John Dies at the End

“Shhhhhh. I don’t see it. When I say ‘go,’ we’re goin’ to the other side of the room as fast as physically possible. You can clear it in three steps, dive at the end. Move like the Devil himself were after you. Ready?”



“John, listen to me.” I paused, forced air into my lungs and tried to think. “You can’t miss any more days at work. If you let me take you to the hospital, we’ll tell them you’ve been poisoned or something. I don’t think they’ll go to the cops. We can get a note from the doctor there. If we’ve got a note I could talk Jeff into keeping you on.”



“Go!”



John pushed himself to his feet, sprinted across the room and flung himself over an overturned sofa next to the wall. He sailed over it, arms flopping about like a rag doll, smacking into the wall behind it with a heavy thud.



I calmly stood up, walked to my right and turned up the floor lamp. I looked over to see John peer over the overturned sofa. Next to it was an armchair, on the other side a capsized coffee table. The man had built a furniture fort on that side of the room.



“John . . .”



He stood up, eyes wide. He put his hands out to me, fingers splayed.



“Dave, do not move.” He spoke flat, low and dead serious.



“What?”



“I’m begging you,” he said, almost whispering now. “I know you don’t believe me. But when you turn around, you will. But do—not—scream. If you do, you’re dead. Now. Very slowly, turn around.”



Very slowly, as asked, I turned.



For a split second I was sure I would see something. I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, as if swept by a puff of warm breath.



There was nothing there. I sighed, pissed at myself for getting sucked into this.



I faced John again, my raised eyebrows telling him I saw nothing more threatening than a very large and very naked poster of what appeared to be a female professional wrestler.



“No, it moved,” he said. “There.” He pointed to the corner, near the ceiling.



Very slowly, I turned and craned my neck, eyes following his pointed finger to the spot on the wall he so desperately needed me to see.



Still nothing.



“John, you can either come with me to the hospital, or I’m calling an ambulance. But what I’m not going to do is—”



“The door! Go!”



John hurdled the sofa, then ran and threw himself through the open door. I stood watching as he tumbled onto the carpet and then smoothly unfolded into a dead run down the hall outside. I faintly heard him thump through the stairwell doors, shouting victoriously.



I sighed and looked around his apartment. I found and pocketed his keys, then poked around some more and found his jacket on his bed. I grabbed for it, then yanked my hand back in pain. Something jabbed my finger, left a dot of blood on it. I reached into the jacket’s front pocket . . .



A syringe.



It was one of those cheap disposable ones they sell to diabetics. There was residue inside and it was fucking black. Like used motor oil. I broke off the needle in the trash and stuck the rest of the syringe in my pants pocket. I had never done this before and I didn’t know if a doctor would need it or not, to examine the contents. If not, I was going to shove it up John’s ass.



I rooted around in his pockets for vials or pipes or anything else that would indicate what he had in his system. All I found was an empty pack of Chesterfields and a wadded-up FedEx receipt for something he sent to a Nevada address.



I stopped myself before I drifted into the area of what could be called “snooping” and locked up the apartment behind me. I went down and found John pacing back and forth in the parking lot, rain pelting him, fists clenched, ready for the dark god Cthulhu himself to come flopping out of the first-level doors. I tossed him his jacket, told him to get in my car. He opened the door, and froze in fear.



“What?” I barked. “What is it now?”



John was staring at Molly like she was the fluffy devil incarnate.



“John?”



“Uh . . . nothing. When did the dog find you?”



“You know this dog? It’s been following me around like a lost, uh, dog.”



“I dunno. It doesn’t matter. Let’s go, before . . . something else follows us.” He glanced up at the apartment building.



I ducked into the car but didn’t start it.



John glanced up at the building once more, said, “Just tell me you could see it. At least that.”



“I didn’t see it. Tell me what this is.”



I held up the syringe. John rubbed his eyes, a man exhausted.



“You don’t wanna touch that. What time is it?”



“Just past five in the morning.”



“What day?”



“Friday night. I mean, Saturday morning. It feels like Friday night because I’ve barely slept yet. And we got work today, remember?”



“You shouldn’t have come here.”



“You called me. You begged me.”



John leaned back, closed his eyes. For a second I thought he had dozed off. Finally, he mumbled: “I did? When?”



