Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “What?”

  “I don’t have any idea why these commercial jobs are down here,” he rants. “Some airline lost some jets and their shareholders can probably wait. I get that, but this is different.”

  I start to speak, but he traces around a triangle shape. The nose is blunt, but turning my head I assume the tip has been sheared off. My stomach rumbles and I feel light headed.

  “Is that military?” I stammer.

  “Best Google guess,” he nods, tossing the pen down on the table and putting his hands on his hips. “It’s twenty feet too long for an F-16.”

  I shrug.

  “The Chinese have one that fits the dimensions.”

  I nod slowly, trying to comprehend why all of these planes are in one place, not to mention why they are basically intact at the bottom of the Indian Ocean. Am I still asleep in my cabin?

  “Will you please call Bates.” he badgers me.

  “Yeah, I’ll call. How many more do you think?”

  “This is six strips,” he motions to the scotch tape puzzle. “By the end of the week I’ll have twelve more.”

  “And you think this is just the tip of the iceberg?”

  “John, I didn’t even outline all the ones on these six,” he sighs, picking up the marker.

  “No, no,” I grunt, holding my hand over the map of what appears to be an airplane graveyard. “I got it.”

  Todd picks up the marker anyway, then taps the end to the side of his head. The magnitude of problems that his disclosure creates is more than I bargained for. What have I gotten myself into?

  “Is there any chance this is an artificial reef or something like that?”

  “What, you mean like when they sink a bunch of old ships on purpose?”

  “Yeah, cast off military or retired cruise ships?” I suggest, but become aware of how unlikely my premise sounds the minute the words hit the air. “Maybe some companies are illegally dumping them here?”

  “I don’t think so. When they retire a commercial airliner, they strip all the parts. You have to call someone John.”

  I hold up a finger, pulling out my smokes and snag a filter with my lips. Todd starts to speak, but I shake my head aggressively to stop him. I suck on the unlit cigarette, deep in thought. How do I get paid, but avoid having to deal with this titanic debacle?

  “Put a pin in it,” I declare. “It doesn’t leave this room and you tell no one.”

  “I think we—.”

  “Try not to,” I snap, putting up a hand defensively. I’ll do the thinking, you keep mapping.”

  Todd nods indignantly looking angry that I won’t let him steer the conversation. Lighting my smoke on the way to the open deck, I struggle to sort out the bizarre data. When this cigarette is done, I will be forced to call someone. I suck lightly wishing it was a foot long.

  Chapter Two

  A lady doesn’t just wake up in the morning with murder suicide written in her day planner. Lizzie Borden notwithstanding. It’s not that the idea hasn’t been sneaking around in the back of my brain for some time, but no actual preparation was made. If it had, I wouldn’t have been forced to purchase this red plastic gas can at the Shell station. It sits on the passenger floor mat emitting vile fumes that threaten to suffocate me. No, I would have bought cigarettes instead.

  “My kingdom for a cigarette,” I sigh wistfully, picking at my bangs with a fingernail.

  A drop of sweat runs down my forehead, dripping on the inside of my dollar store sunglasses. It’s boiling inside the car, even with the windows down. I’d leave it running, but the A/C hasn’t worked in a year. The stifling heat only adds to the soul crushing depression hovering over me.

  I run a fingertip over a dog-eared picture held to the dashboard by scotch tape. My husband and daughter stand at the end of the Santa Monica Pier, Jessie’s face partially obscured by a towering helping of cotton candy dangling off a cardboard cone. That was a good day. I take the time to trace around three other photos, likewise taped on the cracked plastic. Each image is a frozen point from my past. Returning my gaze to the cotton candy, I try to recall every aspect of the moment, but hear only the sea gulls. Vague bird sounds and a boat horn are the only remnants, her voice just a fuzzy memory. This is all that remains of my life.

  I put my arm out the window and pull the door handle from the outside. I jerk it twice, then put my shoulder into it to force the door open. A week ago, some clueless tween ran into me while she was texting. The front fender now overlaps the driver’s door, forcing me to go through this elaborate ritual every time I get out. In an obscene display of over mothering, the parent called me over to point out how traumatizing the incident was for her daughter. If I knew where she lived, I would add her to today’s list of assassinations.

