Dead Shot Clock
Short Story Press & Blaise Marcoux
Copyright 2012 by www.ShortStoryPress.com
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Dead Shot Clock
The shower sprayed warmth over Jacob's fourteen-year old frame. He let the mist sink into him as he closed his eyes and leaned forward against the tile wall of the stall. His fingers traced the wall's cement grooves, feeling for the pores, the gaps. The steam was catching in his mouth, choking him. He gripped the wall, no longer feeling it but clinging to it.
The smell of rotting flesh assaulted him. He convulsed, and then bowed over, panting. The scent intensified. He knew the source, knew the lining of his nasal cavity was decaying away with each second. Looking down at his graying hands, he saw his nail beds shrinking, showing off yellowing nails. A croak escaped from him. His body thrashed forward into the wall, and rebounded him against the other side of the stall, and he slumped dazed to the floor.
He gave another croak. A groan, but an intentional one, a hint of despair attached to it. He wanted to scream for help, though he knew he could not do that, could never do that. He wanted to say anything, anything intelligible. All his swelled tongue could do was flop and drag. His right eye rolled into his head, and he could not even feel it. Now the groans were against his will, guttural and spittle-filled. Again, he had seizures. His face couldn't make expressions anymore. His left arm jerked back into a contortionist angle.
With an "Ugh!” he crawled out of the stall. The goal was to get to the crimson duffel bag sitting on the steel bench just five feet away from the showers. Every movement toward it was a struggle, his still wet body slipping back with each lunge forward. The still-going shower was a faint roar behind him, ebbing away, reaffirming to Jacob he didn't have much time left. Nausea ripped through him, a sign his intestines were dying. The sight from his remaining operational eye was fading to black. He told himself to keep squirming, keep slithering. "Urrrmgh!" he managed out this one sound. "Urrrrm-guh!"
He'd gotten to the bench. Unzipping the bag was a task worthy of Sisyphus. His fingers arched back every time he tried to grip the zipper; the thought occurred to him that he could just rip the bag open with his teeth. Would that be giving in too much? Would that just make matters worse? His fingers finally cooperated - the bag was open. He shoved his hand into it, and retained enough sensation to feel what was inside. The leather of a basketball. T-shirt fabric. Socks. Where was the kit? He knew it was in there, but didn't have the strength to lift his head up to look inside.
At last, the coolness of plastic. He dragged the kit out just in time to split blood all over its lid. His thoughts were blurring together, becoming confusing and impermanent. Using instinct, he opened the kit with his one free hand and pulled out the bottle and the syringe. With incredible willpower, he whipped his left arm back into a more natural position. The actual process of uncapping the needle, of plugging it into the bottle and extracting the solution needed, was a chimerical memory in his mind, more déjà vu than actual experience. What did penetrate the haze of his sluggish thoughts was the fear. The fear of a seizure right in the middle of the action. Of his fingers failing him again. That he just wouldn't be able to do it in time. And the murkiest fear, yet the darkest, that one of his teammates would walk into the locker room and find him like this. Discover everything. Even half-dead, his mind couldn't dwell on this.
The shot was ready. He raised it up, prepared to administer it. His holding arm quivered; his focused eye widened in panic. Quickly, he jammed the needle into his inner thigh, forcing the pump down.
Everything died away into unconsciousness.
When he next opened his eyes, he was looking at the needle rolling away from him. He looked at his hand. Pink again. Both eyes working. If not for the taste of blood in his mouth, he could've dismissed the entire episode as a hallucination. He could hear the shower still running. Could remember what his name was again.
Thank goodness, he hadn't urinated on himself like last time.
He replaced the needle and bottle back into the kit, turned off the shower. How long had he been out? He put on his clothes. The outfit didn't have the same feel as a jersey would on him, true. That would come soon enough. He dribbled the basketball a couple times on the floor, just to hear the sound reverberate on the concrete surface, the surface he had been crawling on just minutes earlier. Maybe it had been hours earlier. The smack of the ball against something eased that nightmare away. The repetition of the noise was hypnotizing. Like a second heartbeat. A superior heartbeat.
His teammates were waiting for him outside in the hallway. Coach Santos looked Jacob over. "A couple of minutes over for some free throw practice I can understand. But a half-hour freshening up?" Santos crossed his arms. "Getting the full spa treatment?"
Daequan giggled, but the other players' face remained flinty.
"I was just getting focused."
"Focused?" Santos' eyes narrowed. "You just cut into the team's prep time. Not for a scrimmage but The Game. Do you realize how serious this is? How important this is?"
Jacob bowed his head. "Why do you think it took me so long to get out?"
After a brief silence, Santos began again, his voice softer. "Let's get on the bus. We don
't have a lot of time."
The sky was purple as they left the facility. Desert cicadas screeched out in the distance, the closest the team would get to a farewell rally. The bus was colored olive, the haphazardly spray-painted letters PROPERTY OF FEDERAL GOVERNMENT adorning its side. Within, the seats were mere metal frames with frayed leather stretched over it. Jacob's seat was jagged, nudging into him like an elbow. The sides of the bus were burning to touch, the windows smeared with dirt. Eric, sitting next to Jacob, glared at the vehicle's interior. "This is what they do for the kids who are going to save the world?"
Would they save the world? As the bus started up, Jacob looked at his six teammates. None of them had shot particularly well in practice, their arcs frequently weak and resulting in air balls. Maybe they were just getting their jitters out. This was The Game. No room for jitters or the world would pay.
Emma sat near the front, the team's point guard. She was fearless usually, driving against players a good two feet higher than she did with regularity, but she kept biting her lower lip tonight, clinching and unclenching her hands. On the other side of that aisle was Carlos, always a difficult one to read. He was underneath his headphones now, his eyes closed and posture rigid. The twins, Deandre and