Speedloader

by Jonathan Woods; Richard Thomas; Nik Korpon; W. D. County; Matthew Funk; Nigel Bird; Sandra Ruttan; Brian Lindenmuth

  Mahoney got out of the car and the next moment was opening the back door.

  Darrell scooted to the opposite side. Distance would only give him a few seconds. Maybe a minute. But maybe he could figure some way out of this.

  The cuffs ripped up ridges of skin.

  Mahoney raised a .38 revolver. The sack dangled below. His smile widened.

  “Going somewhere, buddy?” His eyes were several species short of human.

  “Just let me go!”

  “Not out that door. Come on closer.”

  Darrell shook his head.

  “If I shoot you in the chest with your arms back like that,” Mahoney said, “A talented coroner might realize from the distension of your pectorals that you were cuffed. But if I shoot you in the belly a few times, they’ll be none the wiser. Think that over. You have until the count of ‘2’.”

  Darrell scooted closer.

  “Fuck you.” He said.

  Mahoney hooded Darrell’s head with the sack.

  “Fuck you.” He said.

  Mahoney’s voice blended with the rain. “If I don’t like what comes out of your mouth, I’ll put bullets in it.”

  Darrell couldn’t even twitch in fear. The cuffs were so tight they sucked at the muscles of his shoulders. Reflex fought and failed. Flesh would give before the metal did.

  Mahoney’s gun barrel nuzzled Darrell’s gut as Darrell was lifted from the car. The rain turned the hood into black shellac. The whole world was wet smothering.

  Mahoney turned him somewhere.

  “Walk.” Mahoney told Darrell.

  He did. He waited to trip on something. He didn’t.

  “Please let me go.” Darrell said. An image rose out of the ink interior of the hood: Cathy in their orange-and-green-striped love seat. One hand raised to bite her nails, the other on the dome of her belly. “Please, Sergeant.”

  They walked more.

  “Please, Durham.”

  They walked over grass.

  “Please?”

  They walked on stones.

  “I have a wife.”

  “Steps.” Mahoney halted Darrell.

  “I have a wife, Durham. Her name’s Cathy. We have a baby on the way.”

  “Steps.” Mahoney put the gun barrel in Darrell’s back.

  “Jesus. Why are you doing this?”

  Mahoney breathed rain. Darrell walked up wood steps.

  “What if I scream?”

  They walked across a wood porch.

  “What if I scream, Durham?”

  Nothing. They stopped. Mahoney reached past Darrell. Darrell swooned from uncertainty.

  The cuffs, he was sure of. The gun, he was sure of. Fatality, rain, the chill slime of Mahoney’s hands—these things were definite.

  Everything about Darrell was not. Everything he was—the plans, the duties, the struggle—had melted into a bland, blind, dumb space within biting cuffs.

  What if he ran? What if he didn’t? What if he screamed? What if he was silent? What if he never saw Cathy again?

  What kind of life was this?

  “Walk.” Mahoney said and Darrell did and they went into the slender house.

  The door clicked closed behind. The rain’s voice still ripped through. The fabric of the hood seeped like tongue.

  “Big step now.” Mahoney steered Darrell with care. “The floor’s sticky.”

  Darrell took a big step. The cuffs rubbed raw on bone.

  They did not loosen when Mahoney set Darrell down against a wall in a side room. They just bit deeper.

  Mahoney pulled the hood off of Darrell and was already walking away when he did. Darrell saw he was in a small, dingy den. The furniture looked donated. There was a faint smell of dried flowers and plastic-bottled perfume and pennies. Moving dim washed around from the solitary window.

  Mahoney rubbed his nose. He was looking in Darrell’s wallet.

  “Yep.” Mahoney said. “I thought it was you.”

  “Who? Who do you think I am?”

  “Darrell Younger.” Mahoney frowned at him. “I know what you did, Darrell.”

  “What did I do?”

  “With those girls.”

  “What girls?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.” Mahoney hunkered down before Darrell. His eyes went thin as stitching. “Elementary schoolers. Just tots. Not old enough to know a cock from a lollipop, right?”

  “What?” Darrell flinched away. “What are you even talking about?”

  “Sandra and Amy and Janice.”

  “You have the wrong guy.”

  “No, I don’t.” Mahoney’s red mane dripped as he shook his head. “You’re Darrell Younger.”

  He reached into his pocket, coat-sleeve over his hand. He drew out a long and polished knife.

  “You’re going to get what’s coming to you, Darrell.”

  “I am not the man you think I am.” Darrell said. He was sure of that much. This was a mistake. And there was some relief in that—he could talk his way out of this. He had to. “If you’re looking for a Darrell Younger that did…did something to girls, I’m not your guy. I’m not your guy.”

  Mahoney slid the knife onto Darrell’s stomach, blade under his belt.

  “I’m not.” Darrell wept tears of relief.

  Mahoney rubbed his nose.