  “The more, the merrier,” I grumble, hauling myself to an upright position.

  A deep breath brings a cough, my lungs crying out for a fix. I lean in the open door with a hand on the seat. A half dozen cigarette butts line the bottom of a dingy Big Gulp cup in the center console. Whose big idea was it to phase ash trays out of car production? I riffle through the butts with my index finger then pull out the longest one. Blowing on the end to free it of loose ash, I slip it into my mouth. The caustic powder assaults my taste buds. When I shut the door, it pops back open. I slam it furiously three more times before aborting Operation Closed Door.

  It’s takes a full minute to get the end to light. I burn my index finger with the cheap plastic lighter, shaking it vigorously. I can’t recall how many times I have lit this particular cigarette, but place the over-under at two. I inhale, then gasp from the taste. It’s almost not worth the trouble. A second quick pull isn’t as bad. Apparently, my lungs disagree with my brain, tingling from the stale smoke.

  The asphalt parking lot of the Sleepy Oakes Apartments is cracked in places, dandelions sprouting up in several spots. I would draw some solace that my nemesis Brittany is forced to inhabit this rundown complex, were my own dwelling not magnitudes worse. I take one last drag off the stale butt, then flick it into the air. It turns end over end, hooking slightly, then bounces off the car one space over.

  I push off across the sun baked tar desert, passing two guys who look like college students. Adorned in Gamecock sweatshirts, they both wear brightly colored Bluetooth headphones around their necks as if they were scarves. I glance back as they pass, but neither takes any notice of me. While understanding that I am twice their age and have let myself go a bit, it’s still humbling. Men used to look.

  Passing an SUV, I scan over my reflection in the dark tinted glass, but it’s not reassuring. A well-worn thrift shop suit blazer over a tee shirt is passable, but the jeans are too tight and the hair a greasy tangle of dirty blonde curls. I lean in and put a finger under one eye, pulling the dark puffy skin down. Angry crimson lines crisscross the white area, the once green centers look almost washed out. Is it a lack of sleep or all the booze I have to imbibe to induce any at all?

  Turning my head to one side, I drag fingers that end in cracked nails through my hair. An inch of grey roots sprout out of my scalp. How long has it been since my last bathroom sink dye job? I take some solace in the fact that the guys at the funeral parlor will no doubt tidy me up a bit.

  When I reach the exterior walkway, the overhang throws a blanket of shade over me, dropping the temperature. There are at least a dozen buildings in the huge complex. A concrete block wall to my left has a rusted letter B bolted over an entry door. Looking at the palm of my hand, I read 305 C in blue pen. It’s a short walk across a grassy area to the correct building.

  A woman sits on a bench watching two young children play on a wooden swing set. I offer the obligatory head bob, but receive no matching affirmation of sisterhood in return. Her eyes remain glued on her phone, completely unaware of my passing. Either that, or she’s ignoring me out of force of habit. We are a society of people looking the other way to avoid interaction. She can read about me on her news app tonight.
/>   “I should be headline local news before Kimmel comes on.”

  All the floors have hallways on the outside of the building. A chest high wall faces out along the parking lot side. The doors are numbered, each with a wide window facing the walkway, although most have the curtain pulled. Allowing for fewer eyes on my murderous rampage. Number 305 is a corner unit near the stairs.

  Peering down into the parking lot, I observe Brittany’s red Prius creeping along, then parking in the second row. She hops out, a massive handbag over one shoulder. It’s no doubt full of stolen items, which is not coincidently the reason I am here. When I was fired for stealing everyone but the manager knew it was Brittany who actually took the clothes. Apparently, being the top dog of an Old Navy doesn’t require keen investigative skills. Or at the very least, common sense.

  I stand around the far side of the stairs and wait for her to come up. I’m not so much angry for losing my job, but annoyed no end at her bold face lying. Maybe it’s the age gap. I don’t despise all millennials. Most, but not every stinking one. I am probably more disgusted with having to take the job in the first place. How many light-years is this from my life with Glen?

