back – back to the night I killed Blake Davis, to be exact. A rookie cop at the time, he had been the first officer to arrive on scene at the bar that night. I’d read the deposition he’d later given the court before my sentencing. Jealous. Aggressive. Needlessly violent. A threat to society. Now, he was walking on my property, gun drawn, telling me to get on my hands and knees all over again. He sneered at me, clearly enjoying this moment. “What has it been,” he said. “Five months? Five months and you’re already breaking parole…” I looked up at him as he grabbed me and slapped cuffs on my wrists. “Six,” I said, “but who’s counting.”
A team of paramedics hovered over Ned and took his vitals, then hoisted him onto a gurney. As they started to wheel him away, he woke up. He blinked. His body jerked against the yellow restraints. He looked up at the paramedics with wild eyes. “Burn it!” he croaked. “Burn it!” A young medic nodded sympathetically…ok boomer…then injected him with some diazepam. “Burn it, burn it, burn it…” Ned repeated, slowly dozing off as they lifted him into the ambulance.
After they left, Sheriff Nelson and his partner Jimmy interviewed me. I told them exactly what had happened – Ned had come out of nowhere, clearly high, and attacked me. Actually, he looked like he wanted to murder me. Nelson glanced at Jimmy when I said this, not buying it. I started to get angry with each passing accusation they made. No, I didn’t have any beef with Ned, and no, I’d done nothing to provoke him. Then Mrs. Hathaway flagged them down from across the street. Nelson left me cuffed on the porch with Jimmy and went over to her. Ten minutes later, he came back and reluctantly took the cuffs off my wrists. She had shown him some Ring cam footage, which backed up everything I’d said. I rubbed my wrists and watched the sheriffs as they walked back to their car. “Don’t get too comfy,” Nelson said, looking back at me one last time. “One wrong step and you’ll be back in my car faster than you can wipe your ass.” I waited till the car turned the corner, then flipped him off.
I smoked another cigarette, then turned around to go back inside. I was about to open the screen door when something caught my eye. I looked down and to the left. Something was buried in the hedges, just a few feet from where Ned had fallen. I bent over and brushed aside some leaves. I stared at it. It was a blue glass bottle, richly colored, a wooden cork lodged in its thin neck. It must have fallen out of Ned’s bag. I leaned over some more and picked it up, holding it in both hands. It was empty. It looked like a vintage wine bottle, or maybe a vase for flowers. Sunlight shone through it, accentuating its rich hue. I turned it over in my hands. There was some writing etched on the bottom: Breath, J.S., 1892.
Slowly, I got up and took the bottle into the house. I set it on the kitchen counter, washed my hands, and poured myself a glass of whiskey. (So what if it was only 9 AM? I had earned it.) I drained my glass and poured another, glancing over at the weird bottle beside me. I’ll hang on to it, I thought, till Ned is out. He would appreciate that once he had come down from his trip, and maybe even give me a cut of whatever he got for selling it. I finished my drink and went to take a shower. I was late for work.
-–
I told Emily about the morning’s events as I scrubbed grease stains off her pots and pans. She looked at me incredulously, wrapping spring rolls two stations away. She was always fascinated by my stories, but this one definitely took the cake. Deep down, I think she was turned on by my reputation as a “bad boy.” Looking back on it, I have to admit that I played the part with her pretty well.
That night, I took her back to my place. We stumbled into the dark kitchen, kissing. When I broke away from her to flip on the light and pour us a drink, I noticed something strange.
The blue bottle on the counter had moved.
I stared at it for a long moment. Emily noticed and asked what was wrong. I examined the counter, sizing it up. Was I going crazy? No…the bottle had clearly moved at least four feet. It now sat on the edge of the sink, instead of by the wall where I’d left it.
Then I noticed something else: The cork was sticking halfway out of the lip.
Blood beating, I told Emily to stay where she was. Someone had been in the house. I grabbed a baseball bat from a closet and combed the entire property, searching for any signs of forced entry.
But there weren’t any. The doors were all closed; the alarm system on. Puzzled, I went back to the kitchen, where I saw Emily holding the bottle in her hands. She had taken the cork out.
