This Time of Night
By
Jon F. Merz
Originally published in 2002 by Jon F. Merz
Copyright © 2010 by Jon F. Merz
Smashwords Edition
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Contents
Foreword
I, the Courier
What Price Salvation?
Hunting Season
The Mortal Makers
Driller
Cellmates
Garbage
Last Train
The Progression of Hope
A Different Kind of Cupid
A Friendlier Place
Balance
Beth
Drive-Thru
Final Patrol
Night of Reckoning
Of Human Chemistry
Reality Shattered
Nine Little Demons
One Way to Spice Up Your Marriage
Snow
Tenant-At-Will
The Man On Three
The Resume God
Shepherd
Under The Gun
Visitor in the Night
The Trunk of Aristhius
Charity Work
Foreword
(Strange what you find when you dig up the old backup disks you used to save work on. THIS TIME OF NIGHT (the title, by the way, comes from a song by the UK band NEW ORDER off the CD “LOW LIFE”) is a collection of some of my earliest short fiction pieces that I originally put together in 2002 to help publicize the publication of my first novel, THE FIXER. I actually thought I’d lost several of these stories, but then this evening (March 8, 2010) I found this file and I’ve decided to release this collection again – including the original foreword written below…enjoy!)
Here’s my brief history as a writer…
When I stopped working for Uncle Sam, I took a job in the private sector doing security work. I was recently married and had a lot of time on my hands. I’d been dabbling in writing for a long time, but nothing really serious. Now, all of a sudden, there seemed opportunity.
I started writing novels and short stories. This was in 1994. By 1996, I’d gotten my first published credit and there was no looking back. I churned out a steady stream of short stories. Some of them are pretty good, some are not so wonderful. But I did a lot of writing while also working on some novels.
Then I hit upon the short story that would turn into the novel that I would finally sell. When I began turning it into the novel, I dropped short story writing. I was completely committed to getting the novel as good as it could possibly be and didn’t want my mind thinking about other things.
In the years between 1998 and 2002, I didn’t see much of anything published. The few fans that I had been building with some of my published short stories obviously didn’t have anything new to read and vanished.
When I began publicizing the series I had sold in 2001 and 2002, I got a lot of “who the hell is this guy?” After all, four years is a long time to be off the scene.
So maybe this is about showing some of my own history as a writer. Maybe this is about proving that I really did write some fairly decent short stories a few years back. Maybe this is to show the evolution of one writer from the early days to now.
Maybe it’s something else entirely.
I’ve left the stories here as they were written. I could have rewritten them, but that’s not really the point. I have a lot of people write to me and say thanks for showing them that it can be done. For me to rewrite these stories as the writer I am today wouldn’t be a honest survey of what I’ve written from 1994 through now.
So the stories have faults. You’ll be able to spot a lot of them, I have no doubt.
But I hope you’ll also enjoy reading my work. And when you’re done, I hope you’ll go and buy my novels and enjoy more of my work.
Calling these “horror” stories would be inaccurate. There may only be a few here that would wholly embrace the public perception of what “horror” is. The rest are a sampling of the bizarre, the strange, the twisted.
Normal? Not a chance.
Fun?
Well, yeah, maybe…
You be the judge.
And thanks for reading!
I, the Courier
I thought it would be appropriate to start with my very first published short story. The inspiration for this tale came when I was unfortunately working in the Financial District and saw an awful lot of bike couriers. The questions arose, as they normally do, and then took my thought process on the bizarre turn. This story sold to “Rictus Magazine” as it was making its transformation from print to on-line. The $5 check I was paid still hangs framed in my office, uncashed and still inspirational. I owe a tremendous thank you to Mary Spock, the editor of Rictus for giving me my first “published high.”
Landings suck.
I hate that first bump and then the slight touchdown of the nose of the plane as the wheels finally grip the tarmac and secure us once more to Mother Earth. I always think the plane is going to bounce off the runway and spill us all over the ground.
But it doesn’t. Never has, fortunately for me. And for my packages which I am charged with getting from one place to another.
Read about it awhile back, saw the advertisement in the local paper and called the number. Free travel anywhere? C’mon, who could resist?
The pay is good depending on what you’re carrying. Small deliveries get you enough to cover expenses and make an okay living. I moved beyond that within the first six months. I wanted to go for the gusto. Make the big bucks.
One of my friends tried to go the narcotic route and eventually ended up with almost a kilo of cocaine in his stomach in condoms. Fool tried to pass it and the rubber broke, spilling all that Colombian chalk into his small intestine and killing him before EMTs had a chance to jump-start his heart. Not my cup of Joe.
There’s better ways to make the good money.
The passengers are deplaning. I stand and grab my bag out of the overhead compartment. It’s light enough.
I smile once at the stewardess who flirted with me through most of the flight and finally slipped me her number. Nice body. Definitely wouldn’t mind tapping that.
Then I’m off the plane and into the terminal. I hate Logan. Damned airport’s stuck out the end of some useless real estate that nobody else wanted way back so it got zoned for runways. Only way to get here is to go through a damned tunnel under Boston Harbor. Talk about claustrophobia, holy shit.
I grab a cab and we shoot down towards the Sumner Tunnel. Place is jammed as usual with traffic. Cabbie rolls through the tolls and then we’re in two-lane paradise for what seems like hours. I’m sweating.
“Whassa mattah? You no like tunnels?”
What a freaking genius. “Not really.”
“Wha you think mebbe tunnel collapse or something? Mebbe drown?”
I look at him in his rear view mirror. “Shut the fuck up.” I slump back against the seat and close my eyes.
I flew in from Albuquerque. It was warm down there. My client had me stop off to get my package and was then kind enough to get me to the airport. Nice folks, these people. Definitely interested in making sure I’m as comfortable as I can be. I like that.
The sound of breaking glass halts my introspection. I squint and duck simultaneously trying to make out what has happened. We’re out of the tunnel at the entrance to route 93 north, by the North End, the Italian section of Boston.
