Pontypool Changes Everything Part 3

A woman who is stepping across the railway tracks that cut through the CNE CNE looks up and calls back through a bloodstained bubble: "h.e.l.lo!" looks up and calls back through a bloodstained bubble: "h.e.l.lo!"

15.

Ammo Inside the house Les lies across a kitchen counter, frozen momentarily by the burn of hairline fractures in his elbows. He straightens them painfully, making angel wings of s.p.a.ce in the dishes and debris that he's sent cras.h.i.+ng to the floor. He wiggles his nose like a witch at the thick gas of garbage. He notices a wasp's nest of crack pipes on the kitchen table.

Helen's a drug addict.

Les steps into the hall and cranes his head around the corner.

A living room. Empty. A huge new sofa and a television. There are about eighty burns packed tightly into a small area on the outer edge of one of the cus.h.i.+ons. A laptop computer idles on the floor. It's marked twice with long burnt grooves. The writer's a drug addict. The writer's a drug addict. Les proceeds up the hall. There are five cell phones and two pagers on a low table by the front door. Les proceeds up the hall. There are five cell phones and two pagers on a low table by the front door. They're dealing. They're dealing. Les hears someone coming down the stairs, so he steps back through a door into a small bathroom. He closes the door, softly releasing the k.n.o.b to close it silently. Les hears someone coming down the stairs, so he steps back through a door into a small bathroom. He closes the door, softly releasing the k.n.o.b to close it silently.

A man's voice. "What the f.u.c.k is the army doing out there?"

Les opens the medicine cabinet. It's lined with prescription bottles. Dilaudid. Percodan. Junkies. My son. Junkies. My son. He opens the doors under the sink. About twenty stiff, dirty rags. No. Diapers. The dirt s.h.i.+fts position, a vortex of dots. Baby c.o.c.kroaches the size of pinheads turn in a hurricane pattern at the edge of a diaper. He opens the doors under the sink. About twenty stiff, dirty rags. No. Diapers. The dirt s.h.i.+fts position, a vortex of dots. Baby c.o.c.kroaches the size of pinheads turn in a hurricane pattern at the edge of a diaper. My little boy. My little boy. Two large plastic containers with biohazard labels hide in a shadow at the left. Used syringes. Two large plastic containers with biohazard labels hide in a shadow at the left. Used syringes. My boy is learning the three R's. My boy is learning the three R's.

"What the f.u.c.k? Hey! Is somebody in here?"

Les grabs one of the plastic jugs. The side has been cut away. Les turns the opening upward. It holds a crazy tiara of stingers; bright, gleaming needles fill the s.p.a.ce. Never touch us, don't even look at us for very long. Never touch us, don't even look at us for very long. When the door opens behind him, Les swings the jug, releasing a swarm of tiny missiles across a man's face and chest. The needles grab skin with their tips, and some, pushed by the weight of other syringes, are plunged deeper. The view from inside this man's body would appear something like the night sky in the city, thousands of stars becoming visible. In the country, millions. One of the needles slides precisely into his tearduct, destroying its tiny architecture before burrowing far enough to permanently ruin the man's ability to narrow his eyes. This particular jab also causes the man to flip a gun out of his hand. The gun slams heavily against the back of the toilet, cracking it, and then spins halfway around the rim before being carried to the bottom by the weight of its handle. The man collapses against the wall, disbelieving - When the door opens behind him, Les swings the jug, releasing a swarm of tiny missiles across a man's face and chest. The needles grab skin with their tips, and some, pushed by the weight of other syringes, are plunged deeper. The view from inside this man's body would appear something like the night sky in the city, thousands of stars becoming visible. In the country, millions. One of the needles slides precisely into his tearduct, destroying its tiny architecture before burrowing far enough to permanently ruin the man's ability to narrow his eyes. This particular jab also causes the man to flip a gun out of his hand. The gun slams heavily against the back of the toilet, cracking it, and then spins halfway around the rim before being carried to the bottom by the weight of its handle. The man collapses against the wall, disbelieving - You just don't do that You just don't do that - and he watches Les retrieve the weapon from the bowl. - and he watches Les retrieve the weapon from the bowl.

The first thing to exit the gun is a twist-tie drool of toilet water. The second is a speeding bullet. The bullet disappears into the man's head and exits along with a single chunk of brain. The tofu cube of brain walks down the wall on its slippery corners and covers the black spider hole left by the bullet.

All of the doors are closed at the top of the stairs. Les bangs on one. A baby cries.

"Helen?"