She looked up at me, concerned. I mumbled something about everything being okay. Then she glanced down at the bottle. “This looks fancy,” she said, turning it over. “What is it?”
I took it from her and put the cork back in. “No fucking clue,” I said. “But I’m going to give it back the first chance I get.”
The specter of a home invasion happily out of mind for now, I placed the bottle on the kitchen table. We drank a glass of wine each, then made our way to the bedroom. Before long, our clothes dotted the floor. Emily got on top of me, straddling my legs. I unstrapped her bra and leaned up to kiss her. She grabbed my cheeks. Her tongue circled mine. Her teeth found my lower lip. She bit down… hard.
Ow. I winced and licked my lip. Blood. Before I could object, Emily had pushed me onto my back and pinned my arms to the bed. She leaned over my face and looked at me. There was something…feral in her eyes. She looked different. .
Figuring she was trying something new, I went along with it. “Who are you,” I said, “and what did you do with my…” Bam!
Before I could get another word out, Emily had slapped me across the face.
Whoa…I was definitely not prepared for this. My cheek smarting, she began to ride me. She took both hands and placed them on my neck, applying pressure. I could feel her pressing down on my larynx, harder and harder until I could barely breathe. This was where I drew the line. Quickly, I reached up, grabbed her, and rolled her off me.
I stood up and turned on the light, gasping for breath. “What the fuck, Em?” I said. She looked at me, breathing hard, her hair wild and damp. After a moment, she calmed down enough to speak.
“Sorry,” she said, smiling. “Was that too much?” I licked my lip again, tasting iron. “You think?” I said, forcing a smile. I didn’t know what else to say. On the one hand, this was sexy as hell, but on the other…it wasn’t exactly her style. Not exactly…her.
After another moment, she crawled over to me and put her hands around my waist. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said. “Can we try again?” I looked down at her and nodded. I turned the light back off, and slowly, we got back into our usual rhythm and made love.
When we were done, she fell asleep in my arms. I listened to her heartbeat, to the wind in the trees outside, unable to fall asleep. I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something…someone…had been inside this house.
In the morning, I made coffee, relieved to see that the blue bottle had not grown legs and moved again. I brought a cup to Emily in bed, carefully avoiding any mention of the night before. An hour later, as she got dressed to leave, I told her I was heading to Malibu for the weekend to visit Haley. The excitement in my voice was palpable. As she walked out the front door to her car, she kissed me, said she was happy, but that she’d miss me. I told her I’d call and text every chance I got.
I watched her drive off, then went back inside. I was almost to the kitchen when the phone rang.
It was a nurse from Mission of Mercy Hospital. One of their patients, Ned Jacobs, was asking for me. “It’s urgent,” she said. “He’s in bad shape, and you’re the only one he’ll talk to.” I swallowed. Please don’t let Ned die. Please don’t let Ned die. I hung up, grabbed my keys, and ran out to my car.
At the hospital, I checked in at the front desk and took the elevator up to the thirteenth floor. The nurse was waiting to escort me to Ned’s room. “We’re transferring him to the psych ward,” she said. “Don’t be alarmed, but he’s restrained for your safety and his.” Jesus, I thought…he must have gone on one hell of a trip…
Two sheriff deputies guarded Ned’s door. They smirked as I passed by. The nurse brushed a small curtain aside, and there was Ned…
He was gazing up at the small TV on the wall. Sweat shone on his forehead and his eyes were glazed over. A quick glance at his vitals revealed skyrocketing blood pressure and a resting pulse of 90. Slowly, I walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. He startled and looked up. He stared at me for a long time, as if trying to remember who I was. Then, realizing, he whispered, “The bottle. Where’s the bottle?”
I looked down at him. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got it. Looks pricy.” He nodded feverishly, relieved. “Listen to me,” he said, shifting in the bed. “You need to get rid of it. It…it wants to….” He gasped for breath, unable to finish his sentence. I sat down in a chair beside him and put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. “Listen Ned,” I said. “Where did you get that thing? What is it?” He shook his head. “I can’t…there’s no time. You just need to…burn it. Destroy it. Get it far away. I don’t care. But whatever you do…don’t open it.”