Driver’s dead. Looks like a burst from a small 9mm compact submachine gun. Probably an Ingram, but the damned things aren’t much good at a distance. Maybe a Skorpion.
I throw the door open and roll clear of the cab which hurts like a bastard. Ever try rolling from a moving vehicle? Don’t.
Martignetti’s liquors is in front of me and beyond that is Hanover Street. Place is crazy with people, but that works for me. I try to disappear into the throngs but I know they’ll be behind me.
I’m concerned but not overly so. This has happened before. There are always competitors that want what you’re carrying and will do just about anything to get it.
I wish I had a gun.
Be tough to explain that to the airport officials, however.
I’m moving quickly now down some side streets. I’m lucky they made their move by the North End. They’ll have no choice but to follow me on foot. Too many of the streets here are one-way. Tough to do car pursuit.
I can hear the running footfalls behind me and I duck down another street. Must be two of them this time. Then my ears hear the metallic clang of a charging handle being pulled back. Locked, cocked, and ready to rock.
I turn another corner as the first bullets splang into the wall behind me. Masonry dust flies off and stings my eyes as the bullets carve pockets out of the bricks. I duck and run.
Then there’s one long drawn out burst of gunfire. I stop and turn back and see the van idling by the wall. The driver gives me a thumbs-up sign and I give him his answer sign. He nods and pulls up to the curb. My protection has arrived.
The two men chasing me are dead. The occupants of the van have seen to that. I climb into the back seat and the door slides shut. The man riding shotgun turns to me and smiles.
“Getting a little close, weren’t they?”
I nod. “Wondered when you’d show up.”
The driver laughs. “Got caught up in the traffic snarl they caused when they greased the cabbie. Sorry.”
“How are you feeling?” asks the guy sitting next to me.
I shrug. “Just some sweating, nothing much.”
He nods and turns away.
The van is already on Storrow Drive heading west. We get off at the Kenmore Square/Fenway exit and cruise into the Longwood Medical Area. There’s at least five hospitals clustered together here.
The van rolls into an underground parking lot, passes an additional security gate that can only be accessed with a special card and then continues five levels deeper until at last we stop.
The doors open and we get out. There’s a nurse and doctor standing by. I hop onto the stretcher and they immediately get an intravenous tube into me while they doctor begins palpitating my chest. The nurse nods and then two orderlies begin wheeling me down a long corridor. Doors open and I hear voices but I’m beginning to get very groggy. The doctor looks down at me and smiles.
My world goes black.
***
“Nice job.”
I smile. “Everything work out all right?”
The doctor nods. “The virus was extracted without incident. The temporary suspended animation state had only just begun to wear off. We were able to minimize damage and you should be good to go in a little under a week.”
“Why did the suspended animation wear off?”
The doctor shrugs. “Still an inexact science my friend. We’re doing all we can to keep the viruses contained for as long as possible while people like you are kind enough to transport them.” He pauses. “It’s still the safest method around.”
“What is?”
He grins. “Transporting virus like this. Couriers make it so much easier. Before we’d hold them in containers, but heaven help us if there was an accident. Using couriers, even if the virus breaks out and starts to infect you, we can keep it from becoming an epidemic simply by taking you into quarantine.”
Quarantine my ass. They’d kill me. But I know that, and they know I know that. The stakes are high in this line of work. Between the government trying to keep the viruses alive and private industry trying to kidnap all the couriers that transport them, it’s a damned good thing I get paid well.
The doctor claps me on the shoulder. “We’ve already got a new one for you, when you’re up to it.”
I grin. “This one got a name?”
He shakes his head. “None of this stuff has a name. Just a bunch of letters and numbers.” He holds up a slide. “Meet X1AA. Originated in Angola. We’ve managed to isolate the strain of bacillus that nourishes it.”
“What’s it do?”
“Usual. High fever, sweats, convulsions, internal hemorrhaging, coma, death.”
“If suspend fails, how long?”
The doctor smiles. “Probably be over before you knew what hit you.”
I nod. “Pay?”
“Usual, plus fifty percent bonus upon completion.”
I lean back and enjoy the sterility of the hospital room. The virus I transported is safely stored in some biomedical chamber several floors away. I am a free man again. Free to walk and do as I please. Not the harbinger of death that my occupation makes me out to be.
But I’d miss the adrenaline.
“Gimme a week,” I say finally.
What Price Salvation?
“SCROOMTimes” actually grabbed this a few months before the preceding tale, but I never got any money for it. It’s sort of a bizarre tale, I think, and probably shows some experimentation with structure and also with the true horrors that live in the mind.
In the darkness I can hear Them roar.
In the shadows They dance beside me, taunting and mocking.
In my mind, I am Their savior.
The rain falls gently on Charles Street this night, making puddles deepen by curbside shorelines, dampening the feet of so many passers-by. The rain runs long across my windshield, drawing my attention downward, ever downward, until at last it disappears somewhere in the engine block.
It’s cool out tonight. Mild for February. My leather jacket provides only a superficial warmth. My core requires a deeper heat.
Water greets my feet as I step out of the car and walk down the street. In this part of Boston, the streetlights are electric versions of the old gaslamps that used to light the way at night. It’s a cheap imitation lost only on the Yuppies that inhabit this part of the city.
The cobblestones make footing difficult, compounded by the slowly melting snow from last week’s storm. It annoys me. But I compensate.
Someone passes me by in the darkness between lights. I cannot make out appearances, nor do I care to. To me, they are just another one of the victims. Nameless, faceless, without form, rhyme or reason.
But they compel me nonetheless.
And in that compulsion, I turn and follow the fleeting image that dances before my eyes, that briskly walking figure, hurrying home on this most inhospitable night to a dinner of warmth and a television full of cheap and giddy cheer, even, perhaps...
to someone special.
I sigh, but not too loud. I wouldn’t want him thinking I was following. That wouldn’t do at all. I need to follow-do you understand? I need to follow.