No answer.

"Helen?"

He breaks the door down. The room is empty except for a baby who doesn't look over as he continues wailing. Les feels an energizing burst of relief.

"Helen?"

No answer. Les steps over to another door, and this time kicks it in. Helen is in this room. She is lying on her back across a bed. She has been dead for days. Her yellow arms are marked with bruises that run from her shoulders to hands that are pulled back in retraction. Eyeliner-black track marks fill the crooks of her arms. Her face is dry and large, with purple roots beneath the skin. A cracked riverbed of fluid crosses her cheek.

Helen is dead.

Beside the cupped toes of her right foot a spoon lies halfway under a roll in the carpet where she has kicked it. Not paying attention. Not paying attention. The smell of her body causes Les to grab his mouth, and this sweet odour sinks deep enough into his face to prevent tears. He yells her name. The smell of her body causes Les to grab his mouth, and this sweet odour sinks deep enough into his face to prevent tears. He yells her name.

"Helen!"

The zombies in the yard outside are dead, and so the alliterative chain does not begin again. The first chain, however, is now speeding across Vaughn Towns.h.i.+p and west, deep into Mississauga.

Les returns to the playpen and lifts out his son.

[image]

The intersection of King and Dufferin is a solid cube of ice that Les has to pa.s.s through. The sun is lowering shadows and Les sees the dark drifts of jawlines, the eyes that spin like worms away from each other. A woman, her blanketed shoulders pinned against the bus shelter, listens to a siren: all mother she ignores it. Disappointed again, she pulls a towel up across her face. The ice cube melts behind him and Les spreads his fingers across the baby's belly. I am the adult. I am the adult. He feels the tiny bird cage of the child's chest. He feels the tiny bird cage of the child's chest. Mother. Mother. He remembers a guidance counsellor in grade 10 closing a file and, with a hand-was.h.i.+ng return of a pencil to its packet, sliding his chair back from the desk to introduce the door to Les, saying: "You will probably end up alone. You shut me out, I shut you out." He remembers a guidance counsellor in grade 10 closing a file and, with a hand-was.h.i.+ng return of a pencil to its packet, sliding his chair back from the desk to introduce the door to Les, saying: "You will probably end up alone. You shut me out, I shut you out."

This baby is strange. The most important thing in my life ... 15 ... 15 strange to me. strange to me.

And it is crying.

Loud.

16.

Picture Where You'll Go Les Reardon has not even pictured where he will go. The place does exist, of course. But where he goes is only partially dependent on pictures. For now the picture is a billboard in Gravenhurst. Not yet subjected to feasibility, it confuses southbound motorists with its baby-blue pyjamas, blonde widow's peak and praying hands.

Ellen's praying hands, pointed under her chin with infant formality, drop to her side; she leaves a fingerprint of her husband's blood there, like a broad cleft. Her head is clearer and softer now. She stands at a full open acre of intersection in Pontypool and confers with a greater range of Ellens than ever before. The real estate agent, the Bewdley priestess, the killer of her husband, the reeve, the degenerated mind. Near the centre of each is a shrewd and deflecting person, more lens than light, who will tell Ellen when she has stopped being useful to herself.

Not yet. Ellen feels a clam-sized piece of breakfast seal off the base of her throat. It frightens her. Now is when you just choke to death. Now is when you just choke to death. She presses four fingers deeply into the top of her chest. The clam leans off the opening and releases her swallow. The relief softens her mind further and she makes a fist of her long hand to push against her mouth. The crying that she feels is very young, and she cannot trust herself to let it up. The reeve soothes Ellen, telling her that these next few moments won't matter, she can feel exactly as she wishes - cry, Ellen, go ahead, cry. She presses four fingers deeply into the top of her chest. The clam leans off the opening and releases her swallow. The relief softens her mind further and she makes a fist of her long hand to push against her mouth. The crying that she feels is very young, and she cannot trust herself to let it up. The reeve soothes Ellen, telling her that these next few moments won't matter, she can feel exactly as she wishes - cry, Ellen, go ahead, cry.