  “Too many.”

  My cell phone vibrates in my jeans pocket, the vintage pop song, Mm Bop by Hanson echoing under the stairs. On the screen is a grinning picture of my boyfriend Jarrod. Check that, lying, cheating soon to be deceased, Jarrod. I decline the call, deciding he can tell me later from his knees. Jarrod’s apartment is the next stop on the Stacy World Tour of Justice.

  The clicking of my quarry’s heels climbs up the stairs, then hits the third floor. From my position, I watch the shadow of her skinny legs move away. The sound of jingling keys echoes off the poured concrete walls as they are fished out of her purse.

  The perpetual nauseated sensation that has hung around me like a cloud since yesterday squeezes my brain. It’s like having the flu, but instead of throwing up, I am driven to vengeance. The pall is suffocating. Any fear of the consequences of my actions has been wiped away by the knowledge that I won’t be alive for any punishment. With the possible exception of the court of public opinion, they can’t convict a corpse.

  I reach back and wrap my fingers around the ivory stock of the gun, recently purchased at a pawn shop. While being only a .22, I have faith it will have the necessary velocity to get my point across. Drawing it out of the waistband, I peek to either side to check for innocent bystanders. Would a bystander make any difference at this point? This rolls around inside my mind, but the answer is moot, as none appear in the hallway.

  I move silently behind the preoccupied Brittany as she struggles to get the key in her dead bolt. I raise the gun, putting the end of the vented silencer within inches of her long ponytail. Check that, from this angle the slightly darker shade of the extensions is visible. Nothing in life is what it seems. With an arm extended, I put a finger lightly on the trigger. The feeling of suffocation reaches its peak. Only one thing will end this torture. Let the reckoning begin.

  The phone vibrates in my pocket, the Hanson song startling poor Brittany, who spins around.

  “What the—,” she blurts, nearly hitting the end of the silencer on her professionally sculpted nose.

  I hold up a finger, then dig for the phone with my free hand. I don’t lower the gun and when she starts to move away I shake my head. Her red painted lips quiver as if she may speak, but I press the barrel of the gun to her forehead pushing her head against the door gently. This seems to freeze her like a deer on a back-country road.

  Whoever is calling me isn’t a contact in my phone, the words unknown caller scroll across the screen. I let it go to voicemail and start to replace it in my jeans, but it rings again. Who even has this number? By defaulting on numerous monthly bills, I lost my long-time Sprint phone, along with the familiar number. This pay as you go, gas station piece of crap has a randomly assigned number. Other than Old Navy and Jarrod, virtually no one has the digits. It goes to voice mail again as I stand there thinking.

  “Stacy, if this is—,” Brittany tries to speak, but I press the gun into her forehead with greater force, pining her to the door.

  “Zip it Barbie.”

  The phone vibrates a third time. Letting the pressure off her forehead, I wiggle the fingers on my gun hand, then squeeze the handle. I move the gun up, then down, her eyes watching intently. Which firing angle will get less of the Barbie doll’s tiny brain on me?

  The phone continues to vibrate. Without committing myself either way regarding the angle, I loosen my grip. I put the phone to my ear, the other arm extended pushing Brittany’s empty skull to the door for a second time.

  “Kinda busy,” I complain aloud.

  “Long time no talk,” a male voice remarks.

  “Who is this?”

  “An old friend who needs a favor.”

  “Hal?” I mutter, realizing who it is. “How’d you get this number?”

  “I work for the government. I’m watching you from a satellite in space.”

  “Really, what am I wearing?”

  Hal Forester is a friend of my late husband. They were in the Navy together and his wife Beth and I were fairly close at one time. I heard he took a position at Homeland Security, but our paths never crossed after he left the military. Trying to place the dates, my best guess is he got out nearly a year before the accident. I used to belong to a security outfit called Def-Tek which worked with his agency a few times. Why is he reaching out to me now?

