Shades of Fear

by D. L. Scott

  About the Author

  Matt Lovell has lived in Seattle, WA for many years now and still does not drink coffee. He finds most of his inspiration comes to him in the shower or going on long walks. Perhaps that is why he lives in Seattle so that he can do both at once. Fear makes us real. We come alive when we’re afraid. There is an excitement and awesomeness to experiencing it.

  Matt holds a dear place in his heart for the spooky imagery, tales, and shows he grew up with that gave him his phobias and it is his wish to instill some nice pleasant nightmares into the next generation. He loves writing interactive fiction, creating puzzles, and immersing himself in the long, winding melodies of progressive rock. Oh, yeah: https://www.facebook.com/MattLovellAuthor

  The Beginning of the End

  By Tom Deady

  I'm not afraid of death. It's the stake one puts up in order to play the game of life.

  – Jean Giraudoux, Amphitryon, 1929

  The man in the black trench coat walks casually down the tree-lined street. He could have been on his way home from a hard day at the office, or going door to door trying to save people from themselves and enter the Kingdom of Heaven through some religion or another. He could have been me or you. He was everyman, and that's what made him so good at his job. He wasn't, as it turns out, coming home from a day at work, he was working. And the home he was going to was certainly not his own.

  His name is Barry Finn, at least that's what his Connecticut driver's license and credit cards say. His hair is dark and neatly trimmed with slightly longer sideburns than you'd expect. His skin is deeply tanned as if he worked outdoors or played golf every day. His eyes are brown, his height and weight are average, whatever that means. In fact, it means something different to everyone, causing witnesses to give conflicting statements. He's an illusion. Whatever you think you see today, he won't look the same tomorrow.

  He approaches a house halfway up the block and checks the address against a small card he pulls from the deep pocket of the trench coat. He returns the card to his pocket and his hand remains there. Perhaps his hand is cold despite the cozy-looking black leather gloves he wears, or perhaps not. He turns onto the walkway and strolls toward the house, slowing to appraise it. The house is neither small nor luxurious. It has the look of upper middle class, nicely landscaped and well kept. You would expect an SUV of some sort in one bay of the two-car garage, a small, sporty model in the other. You would also expect two-point-two children to help fill the four bedrooms and, yes, there is a white picket fence.

  He climbs the stone steps gracefully despite the thin scrim of ice that covers them and glides across the front porch. Without hesitation he reaches out and rings the bell. He slides his hand into the other pocket; perhaps he is just cold after all. He waits the requisite time, reaches out again, and rings the bell a second time. His wait is shorter this time and he shuffles impatiently, making a show of checking his watch and finally pulling out a cell phone. He dials and puts the phone to his ear while he struts leisurely along a walkway to the driveway. He looks in the garage windows, all the while talking on the cell phone, sees whatever he sees, and goes around the side of the house.

  During a similar job the year before, he had done this very same dance; the checking of the address, the ringing of the bell, the cell phone, all of it. One neighbor reported he saw a man of well over six feet and built like a linebacker lurking around the house. Another neighbor reported a short, stocky man who looked Hispanic at the door. A third neighbor, who was gardening in his front yard across the street, didn't remember seeing anyone, except maybe the mailman. It had been a Sunday, the mailman? This time, there would be no reports. Things would change too quickly for that.

  The man turns the corner and moves along the side of the house, all the while chatting on his cell phone, and trudges through the snow toward the back yard. Once around the back, he is shielded from the neighbors on either side by rows of arborvitae, the natural fence of the civilized development dweller. There are no neighbors to the rear, only forest. The house itself guards him from the rest of the street. He slips his cell phone back in his pocket and climbs the steps to the back deck. He pulls a small tool from one pocket. The other pocket contains very different tools of his trade. Within thirty seconds he is gone, in the house with the doors shut behind him. Nothing to show he was there except some icy footprints left by his boots – size ten, no tread of significance to identify them by.

  The slider screeches with a sound he could only equate to a cat being tortured. He shakes his head, not annoyed by the noise itself, but that someone would let the door get to that point when a little oil would fix it right up. He turns and looks around the kitchen, quickly understanding why the door wasn't oiled. The man that lives here is a slob. The room is a mess of dirty dishes, pots and pans, soda cans and empty Doritos bags. The odor assaults him, a mixture of dirty socks and rotting meat that makes him wrinkle his nose. He could see the stickiness that filmed the counters. He looks forward to getting the job done and getting out of the squalor that surrounded him.

  He walks slowly through the rooms on the first floor, getting the lay of the land. The dining room is nicely furnished but a thin layer of dust clings to every visible surface. Stacks of mail litter the table. The curtains hang limply, as if burdened by the state of the room. He opens each door, identifying the way to the basement, the closets, a small half-bath that reeks like a subway station, and the entrance from the garage. He steps into the large family room and halts abruptly at the sound. It was a crunching sound that reminds him of Shell Beach at St. Barth's. He looks down and is not surprised to see a pile of crushed Doritos when he lifts his foot.

  The family room is huge, dominating the living space on the first floor. Leather couches and recliners huddle around an enormous flat-screen television. The coffee table is scarred and battered, the culprits laying among the marks; video game controllers and Mountain Dew cans. The smell in the room is unlike the kitchen, this is the smell of poor hygiene and a worse diet. Tasteful art decorates the walls. No masterpieces but not inexpensive. Finn blinks when his eyes come upon the most incongruous piece in the room, a Steinway baby grand piano. He walks over to it, instantly aware of the deep sheen and the strong aroma of polish. He runs his gloved hand across the top, it was glassy, almost icy in its smoothness. It is the one thing in the house that doesn't disgust him in some way.

  Satisfied he's seen everything he needs to see, he paces the room again, finding a seat that would give him a view of the door leading from the kitchen but would leave him in the shadows. The light outside is quickly dimming, the winter dusk approaching like an unwelcome visitor. He takes two items from the pocket of his trench coat and placed them on a small end table. He slowly removes the coat, folds it carefully and places it on the arm of the chair. He keeps the leather gloves on. He sits on the recliner, places the two items on his lap, and begins the wait. Based on his information, the man will be home in an hour, two at the most. Finn is a patient man, the waiting was just part of the job, sometimes a big part.

  He becomes hyper-aware of his surroundings. The refrigerator's motor kicking on and off. The wind outside picking up and whistling through the eaves. The ticking of the clock in the kitchen. The slow, imperceptible movements of the shadows as full dark approaches. The lightning-like flash of headlights of cars turning off an adjacent street. And always, the stagnant odor of sweat. It's almost time, he thinks, and repositions himself in the chair, the leather crinkling under him. A short time later, headlights flicker off the wall, then the sound of the garage door opening shatters the dark quiet.

  Seconds later, a car crunches up the driveway and Finn hears the door lower behind it. The car engine growls then shuts off. Finn hears the car door open, hears the groan of the man getting out, the car's shocks sighing in relief, then the slam of the door. Heavy footsteps thud up the stairs from the garage and he hears the door-knob turn. His stomach clenches, it always does. It isn't fear or regret, more lik
e anticipation. He always imagined it's how athletes felt before the big game, or death row prisoners when finally strapped into the chair. The door squeals and Finn hears the click of a switch at the same time the kitchen floods with light.

  Finn was sure the man would head for the family room immediately after the kitchen, maybe stopping to grab a snack. It was possible he will go directly upstairs, but either way he has to pass by the family room. The light from the kitchen is blotted out like an eclipse and Finn hears the man shambling towards the family room. His shape appears, silhouetted by the light from the kitchen. Finn smiles to himself when he hears the crinkling of a bag and the pfssst of a soda can opening. Then the room is ablaze as the big man flips another light switch. Finn squints but doesn't blink. In his line of work, blinking was a liability.

  The man stops short and Finn is disgusted to see parts of him ripple, quivering to a stop seconds after the man himself stops walking. He is fatter than Finn expected. Obese to be clinically accurate; a fat pile of shit to be descriptive. The man blinks slowly, his expression one of confusion, as if he expected the vision of Finn to be gone when his eyes open. No such luck. The soda fizzling in the can is the only sound. Slowly, a look of understanding crosses the man's face.

  “Who...what are you...” The man's eyes drift to Finn's lap and his expression goes from confusion to understanding to resignation. “Who sent you?”

  Finn smiles, trying to put the man at ease. “Please, have a seat, we need to talk.”

  Years of doing this had honed Finn's instincts to perfection. The big man was dealing in his mind with what Finn called the three Fs: Fight, Flight, or Fuck it. He realizes the man was about to run, and he doesn't want that. He holds up the object in his left hand. “Don't run, please. Our chat will be a lot less pleasant after you've been hit with fifty thousand volts. Have you ever been Tasered?”

  This is the part where some would run and Finn would Taser them or put a bullet in their knee. Others would start shaking, piss themselves, shit themselves, or beg. Not many tried to fight. The man was afraid, Finn could smell it. Yes, fear had a smell all its own, Finn had learned. It smelled like rusty nails and old rubber.

  “Sit in one of your cozy leather seats, please.”

  The man was done, he'd hit the “Fuck it” stage. He might beg and plead but he isn't going to run and he certainly isn't going to fight. On legs that threaten to fail him, the big man makes it to the couch. He is looking around calmly, but he is shaking all over like he is having a seizure. Finn knew the man's name, but he would never address him with it. It would personalize things, and Finn didn't like that. He knew a lot about the man, except why he was assigned to kill him.

  “Have you been bad?” Finn's voice is soft, soothing, like a lullaby.

  The man looks at Finn, actually cocking his head like that dog on the old RCA logo. “Isn't that why you're here?”

  Finn has trouble looking at him. Despite the man's fear, he is munching on Doritos like it's his job and drinking greedily from the soda can. He disgusted Finn.

  “It's a simple question, it needs no context. Your life depends on you answering truthfully.” It is a lie, of course, but Finn enjoyed this part. His eyes dart to the gun in his right hand for emphasis.

  The look isn't lost on the guy, he is not stupid. “You don't know?” He is calming down, actually smirking. “You really don't know?”