I sat back in the chair, remembering how Emily had popped the cork the night before. I’d never been a religious person, or someone who believed in the supernatural. I was the kind of guy who laughed through horror movies and fell asleep like a baby as the credits rolled. But something about the way Ned was talking – not to mention the fact that I was sure the bottle had fucking moved – was really creeping me out. I tried to reason with him one more time. “Come on, man,” I said. “Where did you get it? What does it ‘want’ to do…?”
And then…BAM.
I was not prepared for what came next. As if possessed by the ghost of Samson, Ned jerked hard against his restraints, snapping two of them and yanking the wires off his chest. He sat straight up in the bed, turned to me, and lunged. His burly arms reached out and grabbed my neck, cutting off my air supply for the second time in as many days. Alarms started to wail. As I struggled to breathe, the two deputies rushed in and pulled Ned off me, pinning him down on the bed.
“Burn it,” Ned said as I moved away from him, his eyes wild again. “Burn it, burn it, burn it, burn it….”
Medical personnel flooded the room. As they injected Ned with more drugs, I backed out and ran down the hallway, my neck throbbing, a headache forming at my temples.
-–
I drove home as fast as I could, breaking multiple laws along the way. Fuck probation. Something was inside that bottle, and that bottle was still inside my house. I swerved into the driveway, fumbled with the keys at the door, and rattled it open. I raced to the kitchen table…
But the bottle was not there. Jesus Christ. I bent down, searching the floor. Nothing.
Then, I heard a noise behind me.
It sounded like…clinking glass.
I whirled around…
And immediately froze. The bottle was sitting on the kitchen counter now. It teetered on the edge of the sink.
And that’s not all.
It was…quivering.
I stared at it for a long moment to be sure of myself. All my doubts were shattered when the cork began to twist, rotating higher and higher…
This was some next-level shit. I silently promised God that I would go back to church again, become celibate, enter the seminary, as long as this fucking thing stopped moving. Almost instinctively, I made a feeble move toward the counter. I didn’t want the cork to pop open again.
But I was too late. Halfway there, the cork shot into the air and plinked to the linoleum floor.
And the bottle…dove for the sink.
What the fuck?
It whirled around the metal basin, then stood up and came to a rigid upside-down stop above the drain, its neck pointing straight down. It pulsed violently, as if emptying out some unseen energy.
That was the last straw. I approached the sink as cautiously as I could and grabbed the bottle. I tried to yank it out. But it wouldn’t budge. It was like a vacuum had formed in the drain. I braced myself against the counter and pulled harder, and harder. All of a sudden….whoosh!
The pressure released. My hands flew up, the bottle between them. I stumbled back and crashed into the stove, falling to the floor. I breathed hard, saw the cork lying next to me. Quickly, I shoved it in and marched the bottle to the backyard. I found a metal trash can, threw some old newspapers inside, and tossed the bottle on top. With one flick of my lighter, I torched that fucking thing. I watched the blue glass bubble and dissolve, feeling the searing heat on my face. Only when the fire had died down, only when there was nothing but ashes and blue goop left inside, did I breathe a sigh of relief.
-–
I spent the next two hours packing my things for the weekend. My visit with Haley could not have come at a better time. I needed to get the hell away from here, forget everything that had happened in the last 24 hours. Forget that I was clearly going insane. As I packed, I reasoned with myself. Ned’s attack had traumatized me – unearthed feelings I’d tried to repress since Blake’s death. I promised myself that as soon as I got back, I’d go to therapy, get on Zoloft, whatever it took.
Duffel packed, I decided to get an early start. I checked Apple Maps and saw that Malibu was two hours away with traffic. I just needed to make a couple quick stops before hitting the road.
I passed by the trash can on my way to the car. The bottle was still toast. Whew. I locked the gate, got in my car, and headed for Main Street.
I pulled up to Bank of America five minutes later. There was a long line at the ATM. I stood on the sidewalk and scrolled on my phone to pass the time. After a few minutes, the line still hadn’t moved. “Come on, let’s go!” a beefy guy in an Ed Hardy t-shirt yelled. The man at the ATM turned around and glowered at him beneath the brim of his baseball cap. “This is an important transaction. You mind?” I looked at the rest of the line. A few old ladies and a couple in their twenties, holding hands. But something was…off. Everyone here looked jittery. Tapping their feet, shifting from one foot to the other. Ed Hardy kept staring at Baseball Cap, looking like he was just dying to start something.