In the darkness, I can hear Them.
In the shadows, I feel Their intentions.
I am the only one who can.
They laugh, you know. Laugh and giggle as They make their way along the street, down side alleyways and small indentations in the brick and stone and concrete. Hidden, but apparent nonetheless,
if only to me.
The figure before me grows smaller, but he’s not walking faster, it is merely me slowing down, allowing Them to feel to greater sense of security. In this way They grow bolder and come sooner.
But I move still, closer to the goal of my quest. My quest alone. Myself alone. There are no others now.
They have all gone on ahead of me. And I am left behind to continue the work. The work that they started. All of them.
Am I upset? I suppose I am. Certainly it would be nice to be with them, away from this existence. Certainly, it would.
But for me, it is simply not an option. At least not yet. Not until I have finished my work and then perhaps I will receive the sign. The sign of departure. Only then, may I be permitted to go.
Do you believe in divine intervention?
Trust me, it happens all the time.
I am one of those who intervenes in your life. Although you may never even know it. I exist for that purpose. And you may never know until it is too late, if you are one of the chosen ones.
The rain is falling faster now. The figure down the street is almost three hundred feet away. My feet are not making noise, the benefits of rubber-soled shoes. Manmade inventions have, in some small manner, made my work...less complicated.
We pass by the Boston Public Gardens, darkened with impenetrable shadows.
There is where They wait.
Shouting within.
Screaming profanity at me.
They sense me on the fringes of Their subconscious. Tickling the remnants of instincts once honed to a razor’s edge, long since dulled by the inexorable onslaught of what we call civilization.
But I am present; a lone obstacle to their climactic resolve.
The figure down the sidewalk is suddenly alone no longer. He does not see Them as I do. He is not aware of Their presence as I am. He is not in tune with the scheme of totality, the laws of the cosmos, or even the flow of life, as I am.
There is little time.
He senses me only at the last second and then I am upon Them as They move to attack. He screams once at my sudden appearance but then howls in agony as Their blades reach him first, cutting skin away from precious organs.
He falls away and hits the hard ground, panting as I move to take Them both on. One of Them lunges for me and I catch the thrust full on, sinking back to absorb the force as He stumbles to catch up with His sudden lack of balance. Too late, He realizes my intention as I suddenly redirect His energy back into His body, causing Him to stiffen once, then break apart.
The second comes at me with more caution, but His flow is compromised by His hesitancy. I make a sudden movement and He reacts, giving me the unbalance I need to move into Him, absorbing His energy, overwhelming Him with my own and splitting Him in two. He falls hard to the ground, cracking several times before lying still.
The man They attacked, the confused victim, is trying to get off the sidewalk. He’s bleeding badly but his eyes still gleam with the essence of life. He’ll be all right.
He watches me, wondering what to do. I offer him a swatch of gauze from my pocket. Lately, it seems, I have not been fast enough.
“Thank you,” he says finally.
I smile once and then walk away. Already, the shouting resumes in my head. The anger swells within me, but it is not mine.
I am a vast receptacle of emotion.
In the darkness, the Evil roars.
In the shadows, They wait.
And I alone, am the only defense for you...
But lately, I am less sure. Lately, I am less skilled. Lately, I am beginning to wonder when I will receive the sign to come home.
And now, more than ever before, I wonder...
What price salvation?
Hunting Season
Another tale published by “SCROOMTimes,” this was one of the first stories where I played with a lot of characterization through dialog and inner monologue. It also shows my fondness for using monsters in stories and trying to go at it in a different sort of way.
“Whaddya think?”
I looked at the corpse. “Yep, I’d have to agree with you.”
“So it was a wolf?”
I nodded. “Uh, huh. Big one.” The throat had been ripped out. Massive blood and tissue loss.
The fat sheriff hadn’t seen anything like this before and as much as said so. “What would make ‘em do this?”
“Could be rabies.”
“A rabid wolf?”
“Could be.” He chose to let that go and looked at me. Regarded my unkempt beard, long hair and dirty jeans. He wasn’t happy.
“Can you...y’know, take care of it?”
I looked at him. Scared. A donut eater coming face to face with a big wolf. This kind of thing wasn’t in his plans when he took the job. Today he was lucky. “Yep.”
***
I’m a hunter by trade. It’s what I do. Trying to explain why would be like asking a fish what’s so special about water. So, I won’t even try.
But I’m one of the best.
I’d been trekking cross-country like I always do this time of year. Autumn. Hunting season. Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine, I love the Northeast woods. It’s wide open wilderness up there and if you weren’t careful you’d get so damned lost you’d better know how to eat pine bark.
The town had a problem. I stumbled into it pretty much by accident, picking up some new ammunition for the Remmington I carried. I stayed a day and had lunch at the diner. One of those old ones, looks like it was dumped there by some strange time warp. Good cherry pie.
Talk runs cheap in diners like that and I’d pretty much overheard the entire story by the time my second cup of coffee arrived. I finished, paid up from the small amount of cash I carried and strolled down a side street to visit the sheriff.
Like I said, he wasn’t happy. I told him I could help. He asked for credentials. I showed him the Remmington.
We walked to the body holding area at the local graveyard. Most of the cemeteries have them up here, but don’t use ‘em that much anymore. Ground gets so cold during the winter months they used to have to stow the bodies until the soil thawed out and they could be buried.
The deputy was definitely dead. Probably took less than twenty seconds for him to die. Having your throat ripped out isn’t pleasant.
The two man police force had just been halved and Sheriff Cruller Boy wasn’t looking forward to running the place alone. He hadn’t had many volunteers for deputiztion either. He looked me up and down again. I hoped this wouldn’t take too long. He grinned that nervous smile that people who live and die doing everything by the book smile when they realize they’re about to step off a page.
“Good luck.”
I nodded and left the town.
