The Hereafter Ch. 1

Steve Hinds awoke on his last day with a groggy start as the old alarm clock rang its twin bells like an irritatingly chipper companion. Without opening his eyes, his heavy hand smashed down on it, silencing it. His head was already throbbing, despite the five Advil he had taken last night to prevent this very thing. After a moment to will his empty stomach not to eject whatever was still in there, he opened his eyes to the stained ceiling above his bed.

“Fuck my life,” he said as he stiffly sat up, his vision swimming. After another moment for the spots in his vision to clear, he stretched his back and put his bare feet on the dirty carpet. He snatched a Pall-Mall from the almost-empty pack and lit it, then coughed hard, making him almost vomit again, and started a firestorm of pain in his head. His bed was a couple old mattresses on the floor of his single bedroom in his small apartment. He sat for several minutes smoking, hoping the pain would dull down. It didn't. He smashed the butt in an old tuna can already brimming with old yellow butts and, with a grunt, stood up. His head swam again. He staggered into the living room, with the brown glass bottles crowding the coffee table in front of the Panasonic color perched on a discarded milk crate. Steve made straight for the small bathroom, where the beer took a whole 3 minutes to completely drain from his bladder. He debated on brushing his teeth until the beer-flavored coating inside his mouth made a sufficiently convincing argument.

His brown eyes stared back at him, dark puffy bags prominent under his eyes. His equally brown hair hung down in his eyes in greasy locks. His once lean face was now full, covered with a coarse, black, unkempt beard. His stained white shirt did nothing to hide his slowly expanding gut now threatening to stretch the waist of his dirty briefs. He quickly brushed his teeth and ran a brush through his hair, pausing to dry heave into the filthy toilet. There was a reason he didn't eat breakfast.

Ten minutes later, he was dressed in a stained pair of jeans with the beginnings of holes in both knees and an old brown undershirt he'd held on to from his time in the Army. He had spent six years in the Army as a Combat Engineer. He had even been in the assault into Kuwait. But just now, he was angrily throwing the worn cushions off his colorless couch he had found on a sidewalk two years ago.

“Where the fuck did my keys go?” He flung a long-forgotten dirty fork that had been wedged under the couch back and the springy part where the cushions went at the wall and froze when he saw it stick tine-first into the wall only an inch from her picture.

Suddenly, all the furious wind filling his sails died. She was the only reason they hadn't had to clean his brains off his shitty apartment walls.

Five years ago, Stacy left him. Of course, she had a whole laundry list of reasons, some of which she might have had a point about. And, of course, Saintly Stacy was somehow always perfect. Any complaint he had always somehow ended up sounding petty when he'd bring them up in a feeble defense. The divorce didn't take long. It took almost no time for the judge to award Stacy custody of Emily. Steve got Emily every other weekend and was ordered to pay a sizable child support. At the time, it was about a quarter what he took home every month. These days, it was closer to two-thirds, between arrears and shittier jobs. If he didn't have Emily, he would have suck-started his old .38 probably 4 years ago and be done with it.

Emily was now 12 years old. Looking at her picture, which was from last school year's pictures, Steve was amazed how much like her mother she was looking. She was looking back at him with her dark blue almond eyes, her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a neat pony tail. She was wearing a light pink blouse with a white flower pattern, against a slate gray background. She looked like her mother, but she was much more like her daddy. Stacy hated it, which, apart from Emily herself, was almost the only bright spot in his life. Growing up, she was a daddy's girl. She followed him everywhere, watched the Cowboys on Sunday with him, cried to him when she scraped a knee. Emily was the only person who ever really loved him.

As Steve was replacing the scattered couch cushions, he caught a glimpse of metal under the couch.

“Mother fucker. What the shit are you doing down there?” he said as he quickly swiped his keys out from under the couch. Too quickly. The dull throb in his head exploded as his head went below his heart. He could almost feel the blood rushing into his already aching head. “Goddammit,” he muttered with his head in his hands as he stood. He stood still for a moment waiting for the room to come to a stop. His watch beeped.