A car leaps into the air over a hill to the west. As it slows, Ellen, the killer of her husband, turns her back, not daring to look down at what she's wearing. She stares out into the field and, imitating a painting she once saw, holds her hand like a visor off her brow. She reaches down to bunch the side of her dress, still in imitation of the painting, and recognizes the fabric. d.a.m.n, I'm in my dressing gown. d.a.m.n, I'm in my dressing gown. The car slows before it reaches the crossroad and it stops on the shoulder beside her. There is no way to collect herself, she knows, and even if there were she would still be incapable of speech. The sound of a man's voice. In the turn she makes toward it, Ellen decides to present herself as unstable and unaware. A golf pro struck by lightning. A movie star found wandering. The car slows before it reaches the crossroad and it stops on the shoulder beside her. There is no way to collect herself, she knows, and even if there were she would still be incapable of speech. The sound of a man's voice. In the turn she makes toward it, Ellen decides to present herself as unstable and unaware. A golf pro struck by lightning. A movie star found wandering.

"Excuse me?" The pa.s.senger window drops and a thin face appears. "Oh, my dear woman! Oh, precious, listen, get in the car."

Ellen steps back and pulls the collars of her robe against her chin.

"OK sweetheart, it looks to me like you already failed Street Proofing 101, so you be brave and step over here and talk to Steve, sweetheart, it looks to me like you already failed Street Proofing 101, so you be brave and step over here and talk to Steve, OK OK? I just want to help."

Steve pops the car door open and slaps the seat. Ellen looks at his face and decides this man is so exactly who she wouldn't approach for help on a country road that he just has to be fine. As soon as she is seated inside the car a violent shake seizes her and her bare feet wag noisily across the plastic ribs of the floor mat.

"Good Lord! You're having a trauma! What's your name darling? You poor thing. Have you eaten? You're lucky I came by. I have something for you. Here, have some tea. It's calming. Chamomile."

The man reaches in the back seat and lifts up a bright blue plastic bag. He pulls out a thermos and a folded black cloth. He lays the cloth across Ellen's knees and pours her a cup in a yellow plastic lid. Ellen feels the steam warm her face and she lifts the cup, against the backdrop of Steve's guiding hand, to her mouth. Heat, warmth. Steve is the little girl, and I am the monster. Steve is the little girl, and I am the monster. The tiny radiance in her mouth loosens an easy word: "Thanks." The tiny radiance in her mouth loosens an easy word: "Thanks."

"There you go! You can talk. But no more. I'm taking you to a doctor. You have blood on you! Oh my G.o.d! Don't say anything. Save your strength. You just sit back. I'm taking you to a doctor."

Steve knows instantly what his role is, and he accepts it, creates it, with sensible limitations. He will take this woman to safety and from there apologize on his cell phone to his business partners for being sidetracked. With the silent woman beside him, looking out the pa.s.senger window, Steve does a mental inventory of the contents of his knapsack. Tommy Hilfiger aftershave. Vitamin B complex . . . If I was her, that and some echinacea. . . . If I was her, that and some echinacea. Condoms. Address book. Band-Aids. A Swiss army knife. He wants to suggest the echinacea and he turns to her. Condoms. Address book. Band-Aids. A Swiss army knife. He wants to suggest the echinacea and he turns to her. Profound. Too late or too soon for the holistic approach. Profound. Too late or too soon for the holistic approach.

Steve believes that most people have labelled the important things frivolous and he knows that they suffer for it. Ellen has suffered for it. Steve decides that she needs some serious comforting, but seeing as they are strangers he can't really reach across to her.

"We'll be at Dr. Mendez's soon, he'll help you."

Ellen doesn't respond. Steve makes a concentrating face for a few seconds. Then, in frail voice and perfect key, he sings a song. The song is such a pretty replica of the original that it causes Ellen to look over to check that his lips are moving. He's a bit loony, isn't he? He's a bit loony, isn't he?

"Her name was Rio, and she dances on the sand. Just like that river twisting through the dusty land."

A stupid song. A stupid, stupid song. Ellen feels the sweep of a fish-eye lens bending the side of a sailboat. Tight, colourful shorts and leaping young men with bleached hair and tanned thighs. The boat surges up - breathtaking - and it cuts across a breaking wave. Ellen sings softly, not intruding on Steve's note-perfect voice. Ellen feels the sweep of a fish-eye lens bending the side of a sailboat. Tight, colourful shorts and leaping young men with bleached hair and tanned thighs. The boat surges up - breathtaking - and it cuts across a breaking wave. Ellen sings softly, not intruding on Steve's note-perfect voice.

"And when she s.h.i.+nes she really shows you all she can. Oh Rio, Rio, Rio - cross the Rio Grande."

