by Colin Gigl
“Verified?” Charlie asked before picking up the soap.
“Not initially, but he gave me an Institute ID number to run. It checked out, though all his information was redacted. All I know is his first name—Gabriel. Anyway, after I run this guy’s ID, he tells me that I’m going to receive a special package from the Office of the President and that the passcode for it would be your Ferryman ID number.”
“Okay . . . ,” Charlie said as he ran the bar of soap under his armpits. He was attempting to keep his intense level of interest from showing, but he wasn’t sure how much success he was having on that front.
“While I’m still on the phone with him, I get a delivery. Metal case with a five-digit dial on the front. I’m then told that the assignment begins in fifteen minutes and the details were in the case. I tell him to slow down because no one has even seen you in a week—and thanks again for that, by the way—and that I can’t get in touch with you. The guy laughs and says, He’ll be in his office. And one final thing: this is all strictly classified, confidential, top secret. As far as anyone is concerned, this assignment doesn’t exist. We’ll contact you after the assignment is complete. Good luck. Click—conversation over. Naturally, I think this guy is full of it, but . . .” Her words trailed off as the implied part of the message—here you are—sank in.
It certainly didn’t take a whole lot of imagination to be stunned when, though you’ve been gone for an entire week, somebody knew the instant you were going to walk through the door. Charlie quickly turned off the shower.
“Towel?” he asked politely. After a moment, a white one flew over the shower door. “Thanks.”
There were rumors that the president occasionally contacted teams for special assignments, but Charlie had always considered them complete BS. He was supposedly the top Ferryman, after all—if the president was going to get in touch with anyone, it would be him, right? At least, that’s how his train of thought went.
“What kind of assignment are we talking here? Did he say?”
The fuzzy version of Melissa shook her head through the glass. “I would imagine it’s something out of the ordinary, but who knows. All I was told was that the instructions are in the case.”
“Can I see it?” Charlie asked as he stepped out of the shower with the towel around his waist. “And where’s Dirkley?”
Melissa handed him the metal case. The carrying handle clinked as it rapped against the top cover. “On his way. He was in the library reading up when I got the call.”
Charlie swiftly inspected the case. True to his manager’s description, it was an ordinary metal box, its only remarkable feature a set of five individual zero-through-nine number dials set where the top and bottom part of the case met. Charlie got down on his haunches and placed the case on the floor, too fascinated to even bother putting on clothes. With a steady rhythm, he spun the dials. As he entered the final number, there was a barely audible click and the case lid unlatched.
“Open sesame,” he mumbled. He exchanged a brief look with Melissa, who neither moved nor spoke. With a nimble flip, he popped open the case.
Inside was a nondescript sheet of paper and a letter held closed by a gold wax seal. He gingerly lifted the letter and examined it. There, impressed in the wax, was a Ferryman Key. It was the same emblem that adorned every presidential memo Charlie had ever seen at the Institute. He tried to open the envelope with a quick, forceful tug, but it wouldn’t budge. Charlie gave it a few more pulls before he noticed a little note, typed out in black ink, just above the seal.
“It says, Will open at 20:29:30. Assignment instructions inside. What the hell does that mean? And what time did your mysterious Deep Throat say the assignment started?” he asked Melissa.
Melissa glanced at the watch on her wrist. “Well, that was around five minutes ago, which was eight fifteen. So, eight thirty?”
“So this should open about thirty seconds before the special assignment starts. That’s not exactly a lot of time to read the instructions, but fair enough.” Charlie replaced the letter in the case and picked up the sheet of paper. It was a standard eight-by-eleven page that clearly had been composed on a typewriter. There wasn’t much on it, so it didn’t take Charlie long to read the whole thing.
Subject: Alice Spiegel
Age: 25
Mother recently deceased. Living with father. Struggling writer. Going to commit suicide. ETD at 20:30:00.