  Finn raises the gun and points it at the man's head. “It's a yes or no question.” The wind has picked up even more and Finn can hear sleet tapping at the windows. It reminded him of Poe.

  “I've been very bad, Mister...?”

  Finn remains silent, the gun pointing steadily at the man's meaty forehead.

  The man nods. “Yes, I've been bad, depending on your point of view. Others might praise me for my work. Do you want to know what I've done?”

  The man had regained what Finn assumes is his usual cocky, condescending attitude. He is actually smiling. Finn is torn. There is something that doesn't sit right about this assignment, about the guy sitting before him. The man moves in his seat and Finn's pressure on the trigger tightens.

  The man catches it, feels the pendulum of control swinging his way. “It won't be long before you're in a similar situation. It might not be the barrel of a gun you're staring down, but it will be death. You might wish for the bullet when you see what I've done. In fact, I know you will.” The man's eyes are shining gleefully, no shortage of madness in them. “You're too late.”

  Finn shoots him in the head. The silencer muffles the shot to a whisper. The bullet enters the man's head just above his left eye and most of the contents of his skull end up spread out on the back of the couch. He doesn't utter a sound, just slumps backwards slowly, like a fat, sloppy bowling pin.

  “Shit.” Finn never let his assignment get to him before. The pleading, the threats, the justifications and rationalizations all fell on deaf and uncaring ears. He was impervious to it all. Until today. The man's expression had chilled him. He shot him when he did because he didn't want to hear the rest of what the man had to say.

  “Shit,” he mutters again. He had felt fear for the first time in a long, long time, and it didn't feel good.

  Finn stands, puts his coat on, slides the gun and the Taser in the trench coat pocket, and slips out into the howling wind. The sleet is like a million bee stings and the temperature is dropping. The street is eerily quiet, like everyone is hunkered down for the end of the world. It turned out they were.

  # # #

  Later that night, back in his hotel room, Finn reflected on the day's assignment. He was angry that he'd lost it, restless. Something was off about the guy. He'd faced psychopaths, sociopaths, political idealists and every other kind of nut job, and he'd never let them get to him. There was definitely something different about this one. Finn got up and walked to the window, looking down at the city of Hartford through the sleet. It was his fourth trip to the window in the last thirty minutes.

  Finn had arrived in Hartford a few days earlier. He left the hotel every morning dressed in a nice suit and carrying a briefcase, just another businessman here to meet with one insurance company or another. He would lay low here for a few more days before heading home, following the same routine. Nobody would remember him. They never did.

  He'd already been to the hotel gym for a workout and a run. Exercise, a nice room service meal, and a few beers usually tired him out after a job, but not tonight. While he was on the treadmill, the news kept cutting to stories about a weird strain of the flu that was nearing an epidemic and some unsettling, violent behavior people were displaying. They had footage of a guy in New York who'd attacked a cop that had pulled him over for erratic driving. Damned if it didn't look like the guy was trying to bite the cop. It looked more like he had rabies than the flu. Either way, he was cured...by a bullet in the chest from the panicked cop's gun. No wonder Finn couldn't sleep.

  His mind drifted again to this afternoon's job. It won't be long before you're in a similar situation. It might not be the barrel of a gun you're staring down, but it will be death. You might wish for the bullet when you see what I've done. In fact, I know you will. You're too late. Finn actually shuddered at the words. Just the rant of a madman, he told himself, but still so out of the ordinary. He was used to the desperate threats of condemned men. They sometimes claimed to have “associates” that would avenge their death. More often they swore their god would do the job. But nothing so random, so vague. But spoken with what Finn recognized as certainty. You're too late.

  Outside, the temperature must have dropped even more as the wind-driven sleet had turned completely over to snow. On the street below, he could see people moving about, probably some of the downtown bars letting out. It was tough to see because of the snow, but it looked like a fight was breaking out, people were running. He heard what could have been gunshots, eventually followed by the shrill sound of sirens approaching. He shook his head, pulled the curtains shut, and went back
to bed. Fucked up world, he thought, finally drifting off to sleep.

  About the Author

  Tom Deady was born and raised in Malden, Massachusetts, not far from the historic (and spooky) town of Salem. He has endured a career as an IT professional, but his dream has always been to be a writer.

  Tom is currently pursuing a Master's Degree in English and Creative Writing at SNHU and trying to find a good home for his first novel, Haven. The Beginning of the End is an excerpt from his second novel, End Game, which is expected to be released in 2014.

  www.facebook.com/tomdeady

  www.tomdeady.com

  www.twitter@DeadyTom

  The Nominee

  By BB Raven

  “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”

  ― Nelson Mandela (1918-2013)

  The sun was beginning to set and illuminate a lavender sky, with the exception of the occasional cast of shadows that were overhead that were most likely caused by satellites. They have taken over the sky along with mail drones, it was annoying actually. People can’t even enjoy a west coast sunset anymore.

  A northward breeze gently brushed her shoulders and sent a chill up her spine like never before. She was sure it was nerves. Everything happened so fast. Her walk from the limo to the crimson red carpet seemed like a blur. Her interview with the press was fabricated and she knew it; even her trip to the facilities when she didn’t have to go. It was all publicity.