***
Octobers in Maine get damned chilly at night. I was in the woods, pretty sure of what I’d be facing. Wolves are magnificent animals and supreme hunters. I respect them and keep my distance. They don’t like people and would rather leave them alone. A rabid one changes things. Poor creature’ll be out of his skull with madness, doesn’t know which way is home and he’ll be driven to kill over and over again until he dies. That could take a long time.
There are parts of Maine where the trees grow so thick and close together you’d sure as hell better not be claustrophobic. Balsam firs and cedars and pines hedge you in everywhere you turn. It’s not easy hiking. If you’re not careful the damned forest’ll swallow you whole and spit you sideways when she’s done.
My moccasin boots gripped the ground. They were made from deer skin and cow hide. Durable and quiet, they left very little in the way of tracks.
It was damp this time of year from the rain that precede the snows. It was soft from the sea of pine needles that cushioned the forest floor. Sounds get muffled. Everything is closer than it appears to be. Good if you’re hunting, like I was. Bad if you were hunted, like the deputy.
The lake was the only source of water in the area, save for some decrepit, muddy puddles. That wolf will need water.
I set my back against the heavy pine and waited. It was cloudy. The moon was a dull glow behind a cloud, climbing higher in the sky as time marched on. The wolf didn’t show. Around two I fell asleep, let the Remmington meander into my lap and shut out everything but sound.
***
I woke up wet. I was lying in the lake with four inches of water around me. I must have rolled from my perch into the water. I was soaked.
Getting a fire started wasn’t easy but the waterproof matches helped and soon I was pretty warm. I collected some water from the lake, boiled it, strained it, and boiled it again and then added some pine needles. The tea warmed me and gave me some vitamin-C.
After I scattered the fire, I checked the shoreline for tracks. I came upon them right away. Big ones. By the depth and clarity, they’d been made last night. While I was asleep. That wouldn’t happen again.
I followed the tracks with the Remmington slung across my back. They circled lazily around the lake and my perch. Damn thing knew I was there. The tracks took off and headed deep into the woods and then emerged by the edge of a small farm. Sheriff Cruller Boy’s car was parked out front, sideways, TV cop style with the lights flashing. The wolf had killed again last night.
The tracks went across the field but I didn’t follow them. I didn’t need to. I knew what had happened here. What was important was for me to figure out where it was bedding down during the day. I searched the perimeter of the field for returning tracks and found none.
***
That night the sky was pretty clear. The lake was well lit by the moon and I felt pretty confident that my wolf’d be back to drink again. If he hadn’t lost his mind entirely, he might be playing with me. After all, he’d run circles around my hide last night. He could easily have scented me.
The Remmington nosed through the grass by the shore and waited patiently. I figured it would approach from the West, which was where the farm was. His tracks hadn’t returned and if he was bedding down by his kills then he’d be back this way soon.
I snuggled down again and waited.
***
I don’t know what time it was when I woke up. It was mid morning at least. I was tired and groggy and the Remmington was gone. The lake was numbingly cold. I was lying in it again. A fine gray mist had settled over the area. I brewed another batch of tea and warmed myself as best I could by the fire.
Something was bothering me about the lake. There was a definitive lack of animal life. There were a ton of new tracks pressed into the mud, but they all belonged to my wolf. There was nothing else. No raccoon, no deer, and especially no squirrels. A few birds lingered in song here and there but they were scattered aways south from the lake.
I felt no need to eat. I really didn’t need to. I’d gone for days without eating when I’d hunted before like this. I’d pork out when I got back. For now the teas I brewed from the local plants were enough.
I was tired again, and I wanted to know where the Remmington was. I had a bad feeling it was somewhere in the lake. How it got there, I had no idea.
***
Another night by this damned lake. I’m beginning to experience a type of deja vu. I don’t like it. Every night starts out like this, although tonight I have no rifle with me, just the hand-made bowie knife I got from a tracker in Texas.
The blade catches the moonlight and glistens. The lake is bright under a canopy of stars and the full moon, which outshines everything close to it in the sky.
I’ve slept for most of the day. I’m so fatigued I don’t understand it. It’s only been two, maybe three days since the cherry pie at the diner. Boy that was good. Definitely going back there when I find this wolf.
Damned wolf! Where the hell is it. I’m staying awake tonight. I’ll kill the damned thing with my knife and hands if I have to but I’m staying awake tonight. Why am I so tired? My eyelids drop once and then I drag the bowie across my palm to stay awake.
The blood flows freely. Blade was sharp as a bastard. In the crisp air the copper smell lingers around me. Cautiously I lick the blood from the cut. I don’t want it falling to the ground and having the wolf go crazy to get it. The copper stings my throat and my eyes water. I hesitate and then ease forward to lap a bit of water from the lake. Stupid I know. There’s a lot of organisms in the water that’ll have me squatting for days. But I needed something to wash down the blood.
The moon’s so damned bright. Feels like the sun. Nice and warm. Hot even. I glance around and make sure the wolf isn’t here and then remove my green and black flannel shirt, lay it down carefully by the tree. Moonsunlightshine warmer warmer warmer. Sweating now. Jesus, what did that blood do to me? My camouflage pants come off with my moccasins so I can squat in the lake to cool off.
The water touches me and I shiver once before I begin sweating again. What the hell is going on here? Ouch! What was that? Itch. Need to scratch my back. I drop the knife and reach behind to scratch my shoulder. Damned hairy back’s what I’ve got. Blame my mother and father for that. It’s a genetic thing.
More itches make me scratch at every pore of my body, I look around for the poison ivy I must be sitting in, but there’s none around. Damn, I’m going to need a haircut pretty soon, for my body. I didn’t realize I had this much.
For a moment I can’t see, and then at once my vision is restored, but different. I see things now. I hear things too. I smell more blood. My hand is caked with it. I sniff at it curiously. My tongue scrapes across the leathery skin of my palm and my saliva swells with the taste of my own blood.