“Fuck!” he shouted, looking at his watch. 8:00. His shift at the canning plant was starting time fucking now. “Fuck fuck fuck!” He grabbed his old red Razorbacks hat and ran out the door, hastily locking it. Sprinting, he took the steps of his apartment building two at a time and dashed to his rusted '88 Ford Bronco. He scraped a line in the blue paint around the door lock trying to unlock in, hopped in a fired it up. It sputtered to life and backfired loudly as he sped out of the lot. Steve knew it would mean an ass chewing, if he was lucky. He was never lucky. The plant was only ten minutes away.

A run red light and an unfortunate squirrel later, he was screeching into a shitty spot at the farthest end of the parking lot. “Fuck me,” he said, resigned, and started jogging. It was a good hundred yards to the door. He squeezed between cars and hopped over curbs, once catching his elbow on a side mirror. It exploded with pain and then tingled uncomfortably. He was could only grunt painfully between the jagged breaths. Finally, he made it to the door. He punched his timecard in the machine by the door, just before the large metal door behind him burst open.

“Hinds!” His boss, Clint Everton shouted behind him. “You're twenty fucking minutes late! Move your candy ass and get on that forklift! Packing has a thirty minute head start on you!”

“Yeah, I'm fucking going!” Steve shouted. “Fuck!” he shouted. He forgot to grab a goddamned lunch. If his fucking keys hadn't been hiding on him, he'd have been fucking fine. Goddammit.

The morning passed slowly, despite how busy he was. Just knowing he'd forgotten his lunch made him hungry early. Goddammit, how was it only 9:30? When the whistle finally blew for lunch he got a fifty cent bag of stale Doritos from the vending machine and sat in an empty corner of the smokey, dank break room. At least his headache was starting to die down. The fucking forklift sure as hell didn't help. He bummed a Camel off a guy he only knew by face and lit up. God, he needed that. He'd been too rushed earlier to even think of a smoke. The whistle blew again, and he smashed it in the glass ash tray. By the time the whistle blew again at five, he was caught up.

As he turned into the hallway with the time clock and the door to freedom, Clint was waiting for him, arms crossed. He gestured Steve over too him, looking like a father about to seriously chastise his son. Steve sighed and turned to him.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Cut the shit. This is the last one. I need you here on goddamned time. The fuckos in packing start dicking around when you're backed up and I'm not paying for that shit. I should have canned your ass the last time you pulled this shit. Next time, it is your ass. Oh, and here's your check. Now, get the fuck out of here.”

Without a word, he turned and was out the door and in the crisp, overcast October air. “Fucking douche.” Lighting his last smoke, he marched toward the back of the emptying lot where his Bronco was waiting. With a brief glance at his balding front tire, he climbed in, cigarette hanging from his mouth, and left the lot.

His first stop was the check cash shop. The damned bank shut his checking account down six months ago. Apparently, $600 overdrawn for eight months is too much. After they had sapped a whole six dollars from his already disappointing check, his next stop was the gas station for some smokes and a case of beer.

A few minutes later, he was unlocking his weathered apartment door. Steve set the case in his nearly empty fridge next to the leftover pizza he had wrapped in foil. A blinking light on his answering machine sitting on the warped counter top let him know he had a message waiting for him. He pressed a button, and Carol's voice played over the speaker.

“Steve, I guess you're at work. Well, it's your weekend. Can you meet me at the McDonald's in Lowell around 6:30 to pick Emily up?” Steve's heart quickened as he heard Emily's voice in the background say something. “Actually, fuck that, meet me at the Shell. Apparently, she's too 'grown up' to be seen at a play place. Don't bother calling, I'm leaving now. Don't fuck this up, Steve.” The machine beeped and fell silent.

Steve looked at his watch. He had enough time for a quick shower. He got undressed and stepped into the shower. The weak water pressure and the odd mix of hot and cold water didn't annoy him like it usually did. It had been almost a month since he'd been able to see Emily last. He dreaded it and cherished the visitations at the same time. He loved seeing Emily again, but he also had to talk to Carol, which was uncomfortable at the best of times, and like reliving every wrong he had ever done at the worst. He knew he had fucked things up royally, but what got to him was that she acted like it was all him. But he was seeing Emily this weekend. What to do with her? There was that new Schwarzenegger movie out. That one where he was pregnant somehow? Junior, that was it. Maybe he'd take her to see that. Sure, he'd have to eat crackers at work for a couple days, but what the hell? They'd have to stop somewhere and get candy to sneak in. Fuck the concession stands. Thieving bastards.