  “Okay, caught me,” he admits. “I can’t actually see you.”

  “I didn’t think you could. How’d you get this number?”

  “Someone named Gwen at Old Navy gave it to me. I don’t think she’s going to give you a glowing reference. Why are you working at the mall?”

  “Ten percent discount at the food court,” I sigh, taking a half step back, but keeping the gun in front of Brittany’s face.

  “We need to talk,” he demands while I stare at the circular impression the gun barrel left on my target’s forehead. “How quick can you get to D. C.?”

  This is a bizarre phone call; even stranger that I should get it at this moment. I ponder hanging up, but thinking that this might make an interesting episode of Dateline or 60 Minutes I just tell him the truth. Why worry about implied premeditation when the endgame is a closed casket funeral.

  “Sorry Hal, but I can’t travel this week. I’m just about to spray my co-worker’s brains all over her front door,” I announce, causing my prey to wince and shake her head frantically. “After that, I am going to give a rather strongly worded lecture to my boyfriend that will most likely end in an identical Rorschach painting consisting of bone fragments and brain matter.”

  “Boyfriend; glad to hear you’re putting yourself out there. Glen’s a hard act to follow, but he’d want you to find someone,” he drones on, apparently not listening to anything being said. “Will that take long? Can you call me back when you finish?”

  Before I can comment, the door is pulled inward by Brittany’s roommate, a dim looking brunette holding an entire quart of butter pecan ice cream with a huge wooden spoon sticking out. Oh, I do love butter pecan. I ponder making this a two for one and taking her ice cream, but my attention is drawn to something even better. A cigarette dangles from the corner of her mouth, causing my lungs to tingle.

  “Did you lose your key again?” she mutters, before seeing the gun and putting up her hands, ice cream and all. “What the—?”

  “Stacy?” Hal asks after a pause. “It sounds crowded there.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh, motioning with the gun for Brittany to step inside. “I got a crazy day planned.”

  I end the call and replace it in my pocket. Brittany backs up and I follow, kicking the door shut with my foot. Smoke hangs in the air as I snatch the cigarette out of the roommate’s mouth, then herd them both to the couch. After a confusion induced pause, they sit side by side, sharing panicked looks. Taking a hit, I fight back the urg
e to cough. It’s a menthol, the skinny kind that high school mean girls smoke. Not that I’m complaining.

  “I’m so sorry about the clothes,” Brittany blurts. “I didn’t mean for you to get blamed for it. I’ll call and admit what—.”

  “Oh lord on high, please shut up,” I snap, wiggling the gun in her direction, my index finger tapping the trigger.

  Tears have run down and smeared her makeup giving her the appearance of a grumpy circus clown. Not so smug now. My phone rings again filling the apartment with Hanson.

  “I love that song,” the roommate chirps, then stuffs the spoon in her mouth.

  “Stop eating that,” I order, putting the cigarette in the corner of my mouth, then taking the call. “Hal, was I somehow unclear before?”

  “No, but I do need to speak with you.”

  “Hal, I don’t know what this is about, but you really have no idea what’s going on with me. I appreciate the call, but there’s nothing I can do to help you. I can’t even help myself.”

  “Are you going to shoot both of us or just her?” the roommate demands, moving the spoon back and forth between them. “Because I got a Philosophy final tomorrow.”

  “Keep talking and they will have to give you an incomplete,” I huff as Brittany begins to sob.

  “Just meet me in D. C. and I’ll explain everything,” he badgers. “How long for you to get here?”

  “From my present location?” I contemplate, exhaling smoke over my head. “Couple of days. I’ll leave a note to have my ashes forwarded to Washington.”

  “Stacy, while I enjoy your endless witty remarks, I insist that you take me seriously.”

  “He thinks I’m joking,” I whisper to the girls with the phone pressed to my shoulder.

  “She’s not kidding,” the roommate shouts as I hold out the phone. “This deranged lunatic is going kill us.”

  “Stacy,” he sighs after a pause. “Whatever you have going there aside, I have a proposition that you’re going to want to hear.”