You Do What You Have To – 2

 

 

Micky took a deep breath, looking again at the blood-stained sheet. "How bad were you hurt, Gary?" he murmured. "Not fatally. Obviously. But with all that blood…? And why do I care? I mean, I do, because we sort of made a connection for a couple of hours. But what happened isn't any of my business. My getting out of here is—before someone thinks I'm the one who shot you."

 

He got to the door, reached for the handle, and panicked. Fingerprints! My fingerprints. They're all over the room. The bed. The bathroom. Everywhere. When someone sees this… If they call the cops, and they will… "I am so screwed," he muttered, wondering what the chances were he could wipe them all away. "Zero and then some, and, with my luck, someone would come in while I was trying to."

 

He patted his pockets to make certain everything was in them that he'd come with and made a horrifying discovery. His wallet was missing. Instantly he began searching for it, hoping it had fallen out when he had undressed, as remote as that possibility seemed. The only wallet in the room was the one he'd set on the dresser. Gary's wallet. Impulsively, not certain why, he grabbed it, sticking it in the pocket where he always kept his. For balance? Because it feels weird not to have something there? And why is his here and mine is gone? Damn. What if the guy who shot Gary took mine, thinking in was Gary's, without checking? He must have been in a hurry—duh—thought Gary was dead, and wanted his wallet for… For why? Now he has mine and he'll know who I am. That idea terrified Micky even more than the thought the cops might find him from the prints in the room. After all, the cops won't try to kill me. The guy who shot Gary probably will, once he realizes it's my wallet, not Gary's.

 

"I'm out of here," Micky whispered, opening the bedroom door. He peered down the hallway, which was empty, then crept along it to the door at the far end. He heaved a sigh of relief when he found it opened onto the backyard of the house. Moments later he was in the alley, heading—he wasn't sure where, but not back to his apartment. Not until I know it's safe to go there, and that might never happen.

 

* * * *

 

Gary came to, slowly, wondering where the hell he was—and why. Then he remembered—the why, at least—and put one hand to his head, grimacing at the pain when he moved his arm. His hair was sticky with blood, but as far as he could tell, the bullet hadn't done any real damage. His side was another matter.

 

Hopefully nothing fatal. Hell, if it was, I wouldn't be awake to think about it. Gingerly he pressed his fingers to the wound, realizing as he did that he wasn't wearing a shirt. He inched his hand around to his back, searching for an exit wound, relieved when he found one. It meant the shot had been through-and-through—the bullet not bouncing around inside of him.

 

"You blew it, whoever the hell you were," he muttered. "You should have checked to be certain I was dead."

 

Looking around, he saw he'd ended up in what looked like someone's toolshed. Probably a neighbor's, he figured, since he doubted he could have made it far with the wounds he had. When he tried to sit up, he failed, as a wave of intense pain washed over him. Not going anywhere on my own for a while. Let's hope… He felt the pocket of his jeans where he kept his phone. At least I didn't lose it. He tugged it out, trying not to move more than necessary. Then he placed a call.