Free Last Days by Brian Evenson;Peter Straub Page B

said Gous.
    "Maybe that's why I only get half a bottle."
    Gous nodded. "Do you have glasses?" he asked.
    "No."
    "I guess Borchert didn't think you rated glasses," said Gous. He fumbled awkwardly at the lid with his bandaged hand. "I'm going to have to ask you to open it," he said.
    "How's your hand?" asked Kline.
    "Nice of you to ask," said Gous. "Recovering nicely, thank you," he said, lifting the bandaged lump in the air. "I'm supposed to keep it elevated. And I shouldn't drink too much," he said. "Alcohol thins the blood and all that."
    Kline screwed the cap off the bottle and drank. It was good Scotch, or at least good enough. He took another mouthful then pushed the bottle over to Gous, who, using his forearms like chopsticks, managed to get it to his mouth. He almost upset the bottle putting it back on the table.
    "What made you change your mind?" he asked.
    "My mind?" asked Kline.
    "About amputation."
    "Who said I changed my mind?" Lifting the bottle, he took another drink.
    "Why would Borchert have sent over a bottle otherwise? Did you get a call?"
    "I don't know what you're talking about."
    Gous nodded. "It's nobody's business but your own," he said.
    Kline reached for the bottle, watched the stump at the end of his arm knock against it, nearly knock it over. "Nobody's business but my own," he said, aloud, his voice sounding quite distant.
    "That's right," Gous said. "That's what I said."
    Kline could see on the end of his arm, the ghost of his hand, pale and transparent, sprouting oddly from the stump. "That's right," he heard himself say. He flexed his missing fingers, saw them move. They had cut off his hand but the ghost of his hand was still there. Perhaps this was what was meant by a call? Perhaps Borchert, shorn of most of his limbs, saw the ghosts of what was missing: vanished limbs grown uncarnate, pure.
    He looked up. There was Gous, across the table from him, his eyes drooping, half-closed, his face mostly gone in shadow. Kline tried to reach for the bottle but couldn't find it.
    "Where was I?" he asked.
    He saw Gous' eyelids wince, come all the way open. "We should get you into bed," Gous said. "While I still can."
    "It isn't Scotch," said Kline, to where Gous had been, but Gous wasn't there anymore. It took him some time to realize that Gous was there beside him, looming above him, trying to get him out of the chair. And then, without knowing how, he was standing, Gous beside him, and they were gliding slowly through the room.
    "No," said Gous, slowly. "It is Scotch. But that's not all it is."
    Fuck , thought Kline. "I thought you were my friend," he said, and felt himself falling. And then he was on the bed, sprawled, Gous sitting beside him looking down at him.
    "I am your friend," Gous said. "I drank with you, didn't I?"
    Kline tried to nod but nothing happened. He could see the wrappings around Gous' hand staining with blood.
    "Besides," said Gous, "friendship is one thing, God another."
    "Scoot over," Gous said. Kline was not sure how much time had passed. "There's enough room on that bed for two."
    Gous' cheek on the pillow, just next to his own eye, was the last thing he would remember until, hours later, he awoke, alone, to the sight of his bandaged foot, the bandages already steeped with blood. Even then it was not until he felt the dressings with his remaining hand that he realized that three of his toes had been removed.

VII.
    "This is what you wanted," said Borchert after Kline had forced his shoe over his bandaged foot and limped over to Borchert's building. It had been difficult to walk without the toes, hard to keep his balance, and very painful. By the time he had reached the building his shoe was saturated with blood. The guard, perhaps the same guard as the day before, had regarded him with one eye and said, "What is wanted?" In answer he had merely lifted his bloody shoe slightly. The guard, without another word, let him pass, as did the guard behind the door. And now here he was,