The Promotion (A Short Story)

by Gabriel Beyers

weapon.

  “I’ve put in all the work here,” I say. “This promotion is mine.”

  “You think I haven’t scratched and scraped for everything I have? I deserve to be Level 3 much more than you.”

  “I’m the one that found Frost,” I say. “I’m the one that disabled his truck.”

  She seems less than impressed. “And I appreciate all you have done, but this is as far as you go.”

  “No. I will go all the way.” I make a little dart at her, feigning an attack. She parries out of my range with the grace of a dancer. “I have been waiting here all day. When Frost returns from the mechanic’s—”

  I stop in mid-sentence, let my face droop with sorrow, and await her reaction. Sweat coats my backside. My mouth is full of cotton. My greatest skill, the weapon I am most trained to wield, is the sword of deceit. But I fear that she is greater still.

  Her eyes are unreadable. I’m sunk, I know it.

  But then her countenance lightens and a smirk breaks upon her perfect mouth. “And which mechanic might that be?”

  “Piss off.” I bite my cheek to keep from smiling.

  “You might as well tell me.” Her smirk grows to a tooth-revealing smile. “You must know this. No matter where he is, I will find him.”

  I fix her with my most hate filled scowl. Then I turn and run down the street.

  This is the biggest gamble of my career.

  I run full tilt for more than a block before I find the courage to glance over my shoulder. Agent 011880 is close behind me, sprinting like a jungle cat, determination burning in her every muscle.

  I’ve underestimated how fast she is. She’s almost caught me. I pull myself up to full speed and widen the gap between us.

  I lead her back into town, through department stores, over business rooftops. Still she keeps pace. I’m winded and a stitch is splitting my side like an axe. When I glance back I see that she hasn’t even broken a sweat.

  Perhaps she does deserve the promotion more than I do.

  She has been on my tail for ninety minutes now and I’ve had about all of her company I can stand for one day.

  I turn the corner and head down a narrow alley. As soon as I’m out of her sight, I plant my feet, slide to a stop and rush back the way I came. Agent 011880 is expecting me to continue down the alley, as is evident by look of shock upon her face when she sees me looming over her.

  She is faster, more nimble and perhaps even smarter than I am, but I am larger, stronger and more desperate.

  I throw out my hand. She digs her feet into the asphalt, but her momentum kicks her forward into my arms. I snatch her by her delicate throat and lift her off the ground. Her kicking feet pendulum out from under her and she issues a strangled scream. I squeeze tight and the tendons in her neck thrum like guitar strings. I thrust my energy downward and slam her to the earth with all my strength.

  She stares upward, unblinking. After a moment she claws at her throat. A tiny whistle lifts from her as she tries and fails to suck air into her shocked lungs. She writhes on the ground like a fish plucked from the water and left to die upon the bank.

  I’ve killed her, I think. I’ve crushed her beautiful throat, and for what? A promotion?

  But then she rolls to her side, takes in a great gasp of air and erupts into a fit of coughing. I sigh in relief and realize that I’ve been holding my breath. I want to stay and make sure she is alright, but I can’t. I’ve lost too much time.

  I have no idea where Dolly lives so I’m forced to return to the truck stop and begin tracking her from there. This is one part of the job I’m good at and within forty-five minutes I stand outside her home.

  Dolly lives in a double-wide trailer set on a small piece of land just off of the highway. She has neighbors, but none too close. The windows are dark, and I can hear no noise coming from within. The front door is thin with just a single lock in the doorknob. I’m inside as fast as if I had a key.

  Frost and Dolly are in bed, sleeping back to back. The sheet is pulled up and I’m grateful to be spared their nakedness.

  I search through Dolly’s dresser until I find what my instincts tell me is here. Nestled in Dolly’s underwear drawer is a snub-nosed .45 revolver. One shot and I’m free to move on to Matthew Goodwin and my promotion to Level 3.

  Frost is sleeping on the side of the bed closest to me. I move over next to him, and aim at his heart. I pull the hammer back. My finger flexes on the trigger.

  As I fire, something latches onto my wrists and forces the gun upward. The bullet zooms over top of Frost and Dolly and exits through the wall.

  Agent 011880 digs her fingernails into my wrists hard enough to draw blood. She shoves my hands high, gropes for the trigger and forces me to fire another shot into the ceiling.

