Scraps & Chum by Ryan C. Thomas Page B

Buster to mimic a gun, his heart now trying to rip through his chest, he said, “ Whatever you want, you won ’ t get it. I ’ ve called the cops. They ’ re on their way right now. And I ’ m holding a gun here. So I ’ m giving you five seconds to get out of my house and never come back. Got me? ”
    Calling Dane ’ s bluff, the man staggered forward on stick legs, still holding his head, forcing Dane to backpedal toward the kitchen, the vacuum thrust out in front of him like a pistol.
    “ I said get out! ”
    The man ignored the warning and kept advancing, walking with the forced gait of someone severely arthritic, moving into a small patch of moonlight that spilled through a gap in the curtains. The pale blue light swam up his frame until he was solidly illuminated.
    Tall. Elderly. Decrepit. Bloody.
    Hurt.
    Gunshot, Dane realized. Dear God, the old man had been shot in the head, was gushing blood like a ruptured water main through the gnarled fingers he held there. As the blood pooled on the carpet, it hit the shadows and spread out like oil rising from the earth.
    Similarly, the Dust Buster hit the floor, shattered, and bounced away.
    Dane ’ s back found the wall behind him and stopped him short, his mouth open in a scream that could not find its voice. He didn’t know what scared him more, that the man was in his home, or that he was still alive somehow. He’d heard stories of people taking a bullet to the head and living, but this wound looked too severe for such a miracle.
    From upstairs, Matti continued to whisper, “ He ’ s bleeding on the rug on the rug… ”
    The wounded man drew closer, leaving a trail of gore behind him, until finally he loomed over Dane. His eyes were cloudy and dry, his skin cracked and flaky and sallow, his teeth angled all wrong as if he ’ d shoved them into his own gums without regard to symmetry. A sad smile spread across his face, denoting a pathos Dane couldn ’ t place.
    And that was the curious bit. Judging by the slight smile and aged frame, there was nothing actually malicious about him, not that Dane could tell anyway. If anything, the man looked…content. Not content with the gunshot wound, b ut…somehow…content with his role as a victim. As if he ’ d accepted it with a que sera attitude. He looked the way Dane ’ s grandpa looked when he would sit alone in a lawn chair at the family get-togethers while everyone else played horseshoes and went swimming. Content to be forgotten, and occasionally patronized, because inside he was truly just happy to be watching his legacy, just happy to be there as a part of it all.
    The bleeding man before Dane registered such contentment behind the gore . The sad eyes, the friendly smile, the non-threatening physique.
    Dane swallowed hard and asked, “ Are you okay? You ’ re bleeding. I…my wife…I need to call an ambulance. ”
    With some care, the figure took his hand away from the hole in his head, blood rushing to freedom, and pointed at a photo on the ground to Dane ’ s right. It was leaning against the wall, along with some others, waiting to be packed up. Without looking, Dane knew which one it was, having placed it there not long ago. It showed him and Matti standing in the living room—this very room where I stand cornered by a dying man, he realized—wearing matching San Diego Chargers sweatshirts. Matti ’ s mother had taken it during last year ’ s playoffs.
    “ Who…who shot you? Let me help you. My phone is — ”
    Dane headed to the table but the old man moved in front of him, blocking his path. A burst of adrenaline rushed through Dane, but again, the man did not come off as threatening , just insistent .
    “ My phone… ”
    Shaking his head but still smiling, the man pointed to another of the photos, this one resting on the ground near Dane ’ s foot, where Matti had left it while packing. Dane looked at it, made out what it was even in the darkness.
    “ What? The photo? It ’ s…it ’