Free John Dies at the End by David Wong Page A

brother.”
    “He just went down the street. He’ll be back any second now.”
    “Dammit, I’m not gonna attack you. Didn’t he go to a party last night?”
    Long pause. She said, “Maybe.”
    Oh, shit, look at her. She’s scared senseless.
    “Just outside of town, right? At the lake?”
    She snapped, “You know where he is?”
    “No. He never came home?”
    She didn’t answer. She wiped at one of her eyes.
    “The dog,” I said. “Molly, she was at the party. Did he take her there?”
    “No. She ran off before that.”
    So . . . the dog followed him to the party? It was there looking for Jim? Who knows.
    She said, “I think Jim’s dead.”
    This stopped me.
    “ What? Oh, no. No, no. I don’t think—”
    She broke into tears, then choked out the words, “He won’t answer his phone. I think that black guy killed him.” She looked right at me and spat out, “Were you there?”
    This was an accusation. She wasn’t asking if I was at the party. She was asking if I was at the scene of Jim’s death. This conversation was spinning out of control.
    “No, no. Wait, the black guy? Is his name Robert? Got dreadlocks? How do you know him?”
    She wiped her face with her shirt and said, “The police called.”
    “About Jim?”
    She nodded. “They asked if he was here but they wouldn’t say anything else. There was this dreadlocks guy, he came to the house a few times. He was on drugs. Jim works at the shelter for church and they do counseling and stuff for people like that. Sometimes people come here asking for Jim, asking for, like, rides or loans. The black guy would come here but Jim wouldn’t let him inside. Molly bit him. She ran out and bit his hand while he was talking to Jim.”
    “When was this?”
    “Yesterday. He was right where you are. He was yelling.”
    “Did you hear what he said?”
    “He said a dog bit his hand. I think the guy was some kind of Devil worshipper.”
    “Uh, that’s possible. Do you—”
    “I’m closing the door now.”
    “No! Wait! What about the—”
    The door closed.
    Defeated, I led Molly around to the back of the house where I found about ten feet of chain, ending in a broken link, where Molly had presumably snapped it the day before. So the dog had broken her chain, then walked seven miles to an empty field in a neighboring town where she somehow knew her master was attending a party? Come on.
    I tied the chain around her collar and tried to make a knot with it. I climbed back into the car, saw that John hadn’t moved even one millimeter other than for the steady rise and fall of his ribs. Still alive. That was good because we had to be at Wally’s in a few minutes and I hadn’t been looking forward to opening the store all by myself.

    IF I HAD known what was about to happen at work I wouldn’t have gone, of course. I would also have taken off my pants. But I didn’t have the power of future sight—not at that point, anyway—and so I just sat sulking behind the wheel as we ramped into the parking lot to start the 7:00 A.M. shift at Wally’s Videe-Oh!, where I had worked for two years, John about two months.
    John was always bitching about “Wally” and how greedy “Wally” was and how he should have given me a raise by now. He didn’t realize that there was no person named “Wally” in the Wally’s organization. That was the name of the DVD-shaped mascot on the store’s sign. I never had the heart to tell him.
    I parked and engaged in a discussion with John, transcribed as follows:
    “John? We’re at Wally’s. You need to get up. John? John? John? You need to get up, John. John? I can see you breathing, so I know you ain’t dead. You know what that means? It means you gotta get up. John? Come on, we gotta go to work. John? Are you awake? John? John? Wake up, John. John?”
    I finally climbed out of the car and walked around to his door. I reached for the handle, and froze.
    His eyes were wide open, staring blankly through the glass. He