The song moves through her without seams or connection, and like a gentle learning curve it explains nothing while giving her the joyful experience of riding it. Steve smiles, encouraging her to sing. He closes his mouth to supply only a prompting hum. Ellen remembers that at one time the whole world seemed to love Duran Duran. Duran Duran. And now, now, no one does. Steve drops the windows an inch, letting a warm wind pull at Ellen's hair. Ellen turns her face and mouths the song; its lyrics are lost again in the new spring air. Cow s.h.i.+t. Wet trees. The first lungful of the new season is a rainbow of young ga.s.ses that thoroughly clean the world that has survived. A valley dips below the surface of the road, dragging trees down. The forest then flies back up, banking high above the car. Ellen gasps and touches her mouth. Four large white mailboxes skip by the window. Tiny red flags. Ellen has gone silent and thoughtful. For the rest of the trip Steve will continue singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of songs. And now, now, no one does. Steve drops the windows an inch, letting a warm wind pull at Ellen's hair. Ellen turns her face and mouths the song; its lyrics are lost again in the new spring air. Cow s.h.i.+t. Wet trees. The first lungful of the new season is a rainbow of young ga.s.ses that thoroughly clean the world that has survived. A valley dips below the surface of the road, dragging trees down. The forest then flies back up, banking high above the car. Ellen gasps and touches her mouth. Four large white mailboxes skip by the window. Tiny red flags. Ellen has gone silent and thoughtful. For the rest of the trip Steve will continue singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of songs. Girls On Film. This Is Planet Earth. Reflex. View To A Kill. Girls On Film. This Is Planet Earth. Reflex. View To A Kill.

17.

The Rio Grande In the waiting room of Dr. Mendez are crammed a thousand people. This place has a capacity of maybe seventy, so over nine hundred of these people are dead, crushed beyond recognition. Their internal organs have been pushed out and across a firm terrain of shoulders. For a full hour a popcorn flurry of brains, squeezed through the open lids atop hundreds of heads, have jiggled and danced against each other in the free air above the dead. Blood has found a way to the floor and it moves around ankles. The bodies are under a pressure that binds most in the upper torso, gently curving them in an arched structure across the room. It is under the centre, where legs have been lifted, that the survivors huddle. Their chins push above the blood's surface and the tops of their heads drive up into the soles of stiff feet, trying to bend them at the ankle. They gasp desperately in these tiny pockets of red air.

Dr. Mendez is seated at his desk, across which is stretched a body. He has decided to perform an unscheduled autopsy. So many strange deaths. Nothing to lose. Maybe a quick answer will show itself. So many strange deaths. Nothing to lose. Maybe a quick answer will show itself.

All of the body cavities have been opened and then hastily folded shut. Mendez lifts a corner of cheek back into position with his pen. The structure of the room behind him groans, the studs are returning to ninety-degree relations.h.i.+ps. The waiting room is emptying.

All over the floor I imagine.

Dr. Mendez is right. As the crammed bodies redistribute their contents, under pressure, to fill the upper and lower parts of the s.p.a.ce, the waiting room is returning to its shape. The living few are drowning and will not survive.

An epidemic of broken necks.

As he says this to himself Mendez knows that in two million years another species will unearth the skeletons of human beings. And then they will begin a great pastime. What broke all their necks? Did they build their ceilings too low? Did kick-boxing aliens once visit this planet? Did a meteor fall from the sky and whip around the globe at shoulder height? Mendez stands and approaches his file cabinet. He thinks: Well this is when the good physician should off himself, overwhelmed and thrust suddenly into such a medieval role. Well this is when the good physician should off himself, overwhelmed and thrust suddenly into such a medieval role. But no, instead he counts the bodies on his floor - six. But no, instead he counts the bodies on his floor - six. The best is probably yet to come. The best is probably yet to come.

[image]

Down the road from the doctor's office Ellen and Steve sit silently in the car. Steve is shaking his head. He wonders what all these cars are doing here. Ellen knows. She can hear the movement of zombies in the woods. The hunting stealth of exact steps carrying rabid people in the dark, just inside the bushes. Coiling their necks like cobras. Painful, empty minds. Their hundreds of round, open mouths hanging like bats from slick, wet branches.

Ellen knocks her door open and runs up the centre of the road, back beyond the cars, and turns quickly to leap blind into a wall of soft cedar. Steve remains in the car. He is so afraid that he can't even move. The zombies are indiscriminate, and even though Steve has been sweet beyond compare, they will s.n.a.t.c.h him from behind the wheel and fight among themselves for the chance to snap his neck.

At that moment the angel who has been patiently rocking the ghost of the shallow and inconsolable Detective Peterson will look up with interest.