He was.
In one quick move, he broke from the line, walked up to the ATM, and grabbed Baseball Cap by the shoulder. Before Baseball Cap could react, he slugged him in the face and pinned him up against the machine. Large bills flew from Baseball Cap’s hands, fluttering to the ground. The rest of the line stared, then moved closer to the fight.
That was my cue to exit. Fuck that, I’ll just use credit. As the fight raged on, I got in my car and peeled out.
I pumped gas at a station a few blocks down, looking out at the growing rush hour traffic. Drivers laid on their horns, a few of them aggressively swerving through the clogged intersection. When the pump clicked off, I got in and merged back onto Main.
I drove toward the freeway and listened to the radio. 10 Freeway jammed, multiple accidents…great. I stopped at a red light, fiddling with Maps on my phone. Then I looked up and noticed something off to the left: “Ned’s Antique Store.”
The sign said “closed” and all the lights were off. But the front door looked like it was… open. I don’t know what possessed me to turn left and park in front of that store, but I did. I figured I might be able to find some clue, some shred of evidence that would explain the crazy shit that had been going on. At the very least, I’d be doing Ned a favor by locking his door for him.
In front of the shop, I looked down the street both ways to make sure no one was watching, then opened the door and walked inside.
The place looked like an episode of Pawn Stars gone bad. Old steamer trunks and vases lined the front entrance. Gold Siamese cats waved their paws up and down on glass shelves, and giant clocks tocked on the walls. I flipped on a bank of lights. “Hello?” I said.
Hearing nothing, I ventured further back. I came to a small office. I flipped on another bank of lights, revealing a mountain of papers on a sad little wooden desk. There were open containers of bad Chinese food all over the room. Waving away the putrid smell, I walked over to the desk and glanced at the papers on top.
They were bills. Past Due, Past Due, Final Notice…
Damn, Ned was in deep. Then I noticed something else. I brushed the bills aside and picked up another paper. It was an itemized invoice, dated one week ago. I ran my finger down the inventory. A few bottles of rare burgundy at $800 a pop, a chandelier from France for 2 grand, and…bingo.
Breath, John Shackleford, 1892, Private Collection. There was no price.
I put the invoice down, pulled out my phone and Googled “John Shackleford, 1892,” fully expecting to read about some artist or winemaker no one had ever heard of.
But what popped up was something else entirely. Something that made me queasy.
The first entry I found said: John Shackleford, notorious serial killer, terrorized London in the late Nineteenth Century, brutally murdering…
With growing horror, I clicked on a Wikipedia page.
John Shackleford, cause of death, asphyxiation.
I scrolled some more.
Notable quotes: “Only those who have stared death in the eye will truly live…”
Scrolled again.
Urban Legend: Shackleford’s last breath captured and delivered to London authorities…
I stopped scrolling. I felt dizzy. None of this made any sense. This guy’s last breath was trapped in that blue bottle? And now it was…haunting me?
I clicked my phone off and put it in my pocket. Malibu was looking better and better.
Then I heard a noise.
It came from outside, on the street. The screech of tires, the crunch of shattering glass. Followed immediately by…an explosion. I ran to the front door….
And…BANG!
Was greeted by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. I got down on the floor fast and peered out the window. What I saw defied logic. A UPS truck had smashed into a Dots cupcake store, gutting the façade. A few yards away, a sanitation worker in a red vest was sprinting across an intersection, chasing a woman in a bright yellow yoga suit. The woman looked very familiar to me. It was…Mrs. Davis. Blake’s mom. She was heading straight for the shop. The sanitation worker kept chasing her, holding something in his hand. I recognized it from my time in the Marines…a 9mm Beretta.
Mrs. Davis raced onto the sidewalk, barreling past the shop. The sanitation guy raised the gun to fire at her…
But then…
Bang! A bullet struck his leg from behind, cutting him down in mid-stride. He hit the ground, and the gun clattered away. Blood spurted on the window.
Panicked screams filled the air. The sanitation guy struggled to his feet. He reached out for the gun again…
But I got to it first.
