The Best at Dying

by Joshua Allen

A cold wind settled on East Dubuque, Illinois. The river

brought that wind, carrying it downstream like a stick in the

ripples. Brad shuddered in his cab, unaware of the cold. Brad

was twelve again. His brother Connie was screaming, chanting as

he danced around with a plastic camouflage machine gun in his

hand. "You didn't even flinch, that was fucking awesome!"

 Connie, fresh out of jail, was all Brad could think about

these days. Brad felt the ground slam his back. Pretending to

die in the middle of their favorite game: war. In war, good

soldiers died for their friends and brothers. They fell down

flat because they couldn't feel, and they didn't ever, ever

flinch. Brad was the best at dying. His brother Connie, the

master at using the sacrifice as fuel for revenge, unleashing

unholy hell on the enemies as Brad lay there at his feet,

pretend blood coating invisible wounds.

Later, Connie discovered crystallized methamphetamines, and

the attentive older brother, the one Brad knew would always take

on his little brother's battles when the lines were drawn,

crumbled away quickly and permanently. Connie. There had been

good times.

Brad shuddered, now feeling a stronger gust of wind pulling

him from his dream. Brad woke when a metallic click snapped into

his ear. He jumped, turned his head.

The dark empty barrel of a gun was staring back at him and

for a moment he thought he must still be dreaming, because he'd

been dreaming of dying. But then the gloved hand behind the gun

tightened and the dark-skinned face behind the hand snarled. The

face belonged to a kid no more than seventeen. "Let's ride,

Regulatah." When Brad didn't immediately react, the kid jabbed

him in the temple with the cold steel tube. Then, in a voice
that sounded almost introspective and educated, he added, "Or I

can paint that window with your brains."

Brad leaned up, still feeling the cottony wetness of the

dream world in his eyes. He put the car in reverse. Blinked. The

world came into focus. He looked to his left as he pulled out.

No cars. No other cabs. A drunk, possibly homeless man was

sleeping in front of a store window half a block down, a brown

paper bag held near his lips. Brad backed out of the diagonal

parking spot along the side of the street and into the road. He

pulled his column shifter into drive.

Brad's voice sounded hollow to his own ears, as though

devoid of life. "I have two hundred dollars. All yours."

The kid lowered the gun out of sight and smirked, but

didn't speak. If Brad had been living in a city, he would have

had a Plexiglas shield between himself and the back seat, but

small town cabs didn't have that.

The kid looked away for a moment. "Fucking right." The kid

turned back, his face suddenly lit up with almost comic

animation. He pushed an invisible hat up with his gun and spoke

in an imitation of a cowboy bad guy. "Yer money or yer life."

Brad's heart stopped. He found himself squeezing back the

pressure from his bladder. "You can have the car too." The cab

wasn't Brad's to give, of course. It belonged to the company and

was old and dented.

 The kid pointed to the left. "Turn down there, stay off the

bridge, preacher's kid."

Brad's heart leapt. How could this kid know anything about

him?

Brad turned under the bridge and up the low hill on the

other side. The bridge would have taken them back to Dubuque,

Iowa, back to where there were still cars and people driving

them who'd had a bit too much to drink. All the nights Brad had

cursed those drunken drivers. Now he'd give anything to be among

them. The kid pointed the gun instead down a long road that Brad

knew terminated at a small marina on the Mississippi a few miles

down. Except for the occasional passing barge, the Old Man would

be deserted this time of night.

Brad glanced in his rearview. The kid was looking out the

window absently. He looked far away, as though thinking about

some event coming up. The kid winced. Maybe he was worried about

a school project.

The crews on the passing barges wouldn't hear him screaming

from the marina, not with the noise of the tug and the river

filling their ears. Most of the boats were out of the water this

time of year. The ones that weren't would be empty.

Brad tried to wet his lips, but his tongue was like

sandpaper. He'd made sense of the boy in the back seat's words:
preacher's kid. His mind's calculus could draw only one

trajectory from that zero point.

Connie.

He and Connie were both preacher's kids. if the young man

behind him knew that fact about Connie, he knew that about Brad,

too. And if this was somehow Connie's doing, then he might be

dragging Brad into something much worse than a little armed

robbery. Truth be told, Brad had been expecting to hear about

Connie any day now, but he'd been expecting a return to jail, or

death--not this.

Brad glanced in the mirror. The kid scratched his head with

the barrel of his gun. Brad said, "I'll get out here." The kid

didn't respond, so Brad felt a little bolder. "It'll take me an

hour to walk back to a phone from here, but I won't even call

the cops until tomorrow." Still nothing, and he felt even

bolder. "You can have my cell phone and my credit cards. I won't

say anything."