Ellen hides just inside the trees. Huddled, she stays still and silent. Just a few feet from where she sits a continuous line of zombies make their way down a path that runs parallel to, but hidden from, the road. She closes her eyes and feels herself drop inside and then plunge like a loose elevator. She has no time to imagine where she's going. The core of her experience is free falling and the only visible sign of this is in the tightening of her lips. When she comes to rest she looks up the hundreds of feet above her head where she is crouched beside a tree. The atmosphere around her is black and cavernous. Ellen thinks: So long as this is somewhere that I am, someone can find me. So long as this is somewhere that I am, someone can find me. She blinks her eyes, attempting to adjust to the darkness, and discovers fine streamers of red waving vertically, caught in an updraft just beyond her reach. She steps toward them, thinking, again: She blinks her eyes, attempting to adjust to the darkness, and discovers fine streamers of red waving vertically, caught in an updraft just beyond her reach. She steps toward them, thinking, again: If I can move in this place, someone can find me here. I am in a place that can support life. If I can move in this place, someone can find me here. I am in a place that can support life. She presses her hands against the invisible wall and feels a cork-board of resistance; it finally feathers against her fingers and disappears. She presses her hands against the invisible wall and feels a cork-board of resistance; it finally feathers against her fingers and disappears. If you come here to find me, I hope you discover this: the walls aren't really walls here. Keep going, keep going. You'll find me. If you come here to find me, I hope you discover this: the walls aren't really walls here. Keep going, keep going. You'll find me.

In this place, a bony little peninsula slicing into shallow silver water, Ellen is stepping forward, her bare toes gripping rock and displacing little black egg cups of water. When she reaches the crooked tip she returns to her crouch. She looks offinto the air above the water, into the streaks of a soft illumination around her, a hanging moss, impenetrable and glowing. This is an isolated place. This is an isolated place. Her heart sinks. Her heart sinks. People don't come here. People don't come here. She drops her chin onto her knee and glides the backs of her knuckles, as if stroking a cat, in a little velvet inlet by her foot. She drops her chin onto her knee and glides the backs of her knuckles, as if stroking a cat, in a little velvet inlet by her foot.

18.

Your Name Is Wild How often is a baby supposed to cry? There are probably answers. You can picture them. A doctor is saying every crying baby is in distress. Another says every crying baby is an exploring person. Ten times a day. The baby cried constantly. The baby cried in the morning but only for an hour. An hour? Doctor? An hour? The baby never cries. Never? No, never. OK OK, we'll have to run some tests. Never?

Always. Les pulls over in Green River. The baby has been bent in a rigid bow on the seat beside him, crying a continuous wail for a full half-hour. Les slides his hand under the s.p.a.ce beneath the baby's arched back. Too intense. Too intense. He tilts the stiff body back to rest across his palm. The wailing rises sharply. He tilts the stiff body back to rest across his palm. The wailing rises sharply. He's in pain. He's in pain.

Les carefully slips his hand away. He makes a rea.s.suring face to the infant. He touches its toes and its face inflames. Why, little boy? Why, little boy? A man nearby pulls himself out from under an open hood. He looks over at Les. Les panics for a second. He cups both his hands, scaring himself. They are made for stifling babies. He feels a rush of compa.s.sion for the baby, but his compa.s.sionate hands can only press into the seat surrounding it, and failing thus he lifts them to his chest and grabs handfuls of himself, compa.s.sionately. A man nearby pulls himself out from under an open hood. He looks over at Les. Les panics for a second. He cups both his hands, scaring himself. They are made for stifling babies. He feels a rush of compa.s.sion for the baby, but his compa.s.sionate hands can only press into the seat surrounding it, and failing thus he lifts them to his chest and grabs handfuls of himself, compa.s.sionately. I don't know your name. I don't know your name.

Its fingers are as blue as a baby sparrow's head, and its entire body is locked in scream. Les looks out the window to make sure n.o.body else is nearby. The man repairing his car has gone. Repaired. Repaired. The screams have caused the forest to close itself off and tuck its edges into a finer line under the sky. The painful tone sustains a frequency of such duration that it becomes soundless, and Les feels the blood leave his face. The silence packs his ears. He is afraid because he knows that the soundless car, leaning like a spike among the tick of gas pumps, is prompting him to know something - to know exactly, now, why his son is in such pain. The screams have caused the forest to close itself off and tuck its edges into a finer line under the sky. The painful tone sustains a frequency of such duration that it becomes soundless, and Les feels the blood leave his face. The silence packs his ears. He is afraid because he knows that the soundless car, leaning like a spike among the tick of gas pumps, is prompting him to know something - to know exactly, now, why his son is in such pain.