Without thinking, I had raced out of the shop, put my foot on it, and slid it out of his reach. Then I picked it up. He scrambled up and lunged for me, but I jabbed a knuckle into his neck before he could try anything cute.
I breathed hard and looked over at Mrs. Davis. She was clearly thinking the same thing as me: What the fuck is this fresh hell? She started running again. I glanced around and took in the scene.
Brawls were breaking out at traffic lights. Pedestrians were dragging motorists from their cars. Sirens screamed past me, police cars everywhere. One of the officers leaned out his window, a gun in his hand. Jimmy. In a flash, he raised the gun, aimed and fired at a passing motorcycle cop, blowing him clean off his bike. Several blocks down, more automatic gunfire chattered.
Main Street was a fucking war zone.
My thoughts raced, remembering what I’d just read. Uh…was this somehow all my fault?? Did that fucking bottle get into the water supply or something?
Whatever was happening, I needed to get out of here, fast.
Quickly, I racked the Beretta’s slide. Goddamn it felt good to hold a gun again.
I tried calling Emily, but it went straight to voicemail. I tried my mom and Mel too and got the same result. Panicked, I went for my car, gun drawn.
Then I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Drop it, now! On your knees, hands on your head!”
It was Sheriff Nelson.
Great, just what I need. Felon in possession of a firearm…
Slowly, I dropped the gun and kicked it away. I got down on the ground…I knew the routine. Nelson came up from behind and picked up the gun. I glanced up at him. His face was streaked with blood. He was breathing hard, eyes darting everywhere. He looked…overwhelmed. He bent down to slap some cuffs on my wrists…
Just as…BOOM!
Another explosion rocked the air, knocking him to the ground beside me. A giant Hostess delivery truck had rammed into some gas station pumps.
Quickly, I stood up. Despite myself, I offered Nelson a hand. He looked up at me and took it.
“What…” he said. “What the hell is going on?” He was dazed, totally out of his league. I pointed to the antique shop. “In there,” I said. We hurried into the shop and took cover as the blaze from the station grew bigger.
The glass door closed, insulating us from the chaos outside. Nelson caught his breath. His handheld radio chirped. Riots on Tenth Street, electricity out city-wide, multiple deputies reported to be using excessive force and gunfire…
He looked at me. “I need to call the National Guard. The Governor. Something…”
I looked at him, bleeding, drenched in sweat. I actually felt bad for the guy. After everything we had been through, we found ourselves bonded together in this moment by our common fear. The fear of being fucking killed. I said the only thing I could think of.
“Look, Sheriff, this is going to sound weird, but…”
I told him about the bottle. How I’d found it in the bushes, how it had moved, how it had gotten into the drain, how it apparently contained the last fucking breath of a serial killer from the 1800s. I showed him the Google hits. When I was done, I couldn’t read his face. He just looked at me with a blank stare.
Believe me, I knew this was crazy. I knew how I sounded.
But just then…
BAM! Two cars collided in the street, right in front of the shop. As smoke rose from their engines, both drivers got out and started to fight. The first driver grabbed the second and tried to gouge his eyes out. The second raked his car keys across the first’s neck, drawing blood. I looked over at Nelson.
You got a better explanation?
Nelson looked back at me and asked a simple question. “If this thing, this breath, is making people kill, what’s stopping you and I from shooting each other dead right here?”
I thought for a moment – he had a point. But then it hit me.
The quote. I brought it up on my phone again and read it to him. Only those who have stared death in the eye will truly live. I looked at him. “Have you ever killed anyone?” I asked.
He looked at me hard, almost ashamed. “Yeah. My first year on patrol.”
I nodded, my theory gaining steam.
“Maybe it doesn’t affect us,” I said, “because we’ve already killed.”
A long moment went by. He looked out the window at the growing carnage. “So you’re saying the only people we can trust right now are…”
I nodded. Killers. He looked at me, then outside at the bloodbath, a new understanding forming between us. A long moment went by. Then he handed me the Beretta. I took it, ejected the mag, checked. Six rounds left. As I rammed it back in, we formed a plan. He would call the governor, sure. But we’d have to fight our way out of here first. We’d have to find a way to stop this thing before it spread any further.
We went out the back of the shop, heading east toward the county jail. We were going to find some killers.