The Bullet in My Pocket Has Your Name on It

I start my day by falling down the goddamn stairs. Never let it be said I don’t know how to make an entrance. I should be worried about injuries; it’s not like in the old days when there were doctors and antibiotics. But my reflex is to check my pocket and make sure it’s still there. I feel the cold, hardness that reminds me so much of her. This bullet she made, for a gun she holds. I breathe a sigh of relief. Only then do I check for injuries, but it seems the only thing wounded is my pride.

From my ground level vantage I spot scuff marks made by her boots, and further on the grass coming through the pavement cracks looks trampled. Might be the fall was a stroke of luck after all. She’s careful, but I’ve been tracking her for long enough to recognize her signs. Sometimes I wonder if they’re no accident—if she wants me to find her. If she wants me to end her.

The tracks lead me through the ruins of the city we once called home. I see no one else—not that there are many people left. Those that remain spend most of their time hiding in the hollowed-out husks of long-vacant buildings. Not me. I move in the open. I wear my hatred for her as a shield. When I do see anyone they give me a wide berth because they fear me, but it’s her I want to instill this fear in. I want her to feel what I felt when they left us here to die.

I hear a noise and freeze, turning to look through the broken window of an old bicycle repair shop. I glance up at the rooftop, then down both sides of the street before I head in. Can’t be too careful these days. The place is covered in dust and has been stripped clean of any bikes or bike parts it once contained. On the counter, by the register, sits a paper cup with a coffee house logo on it. I head there first and pop the lid off, only to find it empty.

God, what I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee. Any coffee. Even cold, ancient coffee someone else once drank from. I know it’s a futile hope I might ever find any still fit for drinking, but I can’t help but check just in case.

It’s been three years. Three years since I stood on the roof of our old apartment building and watched the last of the shuttles launch for the Ark, the lucky souls onboard bound for a world full of resources we no longer had here. At least not in sufficient quantities to meet the demand. Some of us who were left behind said, good riddance. With so many gone, that left more for the rest of us. But it doesn’t quite work that way. With so many gone there’s fewer people left to extract and process the raw materials we still have. Fewer who even knew how.

I watched spaceships leave for another world, while simultaneously being thrown back in time—figuratively speaking—to a pre-technological world. Only this time with the knowledge of what we’d lost. It would’ve been enough to have to face this like everyone else, but the knowledge that she and I could’ve avoided this fate—should’ve avoided this fate—ate away at me until there was virtually nothing left of the man I’d been when I still loved her.

I move through the shop scanning for traps, stretching my senses for subtle signs someone else is here. Amazing how much a man can change over a few years. She’d been the one with the survival skills when I left. Now, I’d wager we’re pretty evenly matched. Those that weren’t quick enough to adjust to this new world have long since left us. The fact I’m still around, says something.

Never learned to make bullets though, but that’s alright. I only need one, and I have that one in my pocket.

I move toward an open door that leads to the back room, turning slightly to check behind me as I go through it. Always gotta watch your six. Gotta watch your step too, something I’d forgotten earlier, so I glance down, noticing a spot of blood, still fresh and bright red against the concrete floor.

My stomach tightens. I’ve learned to trust my gut without question. I reach into my boot for my knife and loosen the leather strap that holds in place the pipe I wear on my back. Step by careful step I move forward, careful not to make a sound.

Until the tickle in my nose.

I try my best to hold it in, eyes watering, but it proves as futile as my search for coffee. In the midst of all that silence, I let out what seems like the loudest sneeze of my life. Goddamn dust.

Just like that, the back room erupts in action, but it’s not her, and I’m clearly outnumbered. I don’t recognize the faces, but the bats they come at me with look familiar enough. This isn’t my first rodeo. The big guy in front nearly busts my hand with his first swing. I don’t so much see it as feel the explosion of pain that follows as I watch my now useless knife arc through the air in a trajectory that ends somewhere behind me.

But like I said, this isn’t my first time out, so even as everything’s unfolding in what looks like slo-mo, I reach for my pipe, which in one swift movement connects with the big guy’s skull.

The bigger they are—well you know how that goes.

That leaves two.