I need more of it. Now. I move, easily, nonchalantly through the woods, sniffing, listening, tasting the air. My moccasins are gone, replaced by my paws. My fur clings to branches as I pass.
I’m acutely aware of this kind of rhythm that flows in the woods. The rhythm of life. It runs parallel to me and I can leap into that rhythm at any time to disrupt it, take from it. Whenever I do, it closes up behind me and I’m left with my kill, my meal.
But for now, I have nothing. And now I hunt. I told you I was the best. Maybe I’ll wander around Sheriff Cruller Boy’s way and see if he’s convinced.
A cycle of twenty eight days and a full moon is all it takes to make me complete. It feels good to remember again.
The Mortal Makers
An early attempt at combining horror elements with the espionage novels I loved so much. This one never saw publication, but it’s not a bad piece – if only for the somewhat twist ending.
Jake listened as the radio inside the sleek ebony Mercedes crackled once and spit out the minute transmission.
"Target departing."
The man next to him in the car exhaled a thin stream of unfiltered cigarette smoke into the already hazy interior and glanced at Jake. "Show time."
Jake nodded. "Nothing fancy. I'll be quick."
"Just make sure it gets done," said the man turning his attention to the exterior. "No screw-ups."
Jake frowned. "Jesus, Hank, you have to keep bringing the past up? It was one time."
"One time too many," said Hank. "Just get it done."
Jake sighed and opened the door. Outside, the Boston night was already enveloping the city in a blanket of fog and shadow. Jake sniffed once and caught a fresh gust of sea breeze, the salty brine tickling his nostrils as he exhaled once, long and slow.
The ear piece crackled. "Test."
Jake flexed his jaw muscle. "All clear."
There was another transmission on the net, to the other people watching and listening. "Delta's foxtrot." That meant Jake had just exited the car and was proceeding on foot.
They were down by the financial district. Devonshire Street to be precise. Jake glanced at the entrance to one of the older buildings on his left and saw the numerous security cameras watching the street for problems. But all they saw was Jake. Mild-mannered Jake, wearing a black cotton windbreaker over a navy turtleneck and dark jeans with canvas sneakers on five feet ten inches and one hundred and fifty-five pounds. Mister Gray.
"Target approaching Water Street."
That would have been the spotter on the rooftop. They'd be watching for when Jake would intercept his target, giving clear cut directions so Jake could make the interaction as seamless as humanly possible.
"Delta has that," he said. Ahead of him Water Street intersected Devonshire and he could make out a lone figure walking briskly through the darkness.
Jake increased his speed, closing the distance to roughly two hundred feet. It had to be quiet. Surprise was absolutely essential.
But Jake was a professional. After all, hadn't he spent two years in the isolation tanks down in Virginia learning all manner of tradecraft? And the stealth training had been of paramount importance to him. All those hours of practice walking on damp rice paper until no wrinkles, no rips or tears showed in the wake of his passage. Jake harmonized his breathing and movement until he simply slipped through the air, scarcely disturbing air molecules as he moved.
Who'd have thought a high-school dropout from Queens could have ended up like this? He grinned in spite of himself.
"Target approaching Federal Street."
Jake increased his speed again. The distance was down to one hundred feet now. Still the form in front of him showed no signs of detecting him.
Jake stayed out of the lights as he moved. It was the most difficult part, weaving in and out of the circles of light that tore holes out of the blanket of night. Jake had to compensate for them and still keep his rate of speed fast enough to catch up to his target.
No problem.
There had only been once. Last year in Berlin. Jake was within two feet before his target caught wind of him and beat a hasty retreat. Jake could have pursued, but it was called off by the agent-in-charge. Jake had had to endure a humiliating debrief back at headquarters.
And Hank was still fond of dredging it up before every subsequent mission, much to Jake's constant annoyance. Of course, Hank was still bitter about Jake's upstaging him on the recertification tests. Jake had beaten Hank's previous record by a full two minutes. Hank, at forty-five, was simply losing that youthful edge. And the folks at headquarters knew it. They slapped Jake out on the tip of the spear and kept Hank in reserve. After all, Hank had years of wisdom and field experience he could still pass on.
Honestly, Jake liked Hank. He was fond of listening to the elder man recount stories of work during the Cold War. Before Jake's time.
At twenty-two, Jake was still young in terms of field operatives. Not that anyone seemed to care. As long as he got the job done, he could have been a twelve year old with a retainer and it wouldn't have mattered.
As long as he got his target.
"Target passing Milk Street."
Jake narrowed it down to fifty feet and still his sneakered feet let no sound escape his footfalls.
The dress was personal choice, although dark colors were strongly suggested. Hell, you had to be crazy to wear anything else. Muted darks broke up the body better and made it tough to determine distance, depth, and angle of the attack. All favorable points in any degree of close-combat.
And with an enemy like this, every point counted. Heavily.
Twenty-five feet.
It got hairy here, because Jake had to now avert his eyes from staring directly at his target. They could sense it, they could. That intention. Picked it up like radar and it made surprising them especially hard. Jake concentrated on the details of last night's Patriot's game as he closed to ten feet.
There'd be no communication on the net now. No one took the chance that a snatch of conversation might float out of the ear piece Jake was wearing a little too loudly and alert the target.
Five feet.
Jake withdrew his right hand now and steeled his will. It all came down to this. A single moment of decisive action. The adrenaline streamed into his bloodstream, galvanizing his thoughts, body, and spirit into one single vessel of action.
Three feet.
Jake launched himself at the form in front of him and landed squarely on his target's back. They fell, cascading all over the sidewalk. Jake plunged his hand down, down, down, not stopping at the first point of contact, but continuing until he had slammed his right hand down into the writhing form beneath him.
Pay dirt.
The screech that exploded out of the target made Jake cringe, but he stayed on top of the target until the movement finally subsided and then ceased entirely.
He slumped off to one side and into a brick wall. "Contact-contact-contact."
"Delta, confirm."
