Free Phoenix by C. Dulaney

hit by a truck.
    "Whoa, hey, easy," Mort was saying, but to
Brad it was muffled. Jonah sat, unmoved, watching him.
    Except Jonah didn’t look like Clint Eastwood
anymore.
    He looked like a dead man.
    Brad’s arms pinwheeled as he tried to get
away from the corpse sitting in front of him. His leg caught the
arm of the couch and he fell against it, and there was Mort trying
to grab any part of his friend’s body he could to keep him upright.
But Brad fought against Mort. He jerked himself backwards and
tripped over his feet. Jonah remained still, only his head moving
to follow the scene playing out before him.
    "Brad!" Mort fell to his knees next to him
and grabbed his shoulders. "Brad, look at me." He shook him. "Look
at me ."
    The firmness of Mort’s words got through to
him and Brad looked up. He gasped for air. His limbs shook, muscles
clenched. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead.
    "There you go. Just look at me and listen,"
Mort continued in a lowered voice. "You know what this is. Don’t
let it control you. Remember?"
    Brad nodded and started taking slow, deep
breaths. In and out. In and out.
    "That’s it, boy." He smiled and patted Brad’s
shoulders, talking his young friend through the fear and having to
restrain his own impulse to grab for the pen he’d dropped on the
floor. "Slow breaths. See what’s really there."
    Jonah raised a brow and tapped the ashes from
his cigarette into his shirt pocket.
    The whistle began to subside, and the room
felt less and less like it was spinning. Brad glanced at Jonah. He
was two things, one superimposed on the other. Part Eastwood, part
zombie. The two images swam back and forth.
    "Deep breaths, Brad. C’mon," Mort said.
    "Help me up," Brad replied. His voice was
husky.
    Mort looked over his shoulder; Jonah seemed
very casual, even nodding for Mort to help the boy up. Mort grunted
and turned his attention back on Brad. They locked arms and the
older man pulled while the younger struggled to get his feet under
him. Mort took an arm and draped it over his shoulder.
    "Gotta lay down," Brad managed to choke
out.
    Mort agreed and they shuffled toward the
guest room. Trying to help Brad up the stairs was a joke. He
finally let go and steadied Brad as he crawled up the steps, one at
a time.
    These visions are taking more and more out of him , Mort thought.
    Once upstairs, Brad begged him off. "Go. I’m
fine."
    Mort still had his hands on Brad’s back. He
looked up and saw the bedroom door at the other end of the hallway.
"I’ll help you down the hall."
    "Goddammit, I’m fine." He swatted Mort’s
hands away and pushed back until he sat against the wall.
    Mort squatted down so he could stare Brad in
the eye. "Gonna give me that attitude again?"
    Brad sighed and wiped the sweat from his
eyes. His head felt like it was going to split wide open. "Just go,
okay? You’ve got—" He made a face and flapped his hand at the
staircase. "That. So go deal with it."
    "Can you walk?" Mort asked.
    Brad rolled his eyes and worked his way up
the wall until he was standing.
    "Good." Mort grabbed an arm and led Brad the
rest of the way to the guestroom. "You picked a hell of a time to
have one of your spells." He let go and Brad collapsed on the
bed.
    "Yes, please, go apologize to our guest."
    "You shouldn’t have lost your temper with
him. He dropped everything when I called and hauled ass here to
help."
    "Help?" Brad rolled over and sat up.
" Help ?" He winced and rubbed his temple. "He’s got a lot of
balls coming in here and telling you about all the ways you’ve been
fucking up."
    Mort looked at the ceiling. "You’re
exaggerating."
    "Yeah, well. What’s it to him if you’ve lived
here half your life? Who’s he to say you should’ve been moving
around like a damn hobo?"
    "It doesn’t matter. I knew what he was
talking about, and if you’d given him half a chance, you’d
understand."
    "No, I do understand." Brad laid back and
stared at the ceiling. "For whatever reason,