I swing wide to give myself space, pipe clanging against metal shelves that once held parts, and that’s when I see her. She comes from behind them. My tracking skills hadn’t led me astray; she’s been in this back room hiding somewhere the whole time. This is the closest I’ve been to her in years, and God help me she still looks good. I can’t help admiring her form when she reaches for her own weapon—a crowbar—and swings it hook-end first into the man closest to her. It’s like watching a dancer. Her long hair whipping back as blood sprays into the air, body twisting to reveal the smoothness of well-earned core muscles hidden beneath her tank top.

I hate myself for staring. Hate myself even more when the third guy’s bat hits me square in the chest, knocking me back and forcing the air from my lungs.

Fuck.

He comes at me again, lifting the bat over his head as he stands, spread-legged above me. Then, seeming to think better of it, he turns to look at her. So I do what any man in my situation would—I kick him in the balls while he’s distracted. Hard.

Now who’s struggling to catch his breath, asshole?

“Come on!” she yells, as he’s doubled over.

I hesitate, then remember I’d been following her anyway, so I go with her, further into the back room where she leads us to a door that opens onto an alley. Another rule I’d picked up over the years comes to mind: always have an escape route. Clearly, she knows that one. I’m not surprised.

She runs through the alley like this is her daily workout. I follow as best I can, feeling like roadkill and still trying my best to breathe normally. At least it doesn’t feel like my ribs are broken. This is my lucky day in terms of bone strength, but if there’s something I’ve learned about luck, it’s that it lasts about as long as the flavor on a gumball.

Still, after all this time, I’ve found her. That’s something. That might even be enough.

Eventually she leads me into a building and up a flight of stairs to an apartment. She motions for me to enter then closes the door behind us, barring it with a two-by-four, before turning back to look at me.

“Gary,” she says, with a smile.

The smile throws me, so I don’t see the crowbar until it’s too late.

— # —

I wake up on the floor with a pounding headache, quickly realizing my ankles are tied together with rope and my arms are in a similar state behind my back. But like I said, I’ve been around for a while. It’s not easy to move while tied up, but this isn’t the first time I’ve had to. Practice makes perfect, so I get myself into a sitting position easily enough while she watches from a small, upholstered chair. There’s not much else in this place. I get the feeling she hasn’t been squatting here long.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “But the last few times I’ve let you get within a mile of me, you haven’t exactly been friendly. Can’t be too careful.”

“Amanda,” I say, her name thick on my tongue from disuse. “I take it those guys weren’t friends of yours?”

“They were after me,” she says. “Turns out you showing up when you did, saved my life.”

Life has no shortage of irony.

“At least for a time,” she adds. She leans back to examine her left side, where I now see she’s wounded. I remember the spot of blood in the bike shop before I was attacked.

“Someone get to you before I did? That hardly seems fair.”

She laughs, which surprises me more than it should. But she’d always laughed easily. One of the things I love most about her. Loved most about her. Goddammit. That blow to the head must’ve been harder than I thought.

I watch as she stands, walks through a broken door into another room, then returns with a roll of toilet paper of all things. She tears off a good length, then uses it to clean the wound as best she can.

“Not the best use for that,” I say.

“It’s all I’ve got that’s clean.”

Another survival rule you pick up: avoid infection at all costs.

“At least I can get a good look at it now. Gonna need to stitch this up.” She moves her hands back and forth, twisting a little and wincing with the movement. “Awkward though. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me a hand if I untie you.”

She gives me a hopeful look and with it an opening for me to laugh this time.

“Yeah didn’t think so,” she says. “Still…I assumed if you were gonna take me out, you’d have used that bullet you took when you left.”

I look up at her, not bothering to hide my surprise.

“You know about that?”

“You didn’t think I counted them when I made them?” she asks. “I always wondered why you didn’t use it that night, while I was sleeping. It would’ve been so easy.”

I think back to the night I left, all those years ago. I’d thought about it. But I’d loved her. Even after what she’d done, I loved her. I’d needed time for the hatred to simmer inside me—so I’d left instead. Left her the gun in case she needed it. Over a year passed before I felt ready to track her down and use that bullet, and it had taken until now for me to get close enough to try.

“It’s the only one left,” she says. “Assuming you still have it.”