The kid turned his attention back to Brad. Brad could see

the kid aiming the gun at the back of the driver's seat. "Sorry."

The kid said the word with a shrug. ain't it, Preacher's Kid."

The kid made a shrug that said Sucks to be you.

"Sorry." Brad repeated the word quietly.

 The kid was black, young, but distant. All the times Brad

had kicked out people he thought of as rednecks for insisting on

being racist pricks, and this was his fate?

Brad tried to read the kid's face. Brad saw a wedding

dancing through the kid's mind. He could see reflections of the

cake, the men in tuxedos, the minister in a full robe, the

wrinkled organist, and the white-walled church no bigger than an

airplane bathroom stuffed with people fanning themselves with

their poorly-glued programs. The kid was supposed to give the

best-man's toast and was terrified to speak in front of God and

everyone. The kid winced again.

Brad's cab reached the rectangular surface of the marina

parking lot. This was the last bit of pavement on this stretch.

The river filled the space on three sides of them now. The

Mississippi River was silent beyond, though its stench reached

them.

Brad kept driving straight.

"Park up there, PK." He aimed the gun at Brad's temple.

"You don't mind if I call you that, do you?"

Brad shook his head.

The kid motioned with the gun to the far corner, close to

the water. Another car was parked up there under a lone

functioning street lamp. Brad felt a prickly sense of relief. He

was going to be all right. The kid was meeting someone. He just
wanted a free ride, that was all. The rest was a joke. One of

Connie's prison friends playing a sick joke. Brad would probably

even be allowed to keep his cab. The kid probably just needed

Brad's money. Just enough money to buy a wedding present.

Brad stopped the cab with the tires still on the pavement,

but just barely so. The black kid said nothing. The CB blared to

life in a burst of static. The dispatcher's voice, a voice that

always reminded Brad of a macaw he used to visit at a pet store

when he was a kid, screamed out into the silence, "Seventy-six,

you awake out there, or what?"

Brad glanced back at the kid. The kid motioned with his

gun. "Skin on out."

Brad pointed at his radio. "But that's me. They'll think

something's wrong if I don't answer."

The kid shrugged and repeated his command. "Something is

wrong, PK." Again the kid pushed up his invisible hat. His eyes

went wide, white disks in a black void. "Time to mosey." He

flashed a bright white smile.

The radio came to life again, but it was muffled this time

as Brad stepped out and closed his door. His hopes of keeping

the cab sank. But surely they wouldn't kill him. Why would

anyone want to kill him? They meant to get some money out of

him, maybe rough Connie and he up a little. Right now, Brad

would take a beating with a smile. The kid got out and pointed

his gun at Brad's face.

The back door of the other car opened. The kid pushed Brad

forward with his gun. When they were close, Connie stepped out.

He looked strung out. High on something. God knew what. Brad

felt initial relief, but the feeling died the next instant.

"This our man, PK?" The kid stabbed Brad in the shoulder

with his gun.

Connie avoided looking Brad in the eyes, though Brad was

staring right at him. Connie nodded. Brad waved his hand. Surely

Connie was helping him.

The kid put his hand on Brad's chest and pushed him

backward one step. The gesture was almost polite. The kid

stepped into the doorway of the back door. For a second he

pointed the gun back into the car, where Connie was sitting. "Be

glad it isn't you. For touching my little nephew. Up to me?" The

gun swiveled and now Brad was again the target. "I put you down

like a lame horse."

Brad's stomach sank back down. When he was younger, Connie

had gotten in trouble for molesting the neighbor's kid. At the

time, Connie had been young, so no one called the cops or

anything. Years later, Connie's first arrest had come for

statutory rape of a thirteen-year old girl. Connie had been

twenty-four at the time. Brad could see the story play out with
instant clarity, like a holy vision. Connie had traded Brad's

life for his own.

The kid with the gun looked at Brad and shrugged. "Say

goodnight, PK."

Brad saw the dark barrel of the gun come up to his face.

Would he see the bullet coming at him, or would the world just

go black and that would be all she wrote? Would he feel his

bowels empty?

"Wait, man." Connie's voice from the back seat, shaky and

distant, like a man about to lose his hold on reality. The kid

moved to the side and Connie emerged. "He's my brother." Connie

held out his hand. "Let me do him."

The kid shrugged. He twirled the gun like a gunslinger, the

movements mixed with a kind of fluid dance of the kid's hands

which blended in with the kid's coat and were nearly lost in the

darkness. A few quick moves later the gun was aiming butt first

at Connie. The kid flashed another toothy smile.

Brad's brother took the gun. He squeezed it, pointed it in

the air, adjusted his grip a couple of times, and then pointed

it at Brad's heart. Connie was looking at Brad now, full in the

eyes.