“Tell me what this stuff is, John. They’re gonna ask me, first thing. Tell me before you fall asleep.”



“I remember now. Calling you. It’s hard, everything’s running together. I called and called and called. Like a shotgun, firing in every direction hoping to hit somethin’. I bet I called you twenty times.”



“Twice. You called me twice. John, answer my question.”



“Really? You kept getting weird on me. You know what I think? I think you’ll be getting calls from me for the next eight or nine years. All from tonight. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t get oriented. Kept slipping out of the time . . . you’ve got a voice mail message three years from now that’s freaking hilarious.”



I jammed the syringe back into my pocket and started the car. John reached over, grabbed my wrist. His eyes were open and alarmed.



“Wait. Where are we gonna go? Where are we gonna be safe from this thing?”



“Emergency room, John. I’m not playing this game with you. I don’t know what else to do and I don’t know how we’re gonna pay for it. You’re on a bad trip, or whatever they call it. Maybe it’s a big deal, maybe it’s not. Maybe you can just sleep shit like this off. I don’t know because I’m not a junkie and I’m not a doctor.”



“No. The hospital’s no good. We’ll go to your place, or somewhere. Anywhere but here.”



I can’t make myself recount the rest of this conversation. I’m too ashamed of it. The long and the short of it is that I let John talk me out of taking him to get treatment, that I worried more about him liking me than about whether he lived or died, that on that night, at that moment, I was the lowest, most selfish, worthless coward who ever lived.



So where was there to go? We were both scared for different reasons. He needed safety and I needed some kind of familiar comfort.



I’m not sure how we decided on Denny’s but that’s where we wound up. Well-lit, familiar, full of people. We sat in a booth and downed cup after cup of coffee in silence, John smoking his cigarettes and sneaking furtive glances out the window, me counting the seconds that passed without any psychotic ravings. I convinced myself with every passing peaceful moment that things were getting better, that the worst was over. In that, I was pants-shittingly wrong.



“Well?” I asked. “How are you doin’? Any better?”



“I saw things. Tonight. Both before and after I . . .” He trailed off, sucked on his cigarette instead.



“Okay,” I said. “Back up. You don’t know the name of the drug?”



“Robert called it ‘soy sauce.’ But I’m thinking now that was just a nickname and that it wasn’t, you know, actual soy sauce.”



Robert? Oh, of course. Robert, the Fake Magical Jamaican from the party. I would be finding Robert, I decided. I would be having a word with him.



“Robert?” I asked. “What’s his last name?”



“Marley.”



Of course.



“That’s the only name he gave you?”



“Yeah. I didn’t want to pry.”



“And he gave you the—”



My cell phone chirped. I ignored it. Who could possibly be calling at this hour? Tina, crying, wanting to get back together a sixth time because she’s at home and lonely? Jennifer Lopez, deciding she was wrong to have brushed me off at the party and wanting to play a game of Hide the Cocktail Wiener?



“Yes. He did,” answered John. “We were drunk, in the One Ball parking lot, after close. We were passing around a joint; Head and Nate Wilkes crushed up some kind of pills between spoons and snorted it. There was . . . other stuff. Anyway. We drank some more.”



Beepbeepbeep BEEP, BEEP . . .



“And then the Jamaican guy pulls out the sauce. ‘It be openin’ doors to other worlds, mon,’ he says. We made him do it first, saw that he didn’t die. It seemed to make him pretty happy and then—Dave, the guy—I know I didn’t really see this—but the guy shrunk himself, made himself three feet tall. We all laughed our asses off, then he was back to normal again.”



“And you still tried that shit?”



“Are you kidding? How could I not?”



The phone sang its electronic ditty again.



“Did anybody else do it?”



“Are you gonna get that?”



“You avoid my question one more time and I will come over this table and punch you in the face. Look into my eyes. You know I mean it. I’m tired of your—”



“It’s not that easy, Dave. Everything’s mixed up, like if somebody made you watch ten movies at once and then made you write an essay on ’em. That stuff . . . Dave, I’m remembering things that haven’t happened ye—I mean, that didn’t happen. Even right now, all that stuff from Vegas. Did we go to Las Vegas? You and me?”



The phone chirped a third time. Or fourth, I lost count.