After he rinsed off, he shut the water out and stepped out. He dried off with his threadbare towel the best he could and went searching for the cleanest looking clothes he could find. Damn, I gotta do some fucking laundry soon. He settled on an old Styx shirt and his least worn pair of jeans. A glance at his watch told him he needed to hurry. Lowell was a good twenty minutes away.

Before he knew it, he was rushing down his stairs for the second time that day. He climbed in his old Bronco again and started her up. The belts in the engine screeched as he pulled out of the lot. When he got to highway 71, he turned north along the busy four lane highway.

Carol better not be bitchy this time, Steve thought. If she was in a bad mood, she'd try to rehash the old shit. Goddammit, he did not need that shit right now. He had to try to remember to ask Emily about that boy she was talking about last time. What was his name? Kevin or Carl or some shit? Carol liked to bitch about him not listening. He lit up a Pall-Mall as Toby Keith crooned Who's that Man over the radio. It's not hard to listen to someone when they're not being a complete bitch. That's what she never seemed to get. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. But Carol was a Venus goddamned flytrap. And she never fucking quit. When she got on a tangent-

The front driver's tire exploded, and his Bronco careened jarringly across the left lane, through the grassy medium, and into oncoming death. As the shredded tire touched the southbound pavement, time slowed. His truck was being pulled inexorably into the path of a silver Chevy Lumina, maybe a '91 or '92. The passenger bulb was out, he noticed. Steve watched as the driver's eyes (the kid couldn't have been over seventeen, with the slightest hint of a beard that would never be) widened slowly as his jaw dropped in an almost comical look of panic that made Steve think of something from Loony Toons. As the hoods met between them, they began to crumple up.

* * *

Gray clouds hung low overhead as he opened his eyes slowly. After a moment, a tendril of black smoke drifted with the wind across his vision. What? Slowly the pain seeped into his consciousness. Everything just hurt. He moved his fingers. He thought he was, anyway. Ignoring the pain streaking down his whole body, he turned his head to the left. He could see his finger move slightly on his bloody hand. There was a large gash down his forearm. He could see white among the sticky red. His watch was shattered.

Past his arm about thirty feet was the wreck. His truck was on its side in the southbound passing lane, fire licking up from the crumpled engine. He was laying on the white line marking the shoulder of the road. Down the road, he could see the Lumina on its roof in the median. Its wheels were still spinning.

The southbound traffic had come to a stop. A woman stepped out of her vehicle, looked at him and screamed. She fell to her knees, not taking her eyes off Steve, just screamed, eyes in perfect bulbs of terror. A man in the car next to her got out.

“Holy Jesus!” he yelped. He reached into his car and pulled out a towel.

Steve's eyes went down his body. There was a long, deep cut down his rib-cage. And his shirt was hanging open, heavy with blood. His left leg ended mid thigh, the femur jutting out of the shredded flesh. The skin was a jagged pale white against the deep wet crimson. Blood pumped out of his femoral artery with each heartbeat. His vision began to swim as his heat beat faster. Oh, God no! No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! This can't, no this, no, no, no, no, this can't be happening, oh God, no, this can't be happening, it can't, oh God no! He was dying. He knew it. Steve stared up at the slate gray sky as a drop of rain hit his cheek and made a pale track down his face. No, no, no, no, no, no!

Darkness began to creep in on his peripheral vision. A calmness began to envelop him like a warm sleeping bag on a cold desert night. A second raindrop landed in his hair. As his field of vision shrank to a narrow piece of slate gray sky, a flock of geese in their peculiar formation flapped indifferently south.

Emily. No, my Emily, he thought. I'm never going to see her again. His pain faded away. Tears blurred what little remained of his vision as he thought of his daughter's face. Then, the darkness was complete.