  “I’m a good man.” Darrell heaved. The cuffs ate bone but did not swallow. “You’ve got to let me go. There’s been a mistake. I have to be home with my wife. We have a baby on the way—Denise if it’s a girl, Donald if he’s a boy.”

  Mahoney blinked.

  “Wow.” Mahoney smiled. “My bad, I guess. My bad!”

  He patted Darrell’s knee as he stood up.

  Darrell twisted inside with panic, relief, confusion. It all froze when Mahoney leveled the .38 at Darrell below his too-big smile. Heartbeat became ice chips.

  “Mistakes will happen.” Mahoney said. “People say some things, maybe in the heat of the moment, and things get confused. People get hurt. Might happen to a mouthy girlfriend. Might happen to you. But not to me.”

  Mahoney tossed the handcuff key by Darrell’s foot.

  “If I see you again, Darrell,” Mahoney rubbed his raw nose. “I will kill you. No ‘how do’. You just die.”

  Mahoney left the room. Darrell heard the front door close. Then he just heard the rain.

  Time to get out? Not yet.

  And then, after waiting and watch the dim dance slow, shivering with the magnified shadow of rain drops on the glass, it was time.

  Darrell bunched his knee up. He put his toe over the key and pulled it nearer.

  Seeing the key disappear under his shoe nearly made Darrell piss himself. Maybe he already had. He was wet and cold all the way through—except the furious circles where the cuffs bit.

  They gnawed more as he shifted to reach the key. The knife in his belt gouged at his thigh. He could almost reach the key with his fingertips.

  Darrell fell. His bottom fell on the key. He couldn’t feel it.

  “Oh no,” Darrell whined. He didn’t care. He just wanted the key back.

  Tilting forward, he looked beneath him. There was the key, right on the edge of a floorboard.

  Shuffling, Darrell faced away from the key. He sat. His fingers skimmed bare wood.

  They touched the key. It tilted for the edge.

  Darrell plucked. His fingertips found purchase.

  He could breathe again. His heart beat. He heard the street outside, not just the rain on the house.

  Lifting the key, Darrell angled it for the slot in the cuffs.

  He poked and poked and felt it slip in.

  It turned and the cuffs eased and Darrell slipped out.

  He took a moment. He marveled at how simple and quick and easy it had ended, just like it began. Now to get out of it entirely—he pulled the knife free of his belt.

  It was not large—nine inches of slender metal slid from cheap plastic grip—but it felt it. Darrell liked
the feel. He considered holding onto it in case he collided with Mahoney.

  Darrell tossed it down. He wanted done with this whole thing: The knife; Badge #315; those subhuman eyes. More than anything, Darrell wanted to return to his routine and follow it, link by link, until he died with Cathy’s smell in his nose.

  He built speed, stepped into the hallway—the speed died.

  In the hallway, a dead blonde sprawled. The living didn’t lie like she did—arms wrenched up in an incomplete gesture, legs kicked wide and tilting, eyes and mouth waxen between opening and closing. And there was so much blood.

  Blood in pools and patches. Blood in shiny galaxies on the walls. Blood running thick as carpeting from her mouth and throat and shoulders and breasts and from the lake on the belly of her taupe sundress.

  Even through the mess of the fabric, Darrell could see the knife wounds—slender and in dozens.

  He ran.

  He didn’t think. Just enough to hop over the body. Just enough to call for Cathy. Darrell flew for the door.

  He yanked it open. The storm stopped knocking, barged in, big with voices and speed and wet. Beyond the narrow porch, rain maddened the horizon of the street, all movement and no direction.

  Darrell raced for it.

  He made two steps.

  “About time you got free.” Mahoney said.

  Darrell turned his head. Mahoney was leaning on the porch rail at the side opposite the window, brown trench coat looking melted with rain, head down. The .38 was up.

  Mahoney fired until the gun was empty.

  Darrell felt himself falling but he didn’t feel himself land. He didn’t feel anything but the froth of rain on his eyes. They wouldn’t close.

  He heard Mahoney. He heard the storm. He didn’t hear his heartbeat.

  “Women, Darrell, let me tell you. If you think they have you locked up while they’re alive, it’s even worse after you kill ‘em.”

  Darrell didn’t think on that—only on that if it was a girl, Denise; if it was a boy, Donald.

  Then Darrell could not think at all.

  Mori Obscura by Nik Korpon

  My voice echoes through the living room. A few blades of light slice past the plywood nailed to the window frame. Two rats scratch behind a puke-splattered armchair. Scratching on the other side of the wall, too. Something definitely not a rat.

  A crack under my foot. Can’t tell if it was a chicken wing or something else. I kneel down and brace my elbow on my knee, open up the aperture and frame a shot of the crushed bone. Switch to slower shutter speed for extra coverage and get one of the ripped sofa in the corner, too. I circle the mattress in the middle of the floor, a knot of dark fluid in the center. Blood, afterbirth. Tar, maybe, though unlikely here. Still looks tacky, but no way in fuck will I find out what it is. I call out again to avoid a board across the throat.