Withdrawal.

An opiate withdrawals crack jones intolerance of time.

I may have to kill my son.

Les hovers his hands over the baby, now little more than a knot of his own agony, and drops three fingers lightly on its face. Such a small commitment to infanticide. He curls the fingers up into his palm and withdraws the fist. Loving his son has suddenly become impossible. Les steps out of the car, and when he slams the door he again hears the little creature's pain. He feels a terrible flood of guilt and grief. These feelings are kept from spilling by a tiny mopping sponge of self-pity.

His encroaching insanity has already converted this shadowy experience, which sits near his centre, into a delicate model. A mobile of silver half moons and flat gold slippers redistributes Les around the car. He feels the threads of suspension and the little wind that means so much now. Something is still here. Something can be done. If I Jail, I will destroy that baby and kill myself. If I Jail, I will destroy that baby and kill myself. Strong alternatives are needed. Strong alternatives are needed. My son and I are crossing the line from sound to unsound body. My son and I are crossing the line from sound to unsound body.

Across the highway is a mall. A drugstore. Les feels a strange smirk twist his face, and for the first time he loves his son, the little drug addict son of a b.i.t.c.h. He was born knowing what I know. He was born knowing what I know. When he reenters the car he opens the surface of his body onto the searing noise, feeling it drill deeply, and he smiles at his son through this atmosphere of pain. When he reenters the car he opens the surface of his body onto the searing noise, feeling it drill deeply, and he smiles at his son through this atmosphere of pain.

19.

Sound Having never robbed a store before, Les has a nagging feeling, as he fingers the antihistamines, that the handgun tucked against his back just isn't enough. He looks up at a camera swaying like a metal remora in the corner, and he brings his hand up to his face. Mask. Mask. He goes down the school-supplies aisle and, sure enough, finds a plastic mask tucked behind stack of lab books. It's a cheap one. A thin elastic is hastily attached to the sides with staples. Small. He turns it over. A smiling blonde witch. He goes down the school-supplies aisle and, sure enough, finds a plastic mask tucked behind stack of lab books. It's a cheap one. A thin elastic is hastily attached to the sides with staples. Small. He turns it over. A smiling blonde witch. A good witch. A good witch. Les puts it on and reaches behind for the gun as he makes his way to the pharmacist. He waves the gun at a shape he can little more than locate through the slit windows of the dark interior of the mask. He sees a young man, a sideburn. Hand comes up. Stops. Goes down again. Les puts it on and reaches behind for the gun as he makes his way to the pharmacist. He waves the gun at a shape he can little more than locate through the slit windows of the dark interior of the mask. He sees a young man, a sideburn. Hand comes up. Stops. Goes down again.

"OK. Don't shoot. Anything you want."

Suddenly the elastic snaps and Les feels a wasp sting his ear. The mask jumps from his face directly into the open, pleading hands of the pharmacist. Les pulls the trigger of the gun and it clicks. It just clicks. No bullets. Les instinctively coughs to cover up the tiny noise, to camouflage it quickly. The pharmacist is looking down with horror at the mask in his hands. He feels the sheer panic of torn impulses and misses the click. He drops the mask on the counter.

"I won't look. I didn't see you. Please don't shoot."

Realizing he's still in the game, Les sweeps the mask up, inadvertently dragging its code across a smudged window, setting off the piercing beep. A f.u.c.kin' alarm. A f.u.c.kin' alarm. Les levels the gun at the pharmacist and fires. Click. This second click is covered up by the louder clang of the cash register opening as the pharmacist tries to ill.u.s.trate the source of the beep. Les thinks, Les levels the gun at the pharmacist and fires. Click. This second click is covered up by the louder clang of the cash register opening as the pharmacist tries to ill.u.s.trate the source of the beep. Les thinks, I'm doing a lot of killing. I'm doing a lot of killing. He waves the gun and instructs the pharmacist: "Dilaudid. All of your Dilaudid." He waves the gun and instructs the pharmacist: "Dilaudid. All of your Dilaudid."

The pharmacist races down an aisle and returns with a large plastic jar and drops it in front of Les. As he turns to leave, an elderly couple who have been watching everything take a step backward. He raises the gun and clicks it three times. Kill everybody. Kill everybody. The couple don't even flinch. Les barks at them and they run. The couple don't even flinch. Les barks at them and they run. Kill everybody. Kill everybody.

20.

How Many Times Have I Told You?