Crawling

by Robert Barlow

conclusion

111

Ryan could not force himself into the bathroom, had avoided it as much as humanly possible since he finished cleaning it up, and spent most of the night working on the program, which come morning would still not run. He washed up as best he could at the kitchen sink, combed his hair while watching his reflection in the toaster and used a generous splash of cologne to conceal any untoward odors. When he left for work, he felt tired and dirty.

The sky was overcast, the road still slick from overnight showers. Ryan drove his Mustang, his latest indulgence, down Oakland Avenue, checked his speedometer and peered into the driver-side mirror. Cars gathered in a long line behind him, but he did not care. He refused to drive faster than the posted limit, and being tired he kept it closer to five under. Behind him, a Jaguar rode close to his bumper, so close that Ryan could barely see the headlights in his rearview. The Jaguar’s driver smacked the steering wheel, looked at his watch, his mouth occasionally twisting open in short, angry spurts of shouting.

“Screw you, jackass,” Ryan muttered as he glanced toward the passenger side-view.

A squirming black mass swarmed across the white side of his Mustang, and a sudden buzz invaded the cabin, vibrated through the car. Ryan stomped the brakes. Horns blared. A resounding crunch echoed against the buildings along the road as the Jaguar rammed the Mustang and pushed it onto the curb, where it narrowly missed a group of people waiting for the bus.

Ryan’s car hit a newspaper vending machine, which demolished the passenger-side mirror and banged along the door. The din of twisting metal and breaking plastic filled the neighborhood as the chain reaction roiled down the street.

When the dust settled, Ryan unbuckled his seatbelt, threw it aside and leapt from the car. He ran around the nose, stopped and stared at the side of the Mustang, his thoughts writhing under a mass of black spots. The swarm was gone, replaced by a deep dent and several large scratches etched across the white paint. As he stood there, his mouth moving silently, the air misted with rain and sirens began to wail in the distance.

The officer on the scene ticketed Mr. Jaguar for following too closely.

After several short interviews with witnesses, the officer then issued Ryan a ticket for reckless driving and destruction of property.

1000

“Need some help?”

He looked up at the man behind the counter of Gary’s Guns and Ammo. Gary, he assumed. Ryan found the shop about two hours outside the city, in the outskirts of a rural community he would otherwise never have seen. He had no idea why he had come all the way out here; he had gotten back into his car and simply driven, feeling a need to get out of the city for a while.

After the accident, he called into work sick again, making Kyle terribly unhappy and prompting stern caution against missing the deadline — Ryan could picture the little vein in Kyle’s temple throbbing wildly.

Despite the sparse population and, Ryan imagined, a low crime rate in the area around Gary’s, a procession of iron bars lined the outside of the front window, which was small and clouded with dust that filtered out much of the sunlight. Guns lined the walls of the shop, standing like so many soldiers at attention, locked into place on metal racks. On the wall behind the counter, the placement of bumper stickers touted Gary’s love of firearms and the importance of the NRA.

“Yeah. A friend of mine is teaching me to pistol hunt. He has some guns, but I’d like to have one of my own. Something I can get used to.”

“What are you hunting?” Gary eyed him up and down, a smirk playing at his lips as he stroked his wiry beard, and stepped out from behind the counter.

“Whatever,” Ryan said, his throat suddenly dry. The shop owner was constructed after the fashion of a Mack Truck, and the top of Ryan’s head just barely reached Gary’s chin.

Gary stared at him a moment, then winked and displayed a grin exposing a mouth missing several of its teeth. “What type of pistol you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan said, considering the question. “Nothing too big, but something powerful.” His face felt suddenly warm. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something more intelligent, but then snapped it shut.

“You don’t know jack-shit about guns, do you?” Gary’s grin grew wider, and then he laughed.

Ryan winced as Gary clapped him on the back, took his arm and pulled him to the counter. The shop owner stepped back to the other side and placed a finger to the glass top, pointing to one of the pistols within. “That’s the Beretta nine-millimeter,” Gary said. “Only about two and a half pounds, fifteen round automatic, fast loading.”

Gary measured him up again and snorted another quick laugh. “You’ll look like Mel Gibson, and the recoil won’t knock you on your ass.” He took a set of keys from his pocket, opened the sliding door on his side of the counter and pulled out the pistol. He held it out by the barrel to Ryan.

