The Fever Dream

by Sam Jones

  This guy is calling the shots?

  No…

  The bartender laid down Richie’s shot. Richie threw the thing back before it even had a chance to settle in the glass.

  “You Richie?” asked Black.

  It took a second for Richie to fully process, through his haze, that another human being was engaging him. He turned to face Black.

  “I’m here on behalf of your wife,” Black said.

  Richie shifted gears, a little bit nervous and a little bit sober. “Is she all right?” he asked.

  “I’m shocked. History report I read dictates that you really don’t care about her best interests, and yet here you are, asking if she’s doing A-OK.”

  “I could tear you in half if I wanted to, bro. Where is she?”

  “Who’s Greg?”

  “What?”

  “Are we playing that game where you act like you don’t know an answer, but you really do, and you’re just being a frustrating, piece-of-shit to get my goat? Greg. Same guy who took you to Vegas and supposedly turned you into a cracked-out loser. He tried to kill me tonight in my motel room. Kind of a dick move.”

  “Greg was here?” Richie’s eyes wandered. “What the hell for?”

  “I killed him before he had a chance to tell me.”

  Richie went a little edgy. Paranoia took over his senses.

  “You said you’re here on behalf of my wife,” said Richie. “What does that mean? Who are you?”

  “I work for an organization called The Trust. Your wife has contracted my services. She wants me to kill you.”

  Richie turned back to his beer. He tilted his head down, his composure soaked in shame. He nodded. His lips went tight and his hands were held out in a surrendering fashion. “This was all my fault…” he said in a somber tone.

  He looks sincere. Regretful.

  Thought he’d throw a punch…

  “What was that?” asked Black.

  Richie looked around to clock all the faces in the club.

  “Look,” he said. “You gotta get out of here. Some of his people are here… They followed me here. They’re probably watching us.”

  “Whose people?”

  Richie swallowed.

  “His…” he said.

  Just then, Black spotted the bartender reaching for something resting under the counter. He tensed up as the bartender pulled out the object – something made of black metal that glinted under the light.

  Uh-oh.

  Black then reached for his Beretta…

  ...Only to discover that the bartender was taking out a wireless microphone hooked into the house speakers.

  Phew.

  The bartender tapped the mic and the music died down. Several heads turned their attention on him but most everyone kept their focus on whatever was in front of them.

  “All right! All right!” his voice boomed over the speakers. “Pleeeeease give it up for the lovely and talented: Ms. Sherry!”

  A song kicked in. Heavy bass. ‘80s rhythms. Lyrics about a cowboy looking for his cowgirl. The house lights dimmed and turned into shades of burgundy and orange. A faux fire catching on the stage.

  A woman entered with a Jessica Rabbit frame. She was curvy like an hourglass. Cleopatra eyes cut through the crowd and tased the men that were in their path. A flimsy excuse made out of silver fabric clung to her more private and revealing parts. It was like the outfit had been rigged out of shoelaces.

  Whoa…

  Focus.

  Take Richie outside and kill him.

  Before Black could start the process, Richie turned and spoke into his ear—

  “Look, I ain’t got time for apologies. I fucked up. These guys are here to take me out. You make a move it might piss them off. Just get out of here. Get Mandy out of here. Far away from here.”

  “You drunk, or something?”

  Richie shuddered as a thought crept into his brain—

  “I found out what he wants with her,” he said to Black.

  “You keeping mentioning somebody,” said Black. “Who is it?”

  Richie began pleading—

  “This guy… He needs her... At first I thought he was paying me to watch her for something else, but… Just take her! Get her the fuck out of here! It’s too late for me, but maybe if she runs, maybe if she has your help… “

  Despair overcame Richie. His shoulders slumped. He shut his eyelids.

  “You don’t know what you’re walking into,” he said as he sat down on a barstool. “Neither did I.”

  Black had a hard time not buying into the guy’s act. It felt real enough. But then again, the guy was sauced, and he may have even been speaking about another subject entirely.

  He must be drunk off his tit.

  Just take him outside.

  He’s sauced and out of his mind.

  KILL HIM.

  Richie saw several heads in the club turning towards the bar area.

  “Oh… crap,” he said.

  “What?” asked Black.

  “I think they’re onto you…”

  Black rested his palm on the butt of his Beretta in anticipation. Just then he realized his mistake as he sensed and then spotted the six men in nice suits scattered around various parts of the club turning around to face him; their lecherous eyes shifting into rage-filled scowls and clenched fists as they all reached into their jackets in response to Black touching his gun.

  Black sighed.

  “Shit.”

  BANG! POP! SMASH! POW!

  The club lit up like the Fourth of July. Black grabbed Richie by his collar and pulled him into a dive over the counter and behind the bar area just as the bartender became the first to get ripped apart by the gunfire. Multiple rounds from submachine guns missed Richie and Black by millimeters as they took cover next to the bartender’s corpse. In the process, the bouncer had been killed, Ms. Sherry, the trucker, and two of the three bikers by the submachine guns.