  Dolly sits up in bed, the sheet falls from her naked body, and she screams. Frost springs to his knees and looks about in bewilderment.

  “What’s going on?” Frost asks.

  “Someone’s shooting at us you idiot,” Dolly yells back.

  Dolly tries to climb out of bed, but Agent 011880 wrenches my arms sideways and together we slam the gun into Dolly’s face. Dolly utters a surprised yelp and tumbles backward onto the bed.

  Agent 011880 gets her finger on the trigger once more and forces me to fire another shot, this one shattering the vanity mirror near the door.

  Frost and Dolly scurry about the room, confused and off balance. The loud reports have deafened them. Unable to see us struggling for the gun, Dolly makes for the door and is sent flying once again, this time without her two front teeth.

  I jerk my arms down, trying to pry the gun loose from Agent 011880’s iron grip, and another round is expelled into the floor.

  The sound of shattering glass distracts me. Frost has broken the tiny bedroom window and is attempting to climb out. Agent 011880 takes this opportune lapse in my attention to kick me in my testicles. My entire body throbs in agony. She forces me to fire another shot, but my grip on the gun stays firm.

  Frost has one leg hanging out of the window. In thirty seconds he’ll be gone. There is one bullet left. Agent 011880 is attached to me like a shadow. She just needs to hold on for a bit longer and she will have won.

  I pull my arms to my chest, dragging her in close. She winces, preparing for a brutal attack. With my left hand I drag her head to mine and kiss her on the mouth.

  She shivers against me. I close my eyes. We lean in to one another. Her tongue presses into my mouth. I run my hand through her hair, down her back, around her hip and up to her breasts.

  I shove her backward, yank the gun from her grip, turn and fire.

  The bullet catches Herbert Frost at the base of his skull, severing his spinal cord. Frost’s body goes ridged for a moment then drops backward from the window.

  Agent 011880 sits on the floor, cursing herself and crying. I’ve never felt more like an ass in all of my life. I drop the gun on the bed next to Dolly, walk over to Frost and collect from him what I need. When I turn back around Agent 011880 is gone.

  I slip out of Dolly’s trailer just as the police come rocketing up the street. I turn up the sidewalk in the opposite direction and escape unnoticed.

  I limp my way to the Goodwin’s house. I have all day tomorrow to collect Matthew, but I just want to get it over with. My zeal for this job and the promotion have departed like a ghost weary of haunting.

  I feel dirty all over. I want to walk away. Forget it all and vanish into the night. But where would I go? This life is all I have ever known. Without this I don’t exist.

  I enter with ease. I float from room to room taking in the scents of happiness, the textures of joy.

  The arowana gives me its usual surly greeting, flashing its fins, slamming its massive boney head into the heavy cover. Its gaze crawls over me and I turn away, unable to look at it any longer.

  With a sigh I leave the living room and enter Matthew Goodwin’s bedroom.

  The tiny boy is wearing a set of footie-pajama
s covered in paw prints. He is asleep on his back, his arms above his head as if surrendering. His hair is moist with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His eyes roll beneath their lids as he dreams of whatever it is three-year-olds dream of. His breathing is slow and shallow, but I can’t hear for the dragonfish slamming around in its glass prison, splashing puddles of water onto the floor.

  I remove the drawstring from its hook and pull the blinds up giving me as much slack as possible. The boy stirs, rolls over on his side. Perhaps it’s the noise coming from the fish. Perhaps he senses that I’m near. I bend down, lift the boy’s head. As I start to wrap the drawstring around Matthew’s neck a crack, like distant thunder erupting, fills the house.

  I stop and cock my head to better listen. Water is hitting the floor. Not a random splash, but a steady flowing river. Not thunder. No, not thunder at all. It is glass that I hear, cracking under the pressure of two hundred and fifty gallons of water.

  I drop the blinds back down and return the cord to its hook, though it takes me several tries because of my shaking hands. I need to reach the living room, to stop the fish, but I’m not permitted to leave the room in an altered condition unless I have made a collection.

  So many damn rules.

  I slide to a stop in front of the fish tank just as glass, water, gravel and the arowana explode out onto the floor.

  “No,” I yell as I kneel down.

  The dragonfish flops about, cutting its silver scales on the glass shards. Its massive mouth opens and closes in silent laughter as it watches me with