Jake sighed. He got to his feet and rolled the body of his target over. The face of the blonde woman stared up at him vacuously. Her eyes seemed dulled by the sudden exodus of her life force. Her mouth was agape and a thin line of pink, frothy foam bubbled out of her mouth.
Jake frowned. "That's confirmed."
"We have that Delta, stand by."
Down the street some three blocks, a van engine roared to life. It zipped down to where Jake stood waiting. Hank in his Mercedes came speeding down the street as well. He got out of the car and came over to Jake.
"Okay?"
Jake nodded. "Yeah. A real banshee, this one."
Hank sniffed. "Hell, they all are." He bent close to the woman's body. "Damned pretty too." He shook his head. "Shame."
Two men came out of the van and bore a stretcher. They scooped the woman's body up and hefted her into the rear of the van. Hank looked at Jake. "Let's get this over with and I'll get you downtown for the debrief."
Jake nodded and together they climbed into the rear of the van.
The woman's body lay on a steel slab table in the center. One of the technicians smiled at Jake. "Nice strike. You don't get much more on target than this."
Jake nodded. "Thanks."
Hank frowned. "Let's do this, okay? Letterman's on in an hour."
The techs nodded and one of the removed a steel saw from a nearby shelf. Placing it over the woman's neck, he sliced down and deep, cutting through the thin neck muscles, trachea, esophagus, and finally the spinal cord. Black, viscous blood oozed out all over the table and ran in rivulets into deep grooves that conveyed it into a container under the table.
"Not much oxygen in her," said the tech. "Probably out for a meal."
Jake frowned. "Good thing we caught her."
The tech hefted the decapitated head and looked at it. "Damned shame."
"Just put it in the fucking container," said Hank. "I don't have time to listen to you guys wax poetic over a freaking corpse."
The tech frowned, but placed the head into a steel container. "All right, that's done." He bent over the sternum and then looked up at Jake. "Want it back?"
Jake shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"No, but it was such a nice kill," the tech shrugged. "Figured maybe you'd want it as a souvenir."
Jake shook his head. "Leave it in there. Better safe than sorry."
The tech laughed. "Hey man, come on, that's old hat. Once we get the head, the game's over. You can do what you want with the rest. No problem."
"The man said leave it there," said Hank.
"All right," said the tech. "We're through here then."
Hank gestured to Jake. "Let's go."
The night air felt refreshing on Jake's face, cooling the sweat he hadn't realized was accumulating on his face. He brushed his hand over his face and it came away damp. "Christ."
Hank stopped. "What?"
"Still sweating," said Jake. "Thought that would have stopped by now."
"Shit, kid, it doesn't ever stop. Not ever," said Hank. "This isn't the kind of thing you get used to. You do, you die. That simple, got it?"
"Yeah," said Jake. "Yeah, I got it."
"Thing about these things is they know we feel this way. It's what gives them the edge. Just gotta learn to get it under control long enough to take 'em out and then you let the fear grab you, wrestle around for a bit and then get back up in the saddle again. Deny the fear and it'll come out when you can least afford it, namely right before a kill."
Jake got into the Mercedes again. "Hank?"
Hank turned the engine over. "Yeah?"
"You ever wonder what it's like?"
Hank looked at Jake. "Kid, our job's no different than the CIA, DEA, DIA, FBI, or any other one of the alphabet soup organization in our government. We've all got temptations in the job. Shit, imagine seeing all that money a DEA agent sees day in day out? That's temptation. CIA guys got state secrets they could score millions for if they sold out." He slid the car into gear and pulled out. "Us? We got the lure of fucking immortality. And even though the price tag's damned expensive, it sure is a pretty picture, ain't it?"
Jake nodded. "Yeah. Sure is."
"And she was a babe," said Hank. "No doubt."
"Just weird," said Jake. "This is not what I expected to be doing with my life."
Hank laughed. "Not too many people grow up knowing they'll be doing this for a living," said Hank. "Can you imagine? A vampire assassin?" he laughed again. "Look real pretty on a resume, huh?"
Jake laughed too. "Guess so. What time you think we'll be through tonight?"
Hank shrugged. "Pretty cut and dry op. Shouldn't take but twenty minutes for a debrief. Initial the witness statement to the destruction of one undead blood sucker and that's a wrap."
"Buy you a drink afterwards?"
Hank looked at him. "Yeah?"
Jake nodded. "Sure. I think they play Letterman down at Roger's. And they stock Bombay behind the bar."
Hank smiled. "Well, shit. In that case, yeah, I guess you could buy me a drink."
Jake nodded. "Good."
Hank wheeled the car down past Fanueil Hall. Outside, night continued to embrace the city.
And everything that resided in it.
Driller
This story saw “print” in the on-line magazine “FrightNet” back in 1997. It was also the first piece of work to ever get reviewed. The review was favorable, but not overwhelming. I like the story because it plays on fears a lot of people have and also explores the dangers of technology.
The pain was unbearable.
Harold Molarni clamped a firm hand across the underside of his jaw and shuffled into the kitchen. He hadn’t showered yet, hadn’t done anything in fact. Except maybe moan and pray to every deity he could remember from his religion studies classes in college. The pain was unbearable.
His wife stood scrambling eggs in the kitchen of their house. She looked up as he came in and frowned.
“Harry, for God’s sakes, will you just make an appointment?”
Harry tried to grin back, emphasizing his pitiful attempt at a smile. “Oym foyn, okay?”
She looked at him. “You’re not fine. That damned tooth has been bothering you the better part of a week now.” She shook her head. “Frankly, I’m a little tired of listening to you moan at night, especially if we’re not having sex.”
He tried to smile and winced as the pain shot through his jaw again. “Ow.”
Her frown softened. “Honey, you need to go. I know the dentist frightens you. It frightens a lot of people.”
“What does?” chirped their son Rick as he wandered into the kitchen playing with the family dog.
“Nothing, dear,” said Harry’s wife.
“Dad’s tooth still killing him?”