  Black fired four rounds blindly over the counter as the innocent bystanders (who didn’t get caught in the crossfire) ran out of the club at its various exit points (including the bouncer out front with priors who fled the second he heard gunshots).

  The shooters were momentarily suppressed. Black poked his head up to get a quick, half-second glance around the room to clock them, all of them in suits—

  One man was positioned by the main stage.

  Two more were by the VIP rooms to the left, two behind Black.

  Another shooter was behind a table near the hallway leading into the kitchen.

  Six shooters total.

  Silence filled the room for a brief moment as everyone held their ground. The rest of the club had cleared out, save for the six bullet-ridden bodies that got caught up in the crossfire.

  “Alright,” Black said to Richie. “Get ready to run.”

  Black looked over at a now pale-white Richie, a black hole the size of a silver dollar was over the area near his heart, a ribbon of red dribbling out of the wound. Pupils dilated. All signs of life had left his body.

  Must have caught a bullet when we hopped over the counter.

  “Peachy…” said Black.

  “Waste him!” the shooter by the main stage shouted out as the other shooters began to join him in a barrage of fire upon the bar area.

  RATATATAT!

  Their shots demolished glassware and bottles on the shelves and showered Black in whiskey and warm Budweiser. Black fired blindly again over the counter to suppress the shooters and was lucky enough to take the shooter near the main stage out in the process.

  Five shooters left.

  The shooter on the left that was ducked behind the table near the kitchen whizzed a shot just past Black’s ear and forced him out of cover. Black dove out of the bar area and towards a table to the right, overturned it, and shielded himself just as the shooter re-opened fire. Four shots drilled into the wood and splintered into the air before Black heard the shooter’s gun go CLICK.

  Black
raised his weapon – BANG! An impressively accurate round from ten feet out buried itself into the table guy’s head. A red mist cloud was lit up by a strobe light before the man fell onto his back.

  Four shooters left.

  Then a biker with a buck knife got surly about the death of his buds. He was initially crammed into a corner as the first part of the fight carried out, but once Black had gone for cover by a table, a window was open for him to strike. As soon as Black took down the table shooter near the kitchen, the biker moved out of cover and went to bury the buck knife into the back of Black’s neck—

  Black spun around and caught the biker’s wrist, twisted it, and knocked the buck knife away. He then landed a head butt into the guy’s nose, cracked it. Wobbly and dazed, the biker stumbled backward. That’s when Black fired two rounds into the guy’s chest and laid him out for good.

  The remaining shooters, now by the main stage, attempted to advance on Black. He ducked into the hallway leading into the kitchen, bullets tearing up the floor beneath him as he ran. A trucker with a knife tried to block his path but his attempts were cut short as Black unloaded his clip into the guy.

  As soon as Black was inside the kitchen he took cover behind the wall by the light switch and spotted the cook cowering inside the L-shaped countertop setup that occupied the center of the kitchen, hands in the air.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he screamed.

  Black shut off the lights and the whole place went pitch black, save for the traces of strobe lights that trickled in from the hallway. Then he walked over and got on his knees in front of the cook and cupped a hand over the guy’s mouth.

  “Shhhh…”

  The first moment of alleviation from the gunfight commenced. Nothing but the sounds of shoes on broken glass approaching the kitchen and the music from the house speakers were audible. Black loaded a fresh clip into the Beretta, ducked behind the countertops and began moving alongside them as the sound of two shooters approaching the kitchen became louder.

  Go slow... Take your time... Wait to strike...

  The silhouette of a man’s head came into the doorframe leading into the kitchen. Gun in hand.

  Too easy.

  POP!

  Black pegged the guy in the neck. Something that looked like black liquid shot out as he fell back into the hallway and against a wall. As the figure slid down the black liquid smeared along the paint.

  Three shooters left.

  “I’m still here, assholes!” Black shouted.

  Time passed. Maybe five seconds. The music by the main stage stopped. Then someone spoke. A guy with a baritone voice.

  “You’re boxed in, man!” he said.

  “Na, I’m just taking a breather with my friend here. Getting to know him. Learning about his life.”

  Black nodded at the currently shaking and petrified cook.

  “What’s up, bud?” he asked him.

  “You got nowhere to run, man!” the baritone yelled.

  “You in charge?” asked Black.

  “No. You don’t want to meet the man in charge.”

  More time passed. Maybe four seconds.

  “You have no idea where you are or the people you are dealing with,” the baritone said.

  “Someone who’s fine with shooting up a club full of innocent people, apparently. Questionable, but innocent,” said Black. “By the way, cops should be here soon. I’m sure everyone who ran out of here called them by now. Figure we got two, three minutes.”

  “Where’s Amanda?” the baritone asked.

  “Fuck yourself,” said Black.

  “Do you understand who you’re dealing with?”

  “President of the United Jerkoffs of America?”

  A second silhouetted male head poked around the corner. Black fired a round into the guy’s temple. He went down quick.

  Two shooters left.

  “Man,” Black said, “you guys are dumb.”

  “Fuck! You son of a bitch! We’re gonna come in there and fu—”

  Then a cell phone rang. It went on for a few moments before the baritone answered.

