Pathogen

Tuesday Morning

Rob and Tanya insisted on playing charades last night, and Dave and I agreed—it'd be better to play and keep them happy. Keep the wine flowing. That was our grand plan. Get Rob and Tanya drunk so they would fall into a deep sleep, and then sneak out and hope no one else in this condo complex of crazed cultists would spy our escape.

It didn't work out exactly as we planned. Rob and Tanya did drink too much, but that only led to Rob deciding we should have target practice in the backyard. Again, to keep them happy, Dave and I agreed. But I shot Dave a look. We'd planned to take our hosts' weapons and ammo with us. Now we'd be wasting it shooting at empty cans plastered with pictures of pees, corn, and Boston baked beans.

Tanya set up the range. They had a table at the far end of their yard, backed by one of those walls people put up to pretend they don't live right next to the highway. Stamped concrete to look like some rustic stucco. Not without its charms, but out of place in New England. I suppose though that there's no colonial clapboard equivalent to erasing the visual of a highway.

Rob spun his .45 on his finger like he thought he was on set in a Western. "Lady's first." He held the butt of the gun out toward me.

I'd never held a gun in my life. I'm against guns. Particularly because they might wind up in the hands of someone like Rob, someone who thinks it's acceptable to execute someone who is ill like it's a sacrificial ritual. The gun was heavier than I imagined, and my hand dropped a little under its weight. Rob laughed and I loathed him all the more for it.

"Wait until I'm not on the range," Tanya called.

Like I'd shoot at the cans with her standing there. Dave was quiet, but his face was fixed with a mixture of determination and amusement. I wanted to ask if this was humorous to him. But I didn't want to offend Rob or do anything that might put his guard up. I waited until Tanya rejoined us and raised the gun at the line of cans. There was one that had once housed peaches. I aimed.

"Whoa," Rob said. "Not like that." He stood behind me and wrapped his arms around mine to position me. "Safety first," he said.

I wanted to step on his toes. Kick him. Elbow him. Something.

"Now when you shoot that," Tanya said, "it's going to kick back. Don't let it hit your face. That's how I got this scar." She pointed to her brow and slid into Dave's space to show him. "See? Hurt a lot. I had to get stitches."

Dave backed away and muttered he was sorry to hear that. I wished I knew what he was thinking. Was he thinking about our escape plan? Or was he thinking about how Tanya looked or smelled or felt in his personal bubble? I'd never been the jealous type but all of a sudden, I couldn't shake the notion that Rob and Tanya might be swingers. The sooner I shot the can of peaches, the better.

I aimed. Rob said to keep both my eyes open. I squeezed the trigger. The sound was loud, so loud up close, that my ear rang. I could hear the others talking about how I came close, but their voices sounded muffled. My tricep ached from stopping the gun from kicking back too far. I stepped back and dropped the .45 into Rob's hand. "I'm good. I don't need to hit a can."

Rob put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "It's alright. When you're ready."

"I don't like guns. I don't ever want to hold or fire one again."

Rob squeezed my shoulder a second time, harder. "You're going to have to toughen up if you want to make it here."

The words fell out of my mouth before I could try to hold them in. "I'm not staying here." What happened next felt like the world slipping into slow motion. Rob's grip on my shoulder tightened until I felt like his fingers might go through my skin, through my bone. Dave lunged for Tanya. He wrested her gun from her. Rob whipped me around and clamped his arm around my neck. The hot muzzle of his .45 pressed against my temple. I whimpered. I won't pretend I was brave. I'm just glad I didn't pee my pants.

Dave and Rob were still. Like statues of men in a standoff. Tanya crab-walked away from Dave and time sped up again to normal, then overcompensated into high gear and rushed. I reached up. Grabbed Rob's pinky. Yanked it backwards. I heard the bone crack. Felt his finger go limp in my fist. Rob howled. The gun scraped my temple. He shot at his own house. Dave fired. Rob fell. Dave put his arm around me. He fired again. This time, the bullet made a red hole in Rob's forehead.

Dave shot Tanya in the leg. Not an artery. He explained he didn't want her to die. He didn't want to kill Rob. He took my hand. We grabbed my backpack. We ran. Others might have chased us. I don't know. I just know we ran, my hand in Dave's. We ran away from the highway, away from the condos, away from Rob's body and Tanya. She might have cried out in pain. I don't know. My ears were ringing. They felt stuffed. I can picture her, eyes scrunched shut, mouth wide, tears streaming. Holding her leg. Blood seeping out onto the blue-green blades of grass.

Dave and I ran until we couldn't. He still had Tanya's gun. I had my backpack, my journal, a bottle of water. Nothing else. We stopped for the night in the Connecticut woods somewhere. Dave made a joke about deer ticks. I didn't laugh.

He held me all night. "I thought Rob was going to kill you, or I wouldn't have shot him," Dave said. He'd said it at least a dozen times since we left Rob and Tanya.

"I know," I answered. "Thank you."

We shared the bottle of water. We fell asleep.

In the morning, Dave said he was going to forage for food. I sat down to write. A few minutes ago, he came back with dandelion leaves to eat, and moss to clean ourselves. I smiled a little, and kissed him.