"We're clear after this?"

Brad opened his mouth to respond. All the fights they'd had

over the years flashed through Brad's mind in that instant: the
time Connie had been high and mad at his girlfriend and had

roughed Brad up, the time Connie had locked Brad in the basement

all night with no lights, the time Connie had snuck into Brad's

room and fondled him...

None of that matters, Brad wanted to say. All is forgiven,

Brad thought.

, Connie. All you had to do was ask.

But of course, Connie wasn't talking to Brad. The black kid

shrugged. Brad could see another gun emerge from his coat as he

spoke. "That's right, PK. Make sure you put it right between the

eyes. Don't want him scampering away."

Brad closed his mouth. Connie raised the gun up to Brad's

head. The gun shook. Brad thought about the games they used to

play, about the fake deaths he used to perform for his brother,

to inspire him to greatness. Falling without flinching, like a

dead man, a hero. He wondered if that real death would be

dramatic. He wondered what he'd say for his last words. Brad

felt himself choking. He couldn't breathe. He hadn't thought

about himself and Connie playing army in years and now this.

Brad realized his hands were up around his shoulders. He

dropped them. Connie winced, turned away slightly, preparing

himself for the blood splatter and the rest of the

unpleasantness that would follow.

 Or was that a wink? Was Connie so fucked up and strung out,

his wink almost got lost in unreadable facial contortion? Brad's

only hope was if this were true. Something leapt out of his

chest and like a cold wind on his face and gave him a gentle

shove.

Brad started falling an instant before the gun was fired.

The gunshot was a small explosion in his ears followed by

profound deafness. Brad fell. A burning finger touched his

foreheadhead. A thin, white-hot snake slithered through his hair.

He felt his body hit the gravel at the edge of the parking

lot, as limp as the dead. Or maybe he was dead. Maybe dead was

no end, but just an endless staring at a black sky. He wasn't

breathing. He didn't dare blink.

There was nothing for a silent moment that seemed to

stretch out as long as the Mississippi River that flowed

endlessly just beyond the trees. The wind stopped.

Then there was another pop, this one distant and buried in

a small box on some island far away from where Brad was. Brad

felt something heavy land on top of him, big and heavy as the

sky itself, but still he didn't so much as flinch. When a

wetness dribbled down his face and the taste of blood entered

his mouth, still he didn't move. Then there was a voice

distantly shouting, then the sound of a car kicking up gravel.

 Brad tried breathing, but his mouth filled up with that

thick liquid, filled with something that reminded Brad of flakes

of tuna floating in a creamy macaroni and cheese. This was his

hell: damned to choke on this mess for eternity. Brad kicked out

his arms and legs, suddenly panicking for air. He was losing

control of his body, on the verge of fouling himself.

He emerged from under the weight that had fallen on him and

into the night air. His blew the chunky liquid out of his mouth

and then breathed, his eyes fixed on a cluster of trees in the

distance, trying to fight back whatever that pressure inside his

chest and throat was trying to do to him. He felt that if he

moved he would fall off a cliff. An eternity passed before one

shaking hand finally wiped his face, clearing the mess. Brad sat

down on the bumper of his taxi cab and stared at what had been

lying on him.

Of course, it was Connie.

Connie's head was split open, blooming like a bloody lily.

Brains were everywhere, spread out across the gravel and sand

like sticky bread for seagulls. Brad steadied himself, glad now

that he had not eaten tonight.

Brad probed his forehead with his fingertips. There was a

dent on his forehead. It was tender to touch, but Brad forced

his fingers to give him a report of the damage. The bullet had

gouged a crooked path in his skull, but the bullet had gone just
high, delivering only a glancing blow. His brains were still

tucked safely away. Spiny bone poked his finger through blood

and ruined skin. Distantly, Brad heard sirens.

"You armed kid? You need an ambulance?" The voice was down

by the marina. A single light shined down there. Brad didn't

answer.

A man approached from the darkness. "I saw you land. You

didn't even flinch, man. I thought you were really dead there."

That was fucking awe-SOME! Connie squealed from Brad's mind. The

man stopped some distance off.

Brad kicked dirt on Connie's body, which smelled of shit

and fresh death, like the rabbits their dad used to make Brad

hold up by the legs while he gutted them. Brad tried to make

himself think about what had just happened, to put all the

pieces together, but when he tried to hold his concentration, it

slipped away like wet soap. He felt tired. Maybe he'd just sleep.

Brad closed his eyes and felt himself falling. He heard

Connie's squeal. His eyes popped back open. No. He wouldn't be

sleeping. Connie was going to be sleeping enough for the both of

them.

THE END