Excerpt: Drunkard's Walk

The following excerpt is from the second story: Wings Too Heavy To Fly

‭ "You can’t stop me," he wheezed, and coughed a blob of phlegm to one side. He did not spit on me, for which I silently blessed him. "I'm leaving this deathtrap; I won't die here. I won't die here."
‭
He was far gone. Though his face was a mass of pus and blood, I knew who he was, had watched him speak to a fevered crowd only days before, and it was a shock to see how far the disease had already brought him. Though he might still be walking and talking, he was already a dead man, and I could not believe he did not know that.
‭
"I'll die on good old Earth," he whispered, no longer speaking to me. He turned and began to limp away, his feet squelching as his wounds wept openly. "I won't die here."
‭
I did not like this man. I could not agree with him, and I could not let him leave. But even so, I could not hate him. In many ways, I could not even blame him. After all, as I noted when the meteorite had first struck, it is the nature of man to run home, to flee to familiar shelter in times of dire danger. This man knew he was dead. He simply wanted to return home, to die among comfort and imagined safety, and for that I could only pity him.
‭
"You can't do this," I called after him, though my voice was no louder than his. It was an incredible pain to speak, as the bullet lodged in my stomach sapped all my strength. He stopped but did not turn. "You can't bring this disease to Earth," I said. I wanted to shout, but could not. "If you do, you'll make Earth like this, an empty hulk, a waste. Remember what Clifford said--"
‭
"Ha!" the man shouted, and now he did turn. "Bravery, he said. Nobility, he said. This--" and here he gestured toward his body, covered in open wounds slowly bleeding his life away. "This is not noble! God does not smile upon this!" He was shouting now, and I could tell the effort pained him. He did not care. "This is not bravery! This is nothing! This is death, this is Hell!"
‭
I could not deny it, and the man knew this. Instead, I pushed against the cold metal floor.
‭
"What are you doing?" the man said, holding the gun up. His hands shook violently, and I wondered if he could even still see straight. I said nothing. What could I say? He was right, and he was wrong, and no earthly judge could tell him which was which.
‭
Somehow, I got on my feet, and leaned against the wall for support. I stopped to rest, and regretted it. The bullet wanted me to lie back down, to fall down and let it go. To let it do its job and relieve my suffering. I was tempted; I ignored it.
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"You can't do this," I wheezed and stepped toward him.
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"Stay back!" he said, and fired again. The bullet went wide and ricocheted off the wall on the other side of the passageway.
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"There is nothing noble, nothing brave, in bringing this horror to Earth," I whispered, but I do not know if my voice carried far enough, or if he listened.
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"I'll kill you!" he shouted, and fired again. This one struck closer, on the floor by my feet.
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I pulled myself one step further, then one more. I knew what I had to do, and with every step I cursed God for bringing me here, for bringing me to this.
‭
The man fired again, and my knee exploded. I collapsed at his feet, somehow managing to land kneeling. The pain should have been unbearable. Perhaps it was the disease that saved me, numbing my nerves, dulling my pain. I blessed the virus, as I cursed it, and reached forward.
‭
The man held the gun to my head, and we both knew he could not miss this shot. He did not laugh or sneer in triumph, and in some small way, this redeemed him for me. His eyes were wide in panic, in pain. He did not want to kill me, any more than I wanted to kill him. He simply wanted to live.
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He pulled the trigger. The gun did not fire.
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Perhaps God does work in miracles. Or perhaps it was merely poor luck on the other man's part. I do not know. When the gun did not fire, the fear magnified in his eyes. He dropped the gun and stepped back, then turned to run. He could still make it to the airlock, to the shuttle, and back to Earth. We both knew this. I reached wildly and grabbed his ankle, and he fell hard on the floor, his leg slipping out of my grasp.
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The gun lay between us, and I leaned over and grabbed it, leaning on my free hand. I examined the gun with blurred eyes, and the man scrambled to his feet and began to run, limping his way the final meters to the airlock. He slammed the button to extend the shaft to the shuttle, and I pulled the gun close to me.
‭
I have never fired a gun in my real body. But I have studied guns throughout the ages, and have cataloged many for our museum. This weapon was no more advanced than ours here on Earth, and it was simple enough to see the problem. The elevator shaft was extended by now, and the man, triumphant, was punching the button to open the door to his escape.
‭
The lead in my stomach had done its work, and the world was going black and red around the edges, my view tunneling to include the gun and the man, two objects alone in all the world. I thought of Arry at that moment, and I knew that I had lied when I told her I would see her again.
‭
"I am sorry," I whispered, and whether I apologized to the man I was about to kill, or the woman I loved, I did not know, as I pulled the trigger and then laid down to die.