The Dangerous Kind & Other Stories Read Online Free Page A

to vomit, his bare torso convulsing in waves.
    He flopped over slowly, his head beside the deer’s limp neck. “Oh, Jesus fuck! I got pain!” He gasped and then added, “Down both arms!” He took another minute before he could speak again. “Pressure,” he gasped. He pointed to his chest. Then he did puke. Bright green and black. He continued until there was nothing left. I turned him on his side so he wouldn’t die choking like a druggie rock star.
    When there was nothing left to vomit, I watched the spasms through his guts pull him forward and back. My brother, dying puppet.
    When he got  his breath back he said, “I’m sorry, Joey. I shouldn’t have gone up to the deer like that. If Dad were here—.”
    “If Dad were here, he’d tell you to shut up,” I said.
    He tried to get up but only made it to his knees. Jason swayed and fell on his back. He pointed to the center of his chest again with one hand and clutched under his rib cage with the other.
    I knew what his frantic miming meant: I look like my father and Jason has our mother’s nose. Watching him point to his chest, I was sure my brother had inherited Mom’s trick heart, too. Or maybe the kick to his head was enough for a concussion and blood was sloshing into his brain. Either way, he wasn't going to make it down the mountain. I didn't know how I felt about that.
    Jason told me to tear his shirt into strips. I helped him back into his jacket and tied the makeshift bandage around his head. I don’t know if it did much good since it soaked red almost immediately. 
    He winced again, tried to throw up but could only give a hoarse retching sound that must have torn his throat raw. The puddle of green vomit made me nauseous. I looked away and took shallow breaths through my mouth to avoid the acidic stink. When Jason could talk again he told me to run to town. I did not move or say anything. “Joey, go get help,” he said again. One hand remained a frozen claw at his chest. His other hand pointed me downhill, toward Poeticule Bay.
    Before I left, I snatched up the gun. I looked back and forth from the deer’s caved-in head to my helpless brother. The rifle felt heavier than it should. My arms trembled and my palms were slick with sweat. I knew if I held the rifle any longer, I would begin to shake. I gritted my teeth and abandoned the gun beside him. I left him the box of shells.
    Truth? I hoped the pain might inspire him.
    “Leave the pack, too,” he whispered. “Just run.” The spasms worked up and down his body again. The splotch at his forehead spread out through the fabric of the bandage, reminding me of a poinsettia blossom.
    As he began to shiver, he looked less human. It was as if I was numb and standing outside my body. I watched myself study his torture and memorize his pain. No, not numb. There was a trickle of something new. Jason’s torment felt good. His pain was like air scrubbed fresh by a summer downpour. His fear made me feel taller. The out-of-body experience was so strong that, when I shook myself awake, I scanned the woods expecting to glimpse myself. I really thought I might look around and see me, or a ghost of me, watching a new and improved and different me standing beside my brother.
    Of course, it was a mind trick born of shock, but I must have been rising out of the shock quickly. When I looked around a second time, it was to make sure we were alone.
    I walked in the direction of the trail, but perhaps just fifty feet away, soft moss among the trees spread out, a silent invitation. I could see where the foliage thinned ahead. The oak and birch branches spread farther apart by the logging road. The afternoon sun brightened the sky. The forest shadows were short stabs of darkened quiet. I didn’t have a watch, but it couldn’t even have been two yet. I was tired. The moss was a mattress.
    I sat with my back to Jason. I couldn’t see him but I could hear him. He thought he was dying alone, cursing and crying and