Charlie read the line again. “Oh, shit . . . ,” he whispered. His mind raced. He had ten minutes to get prepped for a case he knew almost nothing about. In an instant, he was on his feet, dropping the towel around his waist as he did.
“Dammit, Charlie! I know we’re a team, but do you really need to keep showing me your man bits? If you’re trying to impress me, it’s not working,” Melissa called after him.
Charlie ignored the slight against his manhood. “It’s not just a special assignment, Mel—it’s an actual assignment. We’ve got ten ’til the ETD!” he called back.
Melissa yelped something in reply, but Charlie was already too busy looking for his favorite silver tie.
ALICE
* * *
THIS IS THE END
The piece of paper was slightly translucent held so close to the lamp, but it was how Alice preferred to proofread. She found it darkly amusing that she was putting so much effort into proofreading a suicide note, but she was unapologetically OCD about grammar. It was easier for her to come to terms with rotting in the pits of hell for all eternity than having some forensic examiner say to his partner, Hmm, she used “your” here instead of “you’re.” I’m telling you, it’s all this new technology . . . Two discarded copies of her letter had already been ripped to shreds, and she was trying not to add a third. She justified it as the literary equivalent of wanting to have clean underwear on for her autopsy.
Alice lifted the waistband of her sweatpants. Yeah, I should change those, too.
She set the letter in the center of her desk and maneuvered her flexible lamp so it shone directly on the paper. She fussed around the room, straightening things out and tidying up a bit. Alice was no stranger to a mess—if Einstein didn’t need socks, then what difference did it make if she left her wardrobe scattered across her floor?—a characteristic that had driven her late mother to near homicidal rage on occasion. What a wonderful daughter I am, she thought. “Hey, Mom, great to see you in the afterlife. Yeah, I know I just offed myself, but at least my room is finally clean. Aren’t you proud?” She snorted to herself. God, I am pathetic.
Sufficiently satisfied with the state of her room, she quietly changed her outfit, underwear included, opting for a plain T-shirt and jeans, then sat down at her desk and lightly did her makeup. Her vanity mirror had served her well for many years—she was sure either Kaitlin or Carolyn would take it when she was gone. Or maybe they wouldn’t. It might be too painful for them to use. A pang of guilt trickled up her spine, but she quickly shook it away.
Done being vain for the moment, Alice found herself wandering over to the closet, the one area she’d been deliberately avoiding. The overhead light inside made a familiar click as she pulled the string. She rummaged around in the back, behind her collection of shoes—small though it was, she certainly couldn’t knock her dad’s place for lack of closet space, as her shoe collection could attest—bundling over a few old boxes of school papers in the process, until she found what she was looking for.
There was a large, squat gray safe sitting in the corner of her small walk-in. Alice had thought long and hard about how she would go about ensuring a quick and effective good-bye. Ironically, it was her ex, Marc, who’d provided both the answer and the means. Despite being a relatively laid-back guy, Marc was, through no fault of his own, still a guy. That little Y chromosome often meant a variety of things: farting, cursing, sports, testosterone. However, more importantly for her current circumstances, it had meant Marc loved shooting things.
Alice opened the safe with a couple of
well-remembered twists of her wrist. The gun box within was a light silver color and about as basic and simple as they came. She carefully opened the top. Lying inside, still in the pristine condition she’d left it, was her all-black 9mm Beretta 92FS. Marc had given it to her as a pseudo gag gift for their anniversary after she had displayed a natural aptitude for putting holes in things—In case I ever do anything stupid was what he’d written on the inside of that particular card. Alice wondered if, since their breakup, he had ever worried about her making good on that. She did find it somewhat amusing that she would end up being more grateful for this gift than any other he’d given her.
This, Alice had decided, would make things absolutely final. There would be no one finding her in the nick of time to have her stomach pumped, no bandaging the wound enough so she didn’t bleed out. Nope, this was it. Messy? Sure. Loud? You betcha. Lethal? In the right spot, undisputedly. She realized with a little sadness that it would probably undo the effort she’d put into her makeup (she was relatively certain that, despite how lovely the mascara made her eyes look, the gaping bullet wound would probably be more noticeable), but she chalked it up as one of the many recent missteps in her life.
Now was the time to do it. Carolyn was out to dinner with Dad—Alice had stayed behind under the pretense of not feeling well—while Kaitlin was away at college, leaving Alice alone in the house.
Mechanically, she loaded a single round into the clip, then picked up the gun. As soon as she held it in her hand, the mechanics all came back. Check the chamber. Run the clip home. Cock it. Safety off. Gun is hot. Like riding a bike. She couldn’t help but smile at that.
Preparation now complete, she walked over to her desk and sat down. Rethinking her position vis-à-vis her lovely note and potential blood, if not brain, splatter, she rolled her chair back a few inches, then scooted back a bit more.
The gun felt slick in her hands. Her heart seemed to be banging up against her rib cage. Alice shouldn’t have been so nervous—she had more butterflies now than for junior prom when she’d somehow scored Craig McHagert as her date—but maybe it was natural. Then again, she’d never tried to kill herself before, so how should she know?
You’re procrastinating. Carolyn will be back with Dad in an hour. Focus. You can finally end all this misery. Let’s do this.
Alice inhaled deeply. It was time.
Thanks, Marc—who knew your gift would come in so handy, she thought, but then shook her head. No, that’s not a good final thought.
She chewed her lip while the gears in her brain engaged, presumably for the last time. It needs to be good . . . something profound, slightly tragic, ingratiating yet remorseful, and deeply apologetic. Her eyes caught the last line of her letter before the closing. “It’s been real,” she read out loud.
Good enough.
Alice looked in the mirror as the girl in the glass pressed the barrel of the gun into the right side of her head and ever so slowly pulled back on the trigger. It was coming, the end was coming, just around the corner, yes, any moment now and then—
An indistinct golden object tumbled past her head and skittered across the top of her desk. She nearly squeezed the trigger accidentally from being startled, but caught herself at the last second. Movement in her mirror. Her eyes fixed on the man who was suddenly standing behind her.
Alice screamed. Before she even realized what was happening, she was facing him, arms trembling. His mouth was moving, but her brain had gone blank, her muscle memory taking over as she instinctively lined up the shot.
She pulled the trigger.
ALICE
* * *
I SHOT THE SHERIFF
Oh my God . . . Oh my God. Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod . . .”
The gun landed with a heavy but muted thud on the carpeted floor. Alice reflexively covered her mouth with both hands as she leaned against the chair for support. She’d meant to blow someone’s head off tonight, but this wasn’t quite what she had in mind.
The past minute had proceeded in a blur that she was still coming to grips with. Having been a whisper of pressure away from ultimately ending her life, she was now standing twelve feet away from a man who’d just had his cranium ventilated. She hadn’t meant to shoot him, but she had been so scared that when he spoke, her finger automatically squeezed the trigger.
The man lay sprawled out on her bedroom floor, not so much as even twitching. Questions buzzed frantically around in her mind. Who the hell was he? How had he gotten in here? And what the hell was that thing that flew past her head?
The urge to run screaming from the room seized Alice, but she resisted. He might still be alive. God, I hope he’s still alive. Unless he’s going to try to rape me, in which case I take that back, and I hope he dies. Okay, maybe not dies, but mostly dies. So God, if you’re listening, that’s dead to the point of not really dying, but not alive enough where he can perform sick sexual fantasies on me in an act of revenge for shooting him in the face. Thanks. Amen, or whatever.
She picked the gun up off the floor and held it in the ready position, her hands shaking violently, and approached with the gun aimed directly at the motionless body. The gun was out of bullets, true, seeing as she’d fired the only one she’d bothered to load into its clip (in fairness, she’d had it on good authority that she’d only need the one), but if this man was still alive, he wouldn’t know that. A lump moved down her throat. Assuming the bullet had gone where she thought it had—namely, just off center on his forehead—she was in for a gruesome sight. She tiptoed across the floor, her entire body coiled and ready for action, even if that action happened to be vomiting profusely.