Harry nodded. “Uh huh.”
Rick shook his head and held his hand out for the dog to give him a paw, which it did. “Dad, just go to the dentist.”
“Uh uh.”
Rick grinned. “Afraid of the drill, Dad? That high-pitched whine?”
Harry frowned.
“Oh and then the smell,” said Rick. “That’s bad, too. That burning smell. Awful. You know your teeth are actually bones? So it’s like your bones are burning. Gross, huh? My teacher was saying that during World War Two, when the Nazis were putting people to death they’d-”
“That’s enough, Rick,” said Harry’s wife pushing him toward the backdoor. “Why don’t you take King and go outside and play?”
“Aw, mom, I was just trying to help dad out.”
“Out,” she said. “Go for a walk.”
Rick frowned and then walked away trying to imitate the sound of a drill. King the dog followed behind him.
Harry stood up. “Valium?”
She shook her head. “No way, Harry. You’ve almost cleaned out my supply as it is. You keep it up and I’ll have nothing left for myself. And you know how bad I get tension headaches.” She walked out of the kitchen and returned a minute later carrying the Yellow Pages. “I’m making you an appointment.”
“Uh uh,” said Harry.
“Uh huh,” said his wife. “You keep it up and you’ll have to use sign language soon to communicate with me. This is ridiculous. There must be someone that can help you.”
“They awl the same,” said Harry wincing again.
“Here’s one,” she proclaimed. “Easy Does it Dentistry.” She looked up at Harry. “Says here they specialize in treating patients with neurotic symptoms.”
“Um not noorodic.”
“You most certainly are.”
Harry sighed and watched her make the appointment.
***
‘Easy Does it Dentistry’ resided in a small office building downtown. Harry phoned in sick to work, or rather, mumbled in sick to work. His wife wanted to drive him, but Harry insisted he was all right and could still function. His persistence won out over his wife’s pleading.
The doors opened automatically as he walked up the sleek cement slope toward the building. A small brass plaque inside directed him to the second floor and there, behind twin wood-paneled doors, he found the clinic.
He was greeted immediately upon entering by a receptionist who could have posed for the toothpaste commercial of her choice, her smile was that luminous. She handed him a clipboard and asked him to fill out the necessary blocks. Harry sighed and thanked the stars he had a good benefits package at work that covered this dental emergency one hundred percent. When he was done filling out the forms, the receptionist directed him back to his seat.
“It’ll be just a moment.”
But Harry’s attention was riveted on a bulletin board across the room. He shuffled over, aware that the throbbing inside his mouth had grown to even greater proportions since entering the clinic. He frowned.
The pictures on the bulletin board, meanwhile, were all smiling toothy snapshots. Harry glanced at the banner over the board that read “All Our Customers Are Happy,” and sighed.
I sure hope so, he thought.
“Mr. Molarni? The dentist will see you now.”
Harry turned and saw the receptionist smiling at him. He tried to reciprocate but the action alone brought more pain into his jaw. The receptionist pouted sympathetically and pointed.
“Down the hall, second door on the right.”
Harry tried to grin and got it. He walked down the hall and turned right at the second door. It was an large examination room.
“Harry?”
Harry turned and saw the dentist. He was a small man, about five feet eight inches and weighed maybe one hundred twenty pounds. He held out his hand. Harry took it.
“Nice to meet you, Harry. My name’s Dr. Samson. Your wife said you were in excruciating pain, so I won’t waste any time here. Let’s get you into the examination chair and take some x-rays. Once we get those, we can see what’s what.”
Harry got into the chair and tried to relax his body. He was stiff with tension. Dr. Samson leaned over him getting the lead apron in place.
“Any kids, Harry?”
Harry nodded and held up a finger.
“One huh? So you don’t really care if some of the radiation sterilizes your balls, do ya?”
Harry looked at him wide-eyed. “Huh?”
Dr. Samson laughed. “Just a joke, Harry. Just a joke. Your jewels are perfectly safe. No need to worry. I promise.” He held up a small piece of cardboard. “I would like to try to get you to bite down on this while we shoot the x-rays. Think you can manage it?”
Harry sighed and tried to open his mouth. Dr. Samson leaned closer and then recoiled. “Yikes, been a few days since you brushed last, huh?”
Harry closed his mouth gingerly around the cardboard. “Uh huh. Sorry.”
Dr. Samson smiled. “No problem. I’m used to it. You wouldn’t believe what people come in here with.” He made some adjustments and brought the x-ray over to the side of Harry’s jaw. “Okay, we’re all set Harry. You sit here nice and still and I’ll be back as soon as the radiation evaporates, hahaha.”
Harry grinned and looked straight ahead. I hate this place, he thought. The lights went low just then and there was a small clicking noise and the x-ray machine zapped his head. In under thirty seconds, they were done. Harry sat in the chair. Dr. Samson came back in.
“Okay, Harry, let’s get you out of this apron and then we can see what the x-rays show us.” He helped Harry out of the chair. “Come with me.”
They walked down the hall and into another room. There were five sheets of film hanging up against a lighted backdrop. Dr. Samson began frowning immediately. “Huh, look at that. Interesting.” He turned back to Harry. “Congratulations. You have an impacted wisdom tooth. And it’s infected.”
“Whaduhthat mean?” asked Harry.
“Usually?” asked Dr. Samson. “Oral surgery.”
Harry winced.
Dr. Samson smiled. “But, fortunately for you, we here at Easy Does It Dental have innovated a new solution to oral surgery.” He motioned Harry to follow him. “Let’s get you back to the examination room.”
Once there he pulled a stool across from harry in the examination chair. He held a small tube in one hand. “Harry, you saw all those smiling faces out front, right?”
Harry nodded.
“Well, I’m here to tell you that all those people were oral surgery candidates until they came here. You see, we have a different method of cleaning up the infection and extracting the diseased tooth. We call it the Driller.”
Harry frowned. Dr. Samson laughed.
