Author's note: This is a fill-in-the-blanks story from Out of the Past. This little story wrote itself today... thanks very much to Phoenix for reading it over for me. I have no idea why it's in the second person... I was just taking dictation at the time.
Rated PG-13 for language.
Silver Haze
“I thought I told you to stay in the car.”
She doesn’t answer. She’s just staring at Lee Jay bleeding out. God… his blood… you can smell it, and you need it so bad. You wanna go lick it off this filthy floor, tear his throat out and gulp while his heart’s still beating. All that food wasted. Jesus, why won’t she just leave, so you can –
Crap, what are you thinking?! Get a hold of yourself, you idiot. Sure as shit, if you dragged Lee Jay or one of the others around a corner and started to feed, Beth would snap back into reporter mode, and come looking to see what you’re up to. No – you’ve gotta get away. Away from here, away from Beth. Get away fast, before the silver makes you so sick you can’t stop yourself from going after the dead. Or even worse… after Beth.
Lee Jay’s voice comes out of nowhere and you jump, sending shooting pains through your body. You’ve gotta get out right now, or it’ll be too late.
Beth’s staring at the TV now, still holding the gun in both hands, her stance sagging a little now from shock, and the weight of the pistol. You stagger past her and she never even blinks. She’s staring at Lee Jay’s image pontificating on the screen. Her face is white and slack, like she’s in a daze. Like she can’t believe any of this is happening.
Well, she doesn’t know the half of it.
You blunder down the dark hallway. Your night vision’s already starting to go south. God, he must’ve gotten you good. Two loads of silver buckshot, front of the right shoulder, back of the left. You can feel the poison circulating through your system, numbing and hurting at the same time. Your arms feel heavy, and blood’s dripping off your fingertips.
Finally you’re outside. The night air is cool, and you can feel your hair prickling as your scalp breaks out in gooseflesh. Gotta get home. Gotta get home. It’s a mantra running through your head, in time with your limping footsteps, your ragged breaths.
Thank god – she left the keys in the car. You fumble the door open and groan as you sit down, feeling the intolerable stabbing of smooth leather against your back. Try to start the car but your right hand’s not working, you can’t twist the key. Crap. Support your numb right hand with your aching left, ow, ow, oh god, it hurts so bad.
OK, she’s starting. Thank god for automatic transmission. It’s not far, not far.
Gotta get home.
Shit. There’s no blood at home. What the hell are you gonna do? Think, think. Your head is pounding, all you can think is gotta get home, gotta get home, gotta get home. But home won’t help if there’s no blood.
The morgue. OK, stop there on the way. It’s not too far. You can pick up the blood you ordered after you gave your stash to Josef, and Guillermo can help you get the buckshot out, too. OK, this’ll work.
Gotta get to the morgue, gotta get to the morgue, gotta get…
* * *
Oh no, who’s this? You don’t know him. OK, you can do this. Guillermo will have left you the stash. You just need to get it.
“Hey, where’s Guillermo?”
The guy looks up at you and his mouth drops open. “Christ, what the hell happened to you?”
You try to grin. “You should see the other guy.” You’re leaning against the door, trying to look casual. Keep it together, man, just stay cool. “So where’s G?”
“He’s off tonight, man. Anything I can help you with?”
You take a step forward, trying not to grimace. “My name’s Mick, I’m a PI. Guillermo said he had something for me... for a case.”
The guy frowns. “Oh yeah, he said something about… what did you say your name was again?”
“Mick St. John.”You fumble your wallet out of your pocket and show him your PI license.
The guy glances at the ID and nods. “Yeah, he said… hang on.” He goes into the other room and comes back with a package wrapped in brown paper.
“Thanks, man.” You take the package in shaking hands and walk away nonchalantly till you’re out of his sight; then you break into a lurching run down the green corridor.
* * *
Home at last. You pick up the parcel off the seat and tear the brown paper off the bags, stuffing them into your coat. Keep it together. Almost there. It’s torture to take the key out of the ignition. You leave a huge smear of blood on the upholstery.
The elevator crawls up to the penthouse and you stagger out, fumbling for the remote. Don’t drop it. You almost fall, leaning against the wall. Why won’t it open?!
Finally the beep and the door clicks. You stagger toward the couch and fall to your knees, dumping the blood bags on the table.
Gotta get it open. Fingers won’t work. Don’t pop it.
Finally… the tube’s in your mouth and you’re sucking so hard you’re afraid the plastic will collapse. Squeeze the bag. More, more, more. You can’t get it in fast enough. It’s running down your chin. Don’t waste it.
Oh, god – what’s that??
“Mick?”
No, no… please… please. Not Beth. Not now.
<>
dear! 
She let Mick slip out. But in good reporter form, she caught him later!
Imagine my shock. I swear, somebody was telling me this story...
