SIDEKICK

Chapter Five: Care to Explain?

CHAPTER FIVE

Care to Explain?

The police are coming.

I need to do something.

Toppled over on its side on my right is my wheelchair. I grab the tires and use the dwindling strength I have to flip it back to normal. I pull myself into it; my arms seem to be much stronger than before.

Probably due to the adrenaline pumping through my body a million miles an hour.

My next task is Peter. I wheel over to him, and bend over. It strains my back as I manage to turn him onto his back.

“C’mon Pete,” I grunt. My arms go underneath his armpits and I haul him up. He’s heavy and his unconsciousness is a contributing factor to his weight. I manage to rearrange him across my lap.

The sirens get closer. No used going through the front entrance. I push the chair to the emergency exit door. If we’re lucky, it should exit into an alleyway.

When we get out, I breathe a sigh a relief. It’s an alleyway, adjoining between two streets. It’s hard to push the chair with two people on it, and I want to slow down.

But Peter’s out cold. I don’t know what he is, but I just want us to get out of here.

I end up on the busy street and hail a cab. The Pakistani driver gives a strange look as I load Peter into the taxi.

“Is he okay?” the driver asks me. I laugh nervously.

“Yeah, he just had a little too much to drink,” I explain. We both manage to fit in and I give my address.

The taxi passes the cop cars that blaze past us, their sirens loud alongside the taxi.

I just hope to God they don’t figure out that we were in there.

The taxi ride takes ten minutes. Soon enough, we’re pulled outside of the house. I fumble with the money, and the taxi driver helps me to take Peter out.

“Your friend must have drunk a lot,” the driver jokes. I laugh with him. I give him a $20 tip, and he places Peter back onto my lap. He glances at my arms, but doesn't say a word. He jumps back into the taxi and pulls away.

I wheel through the front door and into my room. We pass George, heavy booze wafting out of the study, staring at the poker game on the desk top. He’s too involved in his losing streak to notice I’ve just got back.

The door locks behind me in my room, and I dump Peter on my bed. I have literally no idea if he’s even alive or not.

Or what he even is.

I wheel into the bathroom, wash my face in the sink. I look up to the mirror, my face still dripping with water.

Was that even real?

I wipe my face. My head looks back to the room, Peter’s body lies across the bed.

We’ll see what happens when he wakes up.

*********

I’m on Facebook on the laptop as I shovel down some BBQ flavoured chips. Its 6:05 am, Saturday morning, five hours since I got Peter back to mine. His unconscious body rises and falls as he breathes face down on the bed.

A message pops up, the message with no name or no picture.

Is typing…

John.

I type.

What do you want?

Peter is alive?