“It only sounds nasty, Harry. I assure you if you decide to go with the Driller, you’ll never feel a thing until the tooth is long gone.”
“Weally?”
Dr. Samson nodded. “Uh huh. And the best part of it is, that you don’t even have to stay here. Once we do the implant, you go home. It’s that easy.”
“Lethdoit.”
Dr. Samson nodded. “Glad you feel that way. He held up the tube. Inside was a speck of dust. “This is the Driller.”
“Whaddisit?”
“It’s what we call a biobot, Harry. Minuscule sized robots that can be programmed to perform a zillion different functions, all within the body. They’re the latest rage in the medical field right now.”
“Isitsafe?”
Dr. Samson nodded. “Naturally. Of course this technology is new, so sometimes there are programming errors, but nothing to be concerned with. Your biobot has two mission profiles, as we call them, clean up the infection and excavate the diseased tooth. The tooth gets excavated by the biobot, by breaking it up into tiny pieces that pass through your digestive tract and get washed out of your body. In the space of a week, your tooth will be gone.”
Harry smiled.
“The best part of course,” said Dr. Samson, “is that as soon as we implant, the pain vanishes. It’s amazing.”
“How?”
Dr. Samson shrugged. “The biobot secretes a small nerve dampening agent at the root of the tooth. You’ll never even know you had a problem until it’s gone. Tidy, huh?”
Harry nodded.
“Did you want to do the implant today, Harry?”
Harry nodded.
Dr. Samson smiled. “Great. You sit right there while I wheel over the insertion machine. We’ll zap the biobot in, and that’ll be that. Okay?”
“Uh huh.” Harry watched Dr. Samson wheel a large needle-like instrument over to the base of the chair.
Dr. Samson noticed the frightened look in Harry’s eyes and smiled. “Relax. It’s not painful at all. Less of a pinch than a Novocain shot, really. You open wide now and I’ll target your tooth. Then we fire the biobot in with a squirt of liquefied toothpaste. Once inside your mouth, the biobot will attach itself automatically to the programmed target, in this case your impacted tooth. After five minutes, you can spit the toothpaste and the biobot stays in place. From there on out, your life is back to normal.”
Harry smiled.
Dr. Samson leaned in close to Harry’s ear and cracked his knuckles. “Are you ready Harry?”
“Uh huh.”
Dr. Samson stood again and nodded. “All right, here we go. I need you to open your mouth as wide as you can. The first thing I’m going to do is laze your tooth.” He slipped a pair of glasses on Harry’s face. “It’s the same technology they used in the Persian Gulf when they were hunting Scud missiles. Those commandos would use a laser beam to paint the target and then call in air strikes. The missiles would automatically seek the lazed targets.”
A beam of intense light appeared. Harry felt a warm sensation in his mouth.
“Just another second, Harry,” said Dr. Samson. “There. Now keep your mouth open while I prep the injection.”
Harry watched Dr. Samson insert a smaller test tube into the launcher and then close the chamber. “Here we go.” He wheeled the device closer.
Harry felt the brief squirt of toothpaste, tasted the minty fluoride and resisted the urge to close his mouth. A speck of toothpaste dribbled out of his mouth but Dr. Samson used a tongue depressor to scoop it back in.
“Just a few minutes now, Harry. Hold on.”
Harry leaned back in the chair, trying to keep the rest of the toothpaste inside. His salivary glands were pumping a continuous stream of fresh spit into his mouth and he felt like he was drowning. The throbbing continued and then just as he thought his mouth would overflow entirely, it was done.
Finished. The throbbing stopped. Dr. Samson gestured toward the rinse sink. “Go ahead, now Harry. Spit to your heart’s content.”
Harry never felt such relief as when he dumped the frothy contents of his mouth into the porcelain sink. He helped himself to the water pick and rinsed again.
Dr. Samson stepped away. “Well...how are you feeling?”
Harry’s eyes were wide again, but not from fear. “My god, I can talk again. My mouth...it doesn’t hurt at all!”
“I told you,” said Dr. Samson. “Wait right here, Harry.” He left and returned a minute later holding a small camera, one of the instamatics.
“Harry, you mind if I take your picture? We want to add you to our bulletin board.”
“Sure, go right ahead, Doc.” Harry beamed him a huge smile. There was a quick flash of light from the flash and then the mechanical clicking sound of the picture rolling out. Dr. Samson took it from the camera and placed it on a nearby counter.
Harry was massaging his jaw. “This is incredible. I can’t even feel the tooth.”
Dr. Samson smiled. “Guaranteed, Harry, you won’t have another problem with that tooth.”
Harry stood up. “Is this covered by insurance?”
“Absolutely. Biobots are all the rage right now with insurance companies because they cut costs dramatically.”
“Wonderful, wonderful,” mumbled Harry. “Say, Doc? Any eating restrictions or anything I should stay away from?”
“Eat like you normally would, Harry. Enjoy yourself. Been about a week, hasn’t it? Probably felt like a fast. My advice? Grab a burger or a huge sub somewhere and chow down. Fix a huge dinner tonight. Eat for a change.”
Harry nodded. “That sub sounds real good.”
Dr. Samson held up the picture. “Perfect smile here, Harry. You’re our newest satisfied client.”
But Harry didn’t go for the sub. As he was driving home, the nearby McDonald’s beckoned instead. Harry slid the car into the drive-through and ordered and extra value meal.
No hamburger ever tasted so good, he thought. He tore through the burger with ravenous devotion to satisfying his stomach’s lust. He smeared endless packets of ketchup all over his French fries and slurped the large Coke with no regard for how loud he might be. It was his car after all. And it was his meal. His first real meal in almost two weeks.
Harry was ecstatic.
What better way to celebrate his ecstasy than by creating some for others? Harry drove home and spent the afternoon making love to his wife.
And working up another large appetite.
“It’s amazing, honey,” said Harry that night over dinner. “I can’t feel a thing back there. It’s like it’s not even there.”