  “Hello?” he greeted into the phone.

  Time passed. Then the baritone spoke again—

  “A man came in... He was talking to Richie… Yeah, we had to make a move… He was going to pull a piece on us... I don’t know who he is… Hold on…”

  “What’s your name?!” the baritone shouted to Black.

  “Me?” asked Black.

  “Yeah.”

  “Martin Black. Pleasure.”

  “Martin Black,” the baritone said into the phone.

  Another pause. Then Black heard the baritone say, “I understand.”

  Another pause as the baritone hung up the phone.

  “The boss is letting you walk, you fuck!” the baritone yelled.

  “Yeah, now?” asked Black.

  “Yeah!”

  “Bull shit.”

  “It’s not bull shit.”

  “How do I know for sure?”

  “You don’t, you fuck!”

  Black thought about it.

  “Then drop your guns,” he said. “I’m not moving until I hear metal hitting the floor.”

  “Drop ‘em,” the baritone said to the last standing suit with a gun.

  A cacophony of thumps and metallic clicks from safety switches engaging were heard. From what it sounded like, Black was the only active shooter left.

  “Atta boy…” taunted Black. “I’m coming out now. Don’t fuck around…”

  Black stood up. Slowly. He pulled the cook up to his feet with him.

  “Sorry, bud,” he said as he stood behind the guy and wrapped his arm around his neck.

  “Gonna need you to play ‘human shield’ for a quick beat…”

  Black rested the gun on the cook’s right shoulder. The cook flinched. Black then pushed him towards the exit. Slow. Inch by inch.

  He moved out of the kitchen and back into the hallway. The two men left standing in the club were hovered over the deceased bodies of the guys Black shot from inside the kitchen. Their rigid postures made them look like automatons that would not engage until given the order.

  The tallest one with the 90’s crew cut had to be the baritone.

  Black nodded at him as he kept the gun’s sights on the guy’s head.

  “You should do radio with that voice,” said Black. “I’m serious.”

  The baritone clenched his jaw.

  Black made sure all sides of him were clear as he backed up towards the side entrance where he had first entered the club. Caution in every step he took. Beretta still at the ready. He took a look around the club on his way out to clock the amount of people that had died by gunfire and saw that the tally came to eleven total. Eleven human beings. Dead. Five were his fault.

  Black made it to the door at the side entrance and used his free hand to open it; eyes from the two men inside the club were still glued onto him like mosquitos to a bug light. Their muscles bulged and twitched like restrained pit bulls wanting to get a chop at the bit. Black thanked the cook and then pushed him back inside before quickly decking out.

  Black exited through the side entrance, closed it, and kept an eye on it for several moments while he made sure he was truly in the clear.

  No sirens, yet.

  No one who survived stuck around.

  I think I’m good…

  Satisfied, he refocused his game plan—

  Get in the car, get the money and the signature, ditch the girl, and get the fuck out of here.

  Black threw a look towards the street where he left Amanda and the stolen BMW.

  Both were gone.

  “That’s good,” said Black. He tucked away the Beretta and did a three-sixty scan of his surroundings. The bimmer and the broad were nowhere to be found. He walked over to the spot where the car had been resting and found a pair of tire marks that peeled away from the curb and past a tilted stop sign on the corner. He pulled out the keys
and pressed the alarm button but nothing happened.

  He threw a look towards the side entrance. A long moment went by where Black felt like it was some sort of setup, a ploy to drive him outside into an ambush. Every step he took and every breath he drew after were filled with cautious calculation.

  This is fucked.

  The girl’s gone. How the hell am I going to find her?

  It doesn’t matter. Richie’s dead, the job is done.

  I can’t go back without her signature on the CW or the ten grand.

  Who cares!

  Get to the parking lot and boost a ride back to LAX.

  You’re done.

  Black moved towards the parking lot and began scoping out the rides for the best option. Seemed like some of the survivors had panicked and drove off. Two models were left – a piece of garbage and a Ford. He decided to take the Ford. He’d wire it, boost it, and ditch it when he got closer to LAX.

  He pulled out his burner phone and dialed Tara to give her the heads up that the Amanda Dubin contract was now voided.

  That’s when the strip club exploded.

  The concussion from the blast threw him onto his back. It instantly knocked the wind out of him and his brain felt like it was rattling inside his skull. Even through a hazy perspective, Black could still see the magnificent and brutal display of fire, wood, and metal lighting up the night like a sadistic fireworks festival.

  He rolled around on his back for several moments as air started to fill his lungs back up. The sound of the explosion was just now catching up to him. Once the kaboom roar subsided, the ear ringing began and pierced straight through to his soul. Black stayed in a tased-like state for about a minute before he was on his feet and recalibrating his senses.

  Check for any damage...

  Black did a quick pat down and found a gash on the back of his head, a swollen elbow, and a cut on his right forearm. Aside from an aggressive headache and the cut to the dome, he was tip-top.

  Lucky…

  Shit… My suit is completely trashed…

  He began to make out the familiar high and low pitched whine of police, fire, and ambulance sirens ringing out in a majestic symphony.