And that’s only if we’re talking about the bang-bang, shoot em’ up contract killers.
There’s a whole slew of poisoning seductresses and freak accident conductors who could blow me out of the water. I had a box of more elaborate disguises in my van, but tonight I was planning on climbing on the roof of a bar and slipping in unnoticed through a side window. It was best to wear dark clothes that didn’t look street strange.
The sun was just going down when I put on my disguise. I checked myself out in the mirror. I was wearing a tight fit leather jacket with a high square collar, raven colored t-shirt, jeans, and boots. I’d covered my conspicuous white hair with a White Sox hat and hid my milky right eye with sunglasses. I’m not a fan of Corey Hart, but people tended to focus on my creepy glossed pupil, which drew in more attention than shades.
Just like the last one, the realization hit me.
I could see out of my creepy pupil.
I lifted my sunglasses. Though my eye was still milky, I could see clearly through it. It was a Christmas miracle. I followed my index finger several times, verifying that I had twenty-twenty vision again. After playing ophthalmologist for another half hour, I decided to count my blessings and head to work.
I checked both pistols I kept in shoulder holsters under my coat to ensure they weren’t peeking out. Afterwards, I collected Old Lilith, who was still sitting cozily in my computer satchel, and headed to the van. I had bought the VIN-less primer grey beast from a junkyard and filled the back with crates full of DVD’s I’d bought from a secondhand store. The idea was that if I were caught during my casual escape by cops in search of a killer, they could run my background and I’d simply come up as Buchanan Palasinski, a jobless lowlife selling movies out of the back of his van. I’d have to leave town afterwards, but at least I’d escape.
I hid the beast down the street in an abandoned lot. She stunk of stale carpet that the former owner laid down in the back. I lifted the loose layer of rug and hid the computer case, as well as my notes in a small compartment I’d hollowed out in the floor. Subsequently, I started the van and drove to the spot I’d decided to park via a search engine’s map application. Technology, making murder easy since 1990. This wasn’t one of my most thorough plans, but it wasn’t the worst either. I’d never killed a zombie before, so I was going to have to remember to stay on my toes. I needed to remind myself that Death and Jumbo were somehow watching too. It was like I was a guest star on one of those career reality shows. Welcome to another episode of Dirty Jobs. Today we follow Buck Palasinski as he completes a high-profile contract killing. This job was either going to show them how serious I was about the internship or it’d be a drop-dead hilarious flop.
Well, here goes nothing.
5
Zombie Pete’s venue wasn’t busy, yet it still showed signs of life. A custodian emptied a trash bin into a dumpster and, luckily for me, left the backdoor open behind him. I walked through the garbage-lined alley and lit up a smoke. I could see staff inside setting up cocktail tables. Casually, I picked up a Styrofoam coffee cup littered near the doorway. I peeled the top lip from it, crumbled it in a ball, and once the coast was cleared, pushed the bead into the lock’s latch hole. The door would serve as my backup plan should I not be able to escape from the roof. The custodian returned with a pilsner box filled with bottles. He didn’t take notice of me, and after dumping the cardboard carton, he hurried back inside.
Now, ever since the Chicago Fire, public officials have been proactive about fire safety. It’s why you’ll never see a wooden building downtown. It’s illegal. There’s also an ordinance that forces all buildings to have a fire escape of some sort. Older buildings on the West side have classic fire escapes. You know, the hanging iron ones with ladders that paint the backdrop of any gritty crime drama. I made like a gorilla and hopped up to one of the hanging ladders, using its pulley system to drag the metallic ladder down. It took a great deal of strength, and by the time I’d brought it to my level, I was half sure someone heard the moan of rusty hinges. I checked over my shoulder. No one was around.
I scaled the extendable ladder to the roof. Once on top, I towed it back up. The top of the building was bare, with an electric generator, exhaust pipes, and outdated satellite dish. A swirl of fog from the neighboring complex misted a portion of the roof with a fresh laundry aroma. It reminded me of the mist coming from my mouth during my resurrection. I used it as cover, taking in the smell of fabric softener. They’d need a lot of Tide Pods to clean up the stains I was about to make. I ducked under the lacteal laundry clouds to the window I’d mapped out along the theater’s shoulder. It was still covered in cardboard, like in the internet pictures.
Buildings in Chicago were tightly packed onto each block, usually only an arm’s reach apart, so I climbed over the edge and pressed my back to the neighboring condo while using my limbs to crawl down to the windowpane. My gloved hands had a hard time finding any loose seams from the duct taped beer box, but once they did, I gingerly pried it off. Beneath the beer box was mostly intact glass with a single hole from a baseball or rock. It was quickly growing dark out, so I doubted anyone inside noticed the dