**Listen to "When It's Cold I'd Like to Die" by Moby when you reach: It's all over…**
Walter White stands near Mike Ehrmantraut's side as they watch the sunset near the Rio Grande river. Mike felt tired, so damn tired, but he didn't feel scared. He knew what was coming next and he could either face it like a man or he could do what others have done: beg an unknown force to let him stay.
He could never beg. He could never do that.
Mike was ready because if you're a hitman or cleaner or private investigator, and if you're affiliated with anyone in the drug industry, or all four, death is just one of the many occupational hazards you'll face. If you're not ready to die, then you better do your best to avoid any position that requires you to carry a weapon.
His limbs begin to feel heavy, and it gives his soul the sensation that it's being pulled out through his feet. If anything scared him, it was that feeling.
Was his soul being pulled towards Hell?
"I just… I just realized that Lydia has the names. I can get them from her," Walter says, realizing his rash mistake. "I'm sorry, Mike. This… This whole thing could have been avoided."
But Mike didn't want to hear any of it. He was dying.
All he wanted to hear was the buzzing of the insects in the tall grass, the wild birds of Albuquerque and the rippling of the river.
"Shut the fuck up," Mike stares at the sun's reflection in the water. "And let me die in peace."
Seconds later, Mike closes his eyes and he doesn't even know that he's fallen to his side. Walter breaks his gaze away from the setting sun to look at the result of his desperation.
Another life lost, another dead body.
Walter slowly turns on his heel and then he heads back, letting Mike rest in peace.
No more killing, no more police, no more secrets.
No more beer, no more entertaining shows, no more Kaylee.
No more anything, both good and bad.
It's all over…
Mike slowly opens his eyes and the heat of the day is gone. The moon has replaced the sun's reflection on the river. His fingers curl around a tuff of long grass and he pulls at the blades, trying to drag himself closer to the water.
He's weak, so damn weak.
But he manages to pull himself to the river's edge and he lowers his lips to take a drink of the water. It's not clean to drink, he knows, but what other option does he have?
He presses his cheek against a wet rock and that cools his skin. He turns his head to look at the slope that he'd have to crawl up to get back to his car, but he knows that he can't drive it far without a concern citizen reporting it or a police officer pulling him over. The driver's side window is shattered and he was in no condition to drive.
His car might not even be there anymore and that difficult move would have been for nothing.
Instead, Mike pulls himself into the river to let it carry him off to somewhere that's safe. It's dark and he's injured, and there are coyotes, bears and snakes in Albuquerque.
As he floats, he clutches his stomach to protect his wound from the water as much as he can. He doesn't have a fever and if anything in the water gets into his bloodstream, that will give him one. If blood-loss doesn't kill him, then infection might.
Lying on his back, he looks up at the night sky and he can see his breath vanish into the darkness. He wonders if this is where he was meant to die. Not near the river, but in it.
There's only darkness and more darkness, and then there's light.
Just not the light that he was expecting.
It's the glow of a campfire.
Mike weakly grabs at the edge of the river, clutching at the stones and soggy plants. He moves himself onto the still land and then he presses a stone against his chest before he tosses it towards the fire.
"Did you see that?" a voice softly whispers.
Mike blinks his eyes, relieved that there's someone there.
He grabs another stone and then he tosses it in the same direction.
"Ow," another voice exclaims.
There's the sound of the tall grass rustling and then a young couple stands with their eyes wide as they stare down at Mike. They rush over to him, asking him what happened.
"Cal…" Mike tries to speak. "Caldera. He's a veterinarian. I need you to take me to him, not the hospital. Please."
He fades in and out, unsure if it's exhaustion or death, but he uses the last of his strength to murmur the address to the couple and then he closes his eyes.
Unconscious, Mike thinks about Kaylee and Stacey. He wonders if he'll be able to see them again like he used to, but since he's been investigated and with Walter White still on the loose, he's not too sure.
No. No, he'll never be able to see them again.
Mike feels his body being moved and lifted. He feels softness against his back, warmth over his chest. He weakly opens his eyes to see that he's lying in the backseat of the couple's car and then the engine starts. They take off, leaving their smoldering campfire behind.
"Caldera," he whispers. "Caldera."
He wants to make sure that the couple doesn't take him to the hospital because if they take him to the hospital, then the doctors are going to notify the police since he's been shot. They're going to want to know who was holding the gun and since he was supposed to be brought into the police station earlier, it won't go well in his favor.
Mike is leaving his life in the hands of these two strangers, and he prays to God that they do the right thing. It's all that he can do.
His eyes close again and he can hear Kaylee's laugh, the creak of the swing. He's going to miss her so damn much, but for the sake of keeping their lives as stress-free and clean as possible, memories are all that he'll be left with.
He opens his eyes long enough to see a familiar sign and it brings him some relief. The couple appears to be honoring his wish.
When the car stops, the driver gets out and he runs towards the building. He peers inside, seeing one light on in the very back. He knocks on the glass door, calling out the one name he was given. Caldera leans out of the room, looking at the man.
"This injured man asked us to bring him to you," his breath fogs up the glass-door.
Caldera heads over to look out the window, noticing that there's a woman sitting in the passenger's seat. She bites her nails before looking over her should at who's lying in the backseat. Caldera unlocks the door.
"Help me bring him inside," he props the door open before he heads over to the car.
The two men carry Mike inside of the clinic to the room in the back and then they lay him down on the operating table.
Caldera removes Mike's jacket and then he begins to remove his shirt by cutting it.
"Mike? Mike, are you with us?" he checks his pulse.
He's with you.
The couple looks around them and then the woman notices the posters of animals all hung up on the cupboard doors. She tugs on her husband's sleeve and points, and he follows the aim of her finger.
"You know that this is a man, right? Not a dog," the worried man asks.
Needing room and needing the witnesses to be gone, Caldera ushers them back to their car and he gives them his business card. He explains what he does for Mike and why he couldn't be taken to the hospital. He also mentions a large amount of money and asks for the couple's address, hoping that they take the hint.
Camping supplies, they think. Donations that they can make to help preserve wildlife.
The couple softly agrees and then they're on their way, maybe to continue their camping trip or maybe back home. Caldera doesn't know. He just knows that he needed them gone.
In the back room, Caldera begins to clean the wound and he checks Mike's blood-pressure.
"What did you get yourself mixed into this time?" he grumbles as he collects the things necessary to save a life.
Caldera carefully turns Mike on his side to check his back and there's an exit wound. He sighs in relief because it's difficult to get a bullet out. There's inflamed tissue, blood vessels that can't be cut, and he knows that Mike can't deal with any more internal bleeding.
With everything on trays within reach, Caldera rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands, ready to get to work.
One hour and twenty-seven minutes later, Caldera covers Mike with an electric blanket and then he heads to the front desk to turn the computer on. After he opens his schedule for tomorrow, he sends an email to his staff to tell them that the clinic will be closed for two days.
He can't move Mike and Mike is in no condition to travel, but two days of rest is all that he can give him before he needs to get back to work. He has other lives to save.
Mike sleeps for eight hours and twenty-two minutes.
When he opens his eyes, his lips are dry. He's about to call out for Caldera, but he notices two pills next to a large cup of water. He drinks half of the water and then he places the pills in his mouth, finishing what's left in the cup.
"That should help manage the pain. I've also injected you with an antibiotic about two hours ago to help fight off anything that might be left in your system," Caldera stands in the doorway with a mug of coffee in his hands. "Jesus, Mike, what happened to you this time?"
Mike tries to lean up, but he places his hand on his stomach and then he places his head back down on the folded towel.
"That son… That son of a bitch shot me. He wanted information from me that I refused to give. Names of innocent men," Mike weakly laughs, but not because it's funny. "Ran from my car and I took my gun out, ready to die fighting, but then I saw the river."
Resilient, Mike forces himself to rest on his forearm and he looks at the pile of bloody gauze in the trashcan in the corner.
"I saw the river and all the fight went out of me," he holds the empty cup out to Caldera, silently asking for more water. Thinking a little more clearly, he lifts his chin a notch. "Do you have the phone that I left here? Need to make a phone call to the three prisons, tip them off anonymously. I can't give them my name because the police were about to pick me up. The lawyer I hired, Wachsberger, he rolled on me."
His words are hoarse, still out a breath and low on energy. Caldera comes to him and gives him a phone book and he opens the drawer to grab the burner phone that he tucked away.
Mike flips through the yellow-pages until he finds the first number to one of the three prisons and then he's about to dial the number before he remembers something.
He doesn't care what happens to Walter, but he cares about the kid.
He cares about Jesse.
If Walter goes down, then Jesse will go down too.
"Shit," he mutters as his wrist goes limp and Mike turns to lie down on his back again. "Dennis Markowski. Jack McGann. Andrew Holt. Ron Forenall. William Moniz. Raymond Martinez. Harris Boivin. Anthony Perez. Isaac Conley."
He says the names, staring at the white light above him and Caldera inclines his head.
"What's wrong?" Caldera asks.
He doesn't know. Why would he?
"Those are the nine men that are going to die today if I don't make the phone call soon, but I have a problem and I don't think you can help me with it. Here it goes, anyway," he starts. "Walter has a kid that works for him, and I don't mean an actual kid, but I call him a kid because he's younger than me. He's got a good heart, good head on his shoulders, and his name is Jesse. My predicament is that if I call the prison, it'll spook the DEA and every lawperson in New Mexico will become hell-bent on finding information that will lead them to the great Heisenberg, which will lead them to Jesse as well."
Caldera furrows his eyebrows, thinking about his issue.
"But you'd be sacrificing nine lives to save one life."
Mike lifts his head up to give Caldera a meaningful look and then he lowers his head back down on the table.
"I'm world-weary, Caldera. I've done things in my life that have earned me a one-way ticket to hell and I deserve it, but I have no intention on bringing anyone with me, especially a kid that made a few wrong choices that lead him to where he is now," his words are heavy. "They're going to die, all nine of those men, and I don't know how Walter's gonna do it, but that man is creative. He's smart and he'll figure it out. I just hope to God that he'll make it fast and as painless as possible, and I hope they forgive me."
Mike closes his eyes and he passes out from exhaustion again, letting the white light above him act as an artificial light from Heaven because this is the only way he'll probably get to see it.
When Mike opens his eyes, it's dark and the light above him is off. His lips are dry again and his tongue sticks to his teeth. He can't talk this time, so he clicks his fingertips against the steel table to call attention to himself. In the office, Caldera slides his chair away from his desk and he comes into the room to check on his patient.
"I knew you'd be awake soon. Here," he touches the back of Mike's hand to guide it to the cup of water and Mike drinks it.
"Bathroom," he manages one word and Caldera tosses the paper cup in the trash before he helps Mike off the table.
"Will you be okay, or do you think you'll need help?"
Mike grunts, not interested in that type of help, and he finds himself in the bathroom. The door is shut behind him and he slowly bends his knees to lift the toilet seat and then he straightens up again, adjusting the IV tube attached to his arm.
After using the bathroom, he washes his hands and he carefully leans down to drink some water from the faucet before splashing his face in hopes that it chases away the tiredness from his eyes. Mike meets his reflection, looking haunted as ever.
"I bought you a turkey sandwich from the convenience store down the street," a muffled voice comes through the door. "You're going to feel nauseous, but try to keep the food down. You need to eat something if you want your strength to return."
Mike pats his face dry before opening the door to look at Caldera and he slowly nods his head.
"Do I have to lie down and eat? I know it's only been a day or two, but my back is killing me more than my stomach. I'd like to sit up more. Can we make that happen?"
Caldera nods his head and guides Mike to the waiting room. He moves a chair closer to him, so that he can put his feet up and he tucks a pillow behind his back.
"I'll get your sandwich," Caldera leaves to the lunchroom.
Alone in the waiting room, Mike looks at the magazines and he sees the remote control for the television. He turns the television on and then he switches it to the news to see if there are any new updates.
"…shouldn't be held responsible for the death of nine inmates," is the first thing that Mike hears. "But someone should be held responsible. In other news, the police are still on the lookout for Mike Ehrmantraut who went missing yesterday. He was last spotted at La PaLomita Park with his granddaughter. Police where there to bring him in for questioning, but he vanished, leaving his granddaughter behind. If you have any information leading to his whereabouts, please contact the Albuquerque Police Department. And now onto sports."
Mike mutes the television, staring blankly at his feet on the chair and then he looks to the left to see Caldera standing near the front desk with a sandwich in one hand and a bottle of cold water in the other.
"I can't honestly say that you made the right choice, Mike. I don't know the kid, but if you gave him a chance, then he must be something," Caldera walks back into the waiting room and passes the food and water over. He rubs the bridge of his nose before sitting in one of the chairs close to Mike.
The only sound that can be heard is the plastic container of the sandwich crinkling and the snap of the cap before Mike takes a drink of water. He slowly chews his food, trying not to think about anything. At least for a while.
"I can't honestly say that the kid is gonna make it, but I did my part to help him," he touches his stomach and then he takes another bite of his sandwich. "I guess we'll just have to see what happens next."