  ‘I’m not a cop.’

  Slumped on the bottom shelf of the unplugged fridge is a withered bouquet with a tiny plastic sign. I frame it up but part of me feels like I’m unleashing something unholy by photographing a funeral arrangement. Especially if it’s stolen. I know that these are all just filler shots for the piece, nothing substantial that’ll shut Cliff up for long, but it’s all I got right now. I snap a few and slip into the hallway, staying out of the shadows so no one thinks I’m creeping.

  At the end of the corridor is a jagged opening in the wall, the soft flickering of candles in the next room. The door lays cockeyed on the floor, chunks of limp drywall stuck to the hinges. To the right is a stairwell with no steps. A bucket hangs in the empty space, probably to protect whoever’s holding up there. Organized bastards, these. More candles flickering above, more hushed, liquid voices. I burn through a roll and a half concentrating on shutter speed and composition, trying to ignore the gnawing inside my bones, the aftertaste of baking soda at the back of my throat.

  ‘The fuck are you?’

  I startle despite myself, fuck up the shot. ‘I’m not a cop.’

  ‘Fiends cop down the street, heard? This is a private establishment. You ain’t seen the sign?’

  ‘It’s a trapped animal number, not a marquee. I work for The Sun.’ I display my camera like a badge. ‘Got an assignment you might help me with.’

  He mumbles something about being security, turns and shuffles back through the opening. He looks to the side, says something and flicks his head at me. I take gentle steps, wishing I would’ve brought a knife or blackjack. Even a sock and a bar of soap. A couple more half-ass pictures and I cross through the opening behind him.

  A half-dozen discarded armchairs line the room, mattresses tossed at odd angles between them. The soot line on the walls looks like a faltering EKG in the flames’ flicker. I hold up my camera, gesture towards a woman slumped in the corner mattress. Security shuffles from foot to foot, a red cap in his fist, gives an erratic nod. I circle the woman, shoot from a few different angles. The needle wobbles with her breathing. I sync mine with hers to stay steady.

  Cliff said I was the right one for the assignment, knowing the scene so well and all. Said I could find the small corners where the story really was, put him in good standing with his Managing Editor, which would put me in good standing with him. I told him that was the damn problem, that I knew enough to know I could get lost easier than I liked to admit. He just thumbed my blue NA key tag, tapped the back, said, Six months and a day.

  ‘Looking pretty comfy with that camera there.’ His voice is a rusted gate blowing in the wind. His voice could give me tetanus. ‘Sure you got enough light in here?’

  I draw back my shoulders, stand and turn. He’s hunkered down on a stool by the opening. Right hand swollen near double the size of the left, a constellation of black smudges over his skin. His nails are the same color as the smudges. Even his palms are just about black. He tips his head back, candle throwing a slash of light across him.

  ‘So, the practical son returns.’ His smile is a crescent moon across the night sky of his face.

  ‘It’s prodigal.’

  Yeah, I remember that face. Still got that IV in his forearm, too, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the same one. He told me once that he jacked it, installed it himself. Heard otherwise it was because he’s diabetic and irresponsible and the nurses got tired of sticking him.

  ‘Long time, Keith.’

  I nod, mess with the settings on my camera. ‘I’m on an assignment. I’m a journo now.’ Part-time freelance, anyway. ‘I got the basement in my mom’s place and a ‘98 Geo. It ain’t much but it’s mine.’ I got no control over my mouth or anything it’s doing. I don’t even know why it’s doing anything. I don’t care, I don’t care. Lord, help me to accept the things--

  ‘Ain’t really yours if it’s your mom’s basement,’ he says. ‘Look like you doing all right, though. Fancy camera, clean shoes. Could use you some nicer get-up though.’

  ‘It’s June.’ I finger the threads hanging from my shirt, smooth them out like it’s fashion. ‘And it’s their camera.’

  ‘No matter. Still glad you made it out.’ He holds a piece of metal--the sidewall of some kitchen appliance, maybe--and draws in the dirt on the floor. ‘How long’s it been?’

  ‘I’m on an assignment,’ I repeat.

  ‘Thought you would’ve picked the O’s or something. Or all them new beehive ladies sprouting up in Hamden. When they start caring about us again?’

  I shrug, open up the aperture then close it again. Check the light meter. ‘Mayor fired one of her cabinet people for shooting off their mouth about the drug task force or something. They said the reports were all cooked up.’

  Clarence looks around like that should be obvious.

  ‘Yeah, well. Re-election’s coming up.’ I snap two of Security spreading his toes with one hand, steadying a needle with the other. Swallow down that bitter tang. ‘Anyway, woman she fired was married to my editor’s editor. A wild hair got planted and now I’m here, trying to unelect.’

  He run
s his tongue over his teeth, picks a scab from the base of his IV and throws it on the floor. ‘Well, it’s good to see you again.’

  I lift my camera and take three of him without looking through the viewfinder. His expression doesn’t change, but by the way my skin prickles, I could swear the temperature dropped.