The gun looked big, much bigger than they ever looked in the movies. Ryan took it hesitantly, but the weight surprised him — it felt good in his hand, the trigger seemed cast to fit his finger. “I’ll take it.”

“Good. You won’t regret buying this baby.” Gary turned around and pulled a stack of paper from one of the cubbyholes behind him. “We’ll just get the paperwork all filled out, I’ll rush it in, and you should be able to pick it sometime next Tuesday or Wednesday.”

Ryan placed the gun on the counter and shrunk back a step. “Next Tuesday?”

“Yeah,” Gary said, again examining him, but the grin was gone. “There’s a mandatory five day waiting period while a background check is run.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Ryan’s heart jackhammered as (he’s going to call the cops i’m dead get out of here) he wiped away sweat beading on his forehead and repositioned his glasses on his nose. “Never mind, then.” He turned and walked away, straining not to run.

“Hold on,” Gary called as he opened the door. “Come here a minute.”

Ryan schlepped back to the counter.

“I suppose you look okay.” He pushed a small notepad and a pencil toward Ryan and then planted his hands on the countertop, one to either side of the Beretta. “I can help you out. I’m going to give you a name and a number.” His face fell dark. “But if you run into shit, you didn’t get it here. I never met you; never saw you before in my life. The guy at this number can reach you wherever you go. Got it?”

“I understand.”

“Damn right, you understand.” Gary grabbed the gun and placed it back under the counter. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. He wrote down Gary’s every word.

1001

Ryan, five thousand dollars lighter than he was twelve hours earlier, sat on the toilet seat with the gun in his lap. He had placed his notebook on the edge of the tub, screen propped open to display lines of code that no matter how he changed them would not run. He checked his watch — 4:00 a.m. His eyelids felt heavy, as though the lashes were weights pulling them closed. He made a few changes to the program, and then sat back. He waited.

At the top edge of his vision they appeared, a convulsing black cloud covering half the wall. They buzzed, churned angrily. Ryan slowly lifted the gun.

He sprang from his seat, head turned aside to keep them in his periphery, to prevent them from escaping. He pulled the trigger and the gun roared. All sound died, except a harsh ringing that filled his head. He pulled the trigger again. Tile erupted. He felt bits of it prick the side of his face, forcing his eyes shut. His hands felt numb around the power of the weapon as he unloaded round after round into the wall.

The gun locked, the last round spent. He released the clip, pulled a fresh one from his back pocket and reloaded. Again he squeezed the trigger, emptying the gun.

The room filled with a thin, gray smoke. Mixed with the white dust of pulverized tile, grout and drywall, the fog carried an acrid smell that nearly overpowered him. He dropped the second and jammed the third into the Beretta. As the clip snapped into place, he stopped. He looked at the ruined tile, through the large holes the gun had punched through the wall, and into his bedroom beyond. His eyes widened and he gasped. The gun fell from his hands.

1010

His hearing gradually returned, though everything still sounded muffled and distant behind a dull ringing tone. He ignored the knocks, then banging, at the front door. When the door broke open he remained seated, wedged between the toilet and bathtub, knees up against his chest, pecking at the laptop’s keyboard. As the officer stepped into the room, others standing just outside the door, Ryan pressed ‘F5’ and watched the compiler run.

The officer assessed the scene, then holstered his weapon. He kicked the Beretta behind him and stared down at Ryan; his companions remained at alert, weapons drawn, though lowered.

“Ryan,” the officer said. “Your neighbor said your name was Ryan. Is that right?”

The compiler’s progress bar reached one hundred percent and as the program’s main window appeared on the screen Ryan howled with joy.

The officer jumped back a step, and the others raised their weapons. Ryan sat, rocking slightly, a wide smile devouring his face.

“Ryan. We need you to get up,” the officer said as he leaned down beside the bathtub. “We’re here to help you, Ryan, but we need you to come out and talk to us about what happened.”

Ryan looked at him with eyes red and glassy. His smile faltered a moment, then returned even wider. “Finally got it,” he said as the officer took his arm and pulled him to his feet. “The corporate anti-virus. Network admin ran updates on the server last week, and they screwed up my workstations, crashed the program. But it was such an easy fix.” He laughed. “So simple.”

As Ryan was escorted from the room, the black dots swarmed around him and multiplied.