After two agonizingly slow steps, things already weren’t adding up.
Alice was now standing at an angle where she could see the bullet wound perfectly; it was a few inches above the corner of his left eye, just about where she thought she’d put it. However, there was a big something missing—namely blood, and lots of it. It should have been everywhere, with a bit of brain matter and gore thrown in for good measure. However, there was nothing; a nearly perfect circular hole in his forehead was the only evidence that this man had been shot. Still, he wasn’t exactly moving and he certainly didn’t look like he was breathing. His eyes, a deep green, were open and staring at her off-pink ceiling. Alice took a step closer.
Something seemed odd about the entry wound. It was only a 9mm bullet, so it wouldn’t leave a massive hole, per se, but the hole was still far smaller than it should have been. Actually, it sort of looked like the hole was . . . shrinking?
Ah, a case of bullet-hole shrinkage. Now, where had she heard about that before? That’s right—nowhere, because it was fucking impossible.
Within a few seconds, there was no evidence whatsoever that she’d shot him. She inched a bit closer and leaned over the body so she could get a better look at his face.
“Well, that was unexpected,” he said.
Alice leapt back with an earsplitting scream. The gun flew from her hand as she ran across the room and dove into her closet. She cowered in the far corner behind a rack of old shoes, on the verge of hyperventilating, when, with a growing sense of panic, she realized that not only had she lost her only means of protection, but the undead stranger was now situated perfectly between her and the only exit save the third-story window. She was trapped.
“You’re . . . you’re not dead . . . ,” she mumbled breathlessly, mostly to herself. Maybe this was the start of the zombie apocalypse. Or, hey, maybe she had just finally lost it, and none of this was actually happening. Maybe she was tied down to a bed in some asylum while her brain fed her crazy dreams as it slowly dissolved into mush.
“Neither are you,” he said casually as he moved into an upright, seated position. With a small huff, the stranger stood, taking a moment to brush off his dignified coat and slacks.
“Whatever you want, just take it!” Alice yelled, hoping belatedly that she wasn’t the object in question. From the rack in front of her, she
grabbed an old stiletto, wishing it was of the knife variety and not the heel.
“About that . . . ,” the stranger said as he scanned her bedroom. “I actually came for you.”
Oh. Perfect. Alice gripped the shoe a little harder. “Why? What do you want?!”
The man stopped his inspection of the room. “You know, that’s a really good question. I don’t know.” He stroked his chin. “In my defense, this wasn’t supposed to happen, so I wasn’t expecting to be having this conversation.”
“How are we having any conversation!? I shot you!” she yelled back, her mouth spitting out what her mind was thinking. Nice one, Alice—remind the stranger who apparently doesn’t die about that time you tried to kill him. That will surely lead to wonderful things. She retreated even farther behind the door.
If her tone bothered him, though, it didn’t show. He picked up a small piece of paper that he had dropped after she shot him. “Can’t really argue with that. However, I didn’t intend on getting shot tonight, either. Not to sound insensitive, but I believe that was originally your plan.”
Her eyes managed to somehow widen a bit farther. Had he known that was her plan all along, or was it a lucky guess? On second thought, there probably wasn’t much luck involved in guessing what a solitary young woman with a gun pressed to her head was about to do. Still— When in doubt, deny. If it does not fit, you must acquit. Well, one of the two applied, anyway.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said defiantly.
He looked over at her, curiosity evident on his face. He appeared calm, if a bit confused himself.
“You are Alice Spiegel, correct?” he asked.
Okay, this was getting weird. Actually, scratch that—things had already been pretty fucking weird.
“No,” she said quickly, “I don’t know anybody by that name.”
