(Excerpt)
Use the gun, he thought. The gun will protect you. Taking the gun out of his pocket, he thought maybe he should check the time again – just to be sure. It wasn’t that late, but these assignments always made him nervous and standing there in the alcove wasn’t as inconspicuous as he would have liked. The gun felt heavy and null in his hand, and he thought about the dead fish that his uncle used to slap down on the table when he’d get home at night – “A big dead one for dinner tonight, Alfie. You like ‘em dead, right?” The alcove had a plastic tarp stretched over top like a rain catcher, smelling of wet decay.
He pushed the memory aside and got to work.
Exiting the alcove and approaching the door of a dark house, briefcase clenched tightly in one well-manicured hand, he tried to steady his breathing. The street wasn’t exactly deserted; a stray cat busily devoured a mouse down at the end of the block. It made a desperate tearing sound in the still air. Use the gun, he thought. The gun will protect you.
He pushed the key into the lock. Turned. A ripe smell like spoiled milk rushed toward him out of complete darkness. He gagged. Can’t stop, he thought, and without hesitation drew the gun from his right pocket.
He fumbled along the inner wall for a light switch, but no luck. Maybe there was a lamp somewhere in the room, or a switch on the opposite wall. Central had been lax on sending him floor plans once again. Well, it figures, he thought. Bunch of glorified jellyfish.
“Don’t bother,” came a voice, and he breathed in more quickly than he’d have liked to. “You’re the repo man, aren’t you?” It sounded female, but hoarse and ragged.
There was no sense of movement from within the dark, so he fumbled further and discovered a table lamp. He clicked it on while facing outwards in the direction of the voice, gun still held in his right. A woman sat in a chair in the middle of the room, facing him and holding an old-fashioned revolver. Behind her was a blank TV set. Beer cans and food-stained paper plates lay scattered on the floor, almost covering the dingy yellow carpet. There was a stain in the shape of Greenland on the far wall. He mused on this as he crept into the room, keeping his eyes on her hands and tuning in for the slightest movement. Her face was unimportant. He moved toward her.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said, clicking the safety off her revolver. He brought his gun out, quick like a jack-in-the-box, and shot three times. She jerked back against the chair unevenly. A lithe curl of smoke rose from her wounds.
He put the briefcase on the floor and opened it. Inside were bandages and disinfecting equipment. There was also a long syringe with an over-sized, oval-shaped chamber. It contained a light blue fluid.
She had died instantly; he would have to work fast. He removed the gun from her hand and placed it on the floor beside her chair. He disinfected and patched her wounds, then he poked her with the syringe right above her left breast, in her heart. He depressed the plunger ever so slowly, to avoid flooding her, and removed the needle with a brisk tug.
She breathed in quickly. Her neck tensed.
“Aaaaaahhhhhhaaaaahhh,” she said, “aaaahhh.”
“How do you feel?”
“I like it…I like it…”
“Good,” he flashed a reassuring grin. This would be splendid.