She stands and walks over to an overturned crate she’s repurposed as a table. On it is something wrapped in a torn piece of cloth. She unfolds it, then places the item back down, stepping away to give me a clear view.

It’s her gun.

“I saved this for you,” she says. “I’ve taken good care of it, so it should still work. It’s useless to me now. Haven’t had the means to make bullets in a while.”

I watch her without saying a word as she disappears into the adjoining room again and returns holding a knife. She tosses it at me—where I can reach it if I twist a little and use it to free myself. I’m wary of a trick but she just sits down again and watches me.

“Go ahead,” she says, her voice tired. “I’ll likely die either way. This’ll probably get infected, so maybe going fast’s better than going slow. And anyway, I’d say you’ve earned it.”

I don’t hesitate. I twist myself around and get the knife—cut myself loose within seconds. Then I’m up. I head for the gun, load it like I’ve done it a thousand times, not just a thousand times in my fantasies. I take a moment to marvel at how clean she’s kept it—as if in preparation for this moment. Then I turn, aim, exhale, get set to squeeze. I look down at my hand but somehow I’ve yet to pull the trigger. My eyes rise to meet Amanda’s.

“Why?” I say. I didn’t know I needed to ask this question until just now. I’d told myself it didn’t matter—that nothing could excuse what she’d done. But here we are, so I continue. “We were on the manifest. We could’ve gone with the rest of them, escaped this dying world and made a life on a new one. I loved you. You betrayed me. You tell me I can kill you now, but the truth is you all but killed us both with one decision, and I need to know why.”

She smiles and gives the patient look usually reserved for parents about to explain something difficult to a child. It makes me feel like an idiot, but I’d made an ass of myself in front of her enough times that she knows just what brand of idiot I am. There’s no hiding it.

“I wanted to explain then,” she says. “But you weren’t ready to listen, and I don’t blame you.” She raises her shirt a little, and I think it’s to check her wound once more, but then she lowers the waistband on her cargo pants. There’s a scar that wasn’t there all those times we made love. It’s been a long time, but I’d remember that.

“Survival’s a delicate thing,” she says. “The plan was for a limited number of people with a limited number of resources. There were to be no births en route, nor for the first five years after arrival. I did the math myself. It was the only way the colony could survive. I had to exclude myself. You could’ve gone on without me. Someone else could’ve taken my place. But I had to think of them. Our children. I chose them over us. You were away then, training for colony life. I had no way to reach you—to tell you about them or any of this. So I did what I thought best; I took both our names off the list and asked them to take our babies instead. They were far enough along by then to keep alive in gestational tanks. Once born, they would take only the resources we would have. The decision had to be made quickly.”

“But you said you couldn’t get pregnant.”

“That’s what I’d been told. The doctors were wrong. And how could I let die children who fought so hard to live?”

I take the bullet out and lay it on the makeshift table, placing the gun next to it, then walk over to her and look at the wound she now cradles, instead of our children.

“I’m sorry,” I say, but even as I speak the words, I know this apology comes too late. I’ve wasted so much time we could’ve shared. “I won’t lose you too. Where do you keep your first aid supplies?”

She tells me they’re in a backpack next to the crate that holds the gun, and I get up to find it. That’s when something big pounds against the door. Then again, and I see the supports for the two-by-four starting to give. I meet Amanda’s eyes and she smiles that smile again, and for the first time in too long, I smile back, then turn toward the crate.

My back’s to the door when it finally bursts open. As I turn, I see the guy whose balls I kicked into his throat standing there, sweating, and red with rage. He moves toward Amanda first, because she’s closer.

I raise the gun, take aim, exhale…and slowly squeeze the trigger.

© 2023 P.A. Cornell

About the Author

P.A. Cornell is a Chilean-Canadian speculative fiction writer who penned her first science-fiction story as a third-grade assignment (for those curious, it was about shape-shifting aliens). A member of SFWA and graduate of the Odyssey workshop, her short fiction has appeared in several professional markets. Her novella Lost Cargo was published in 2022 by Mocha Memoirs Press. This is her fourth publication in Cossmass Infinities. A complete bibliography can be found at https://www.pacornell.com/.