Frank Zafiro - Blood on Blood

Gar

The last light bled out of the sky like a violent smear onto the distant skyscrapers. At least, that was what Gar Sawyer thought he was seeing when he looked through the tiny rectangular strip of a window in the prison hospital. He stared at the red wisps and shook his head.

Aint that some shit, he muttered.

He hated that view, almost as much as hed hated having no view at all in his old cell. He hated the people out there in the world who could stop whatever they were doing and stare up at the sky and see the complete expanse of the sunset. He hated that it was beautiful. He hated that he knew it was beautiful, and that his life was such that he now had enough time to think and reflect and realize there was some beauty in the world. And then he hated that beauty.

Fuck the world, he started to whisper, but a dull slice of pain cut him off mid-way through the first word. He grimaced slightly. The medication dispenser hung from the rail next to his left hand. He almost reached for it. He knew he could turn that dull pain into nothing more than a twinge.

But that would be giving in. And hed be goddamned if he was going to do that.

Light footsteps approached in the hospital bay. The privacy curtain rippled and Dr. Bradford stepped through. Gar tore his eyes from the hateful red stain in the sky to look at him. Dr. Bradfords rumpled white medical coat and tousled hair always looked to Gar like the doc had just rolled out of bed. Hell, maybe he did. He only knew of three different doctors in the hospital ward at this prison. That probably meant twelve hour shifts if anyone was going to get any time off. So the doc probably grabbed some shuteye on shift from time to time.

Hows the pain? Bradford asked without preamble. He lifted Gars chart from the foot of the bed and examined it.

Its there, Gar said. The fuck you care?

A hint of a smile crept onto Bradfords lips. I dont, really. Just looking for the symptom as a clue to your medical condition.

If that was true, Gar liked Bradford for his honesty. If it wasnt, he liked the doc for his balls.

My medical condition is that Im fucked, Gar said. Im dying.

Bradford marked something on the chart. Were all dying, he said, without looking up.

Yeah, but the thing is, Gar told him, Im on the express train. Wherever we go when we die, Ill be unpacked and already have banged three waitresses before you even get off the platform.

Good, Bradford said. He replaced the chart and crossed to the IV hanger. Then youll be able to tell me wheres a good place to eat.

Gar laughed in spite of himself. It came out as a short, rattling bark. Fucking doc. You shoulda been a comedian. Put Bob Newhart out of work with that wit.

Bradford broke into a small grin. He examined the IV hanging next to Gars bed. Then he glanced at his watch. Finally, he looked at Gar himself. Youre way behind on your pain medication, he said. His voice was matter of fact, without a hint of reproach.

Im saving it to auction off when I get back home, Gar said. The boys on Tier Two will trade smokes by the box load for this magic shit.

Bradfords smile remained, but some of the humor faded from his eyes. Is there a reason why youre scaling back?

Seeing as how you dont give a fuck if Im in pain or not, what does it matter how much of this I use?

Bradford didnt take the bait. If theres less pain, Id like to know. If its something else

Theres plenty of fucking pain, doc. But Ive dealt with that weak ass shit my whole life, so I dont need any pussy medication to help me through it. Which wasnt true. He did need it, but goddamned if he only needed it some. For the most part, he could take the pain.

Bradford waited patiently, saying nothing.

Gar stared at him. He hated to admit it, but the old doc was actually halfway all right, for a civilian. Straight-laced as hell, sure. He found that out right after he was transferred into the bay when hed probed for the possibility of Bradford doing a little smuggling for him. Everyone trusts doctors. He doubted that the hacks even searched them coming and going.

But Bradford had merely given him that little curious smile and told him that he was a doctor, not Han Solo, whatever the fuck that meant. Except it did mean something. It meant that no, he wouldnt be doing any of that kind of work for Gar. It also meant that he wouldnt be reporting him to the prison cops for asking.

Since then, theyd been pretty honest with each other. Bradford didnt bullshit him about his condition and Gar didnt pretend not to be pissed about it.

Bradford was still looking at him, so Gar finally spoke. He lowered his voice slightly, hoping that the mope in the next bed was asleep. To make the pain stop, I gotta take too much, doc. And Im tired of having my head all fucked around, you know? Id rather hurt.

Bradford nodded slowly. All right.

Gars eyes narrowed. Whats going on?

Bradford paused. It was brief, just a half second, but in that time, Gar knew.

Im getting close, he said before Bradford could answer.

Bradford nodded. I think so, yeah.

How close?

How close do you feel?

Youre the fucking doctor, Gar said. You fucking tell me.

Bradford shook his head. Im a doctor, not Edgar Cayce.

Edgar the fuck who?

It doesnt matter, Bradford said. Im just trying to point out that at this stage of the game, a fortune teller is likely to be just as accurate as a doctor.

Gar tried to cock an eyebrow at Bradford, but he was suddenly tired and it seemed like too much effort. Instead, he said, Youve got a great bedside manner, doc. Real touchy-feely.

I leave the softer side of things to the priest, Bradford said.

For all the good thatll do me.

Bradford shrugged. Thats something where youre on your own. Medically, I can tell you that you probably dont have long. Days. Maybe hours. But at this point, youre the one who will have the best idea. As the pain dulls, as you get tired, maybe even peaceful, youre getting closer. He shrugged again. At least thats what most patients report.

Two outta three aint bad, Gar said. I aint ever going to see peaceful.

Bradford said nothing.

Gar glanced back to the thin strip of window. In the time hed spent talking to Bradford, the red streaks in the sky had faded to dark purple, almost black. He looked at the shadowy clouds for a moment longer, then turned back to Bradford.

I need someone to make a couple of phone calls for me, he said.

Bradford nodded. Ill send an orderly.

No, Gar said. He started to tell Bradford that he wanted the doctor to make the calls for him, but another wave of pain struck him in the midsection. An involuntary grunt escaped him before he had the chance to set himself against the pain.

Bradford continued looking at him, unfazed.

Seen it all, havent you, doc?

I need you, Gar said, pointing a skeletal finger at Bradford, to call my sons.

Bradford nodded slowly. All right.

Gar swallowed. I want to say goodbye, he whispered.

Goodbye, he thought, before adding and go fuck yourselves.

Mick

I woke up to the tinny buzz from an alarm clock that was already old at the turn of the century. It took every ounce of self-control not to smash the piece of junk, which didnt leave much discipline left over when it came to not hitting the snooze button. Thankfully, that function was one of the things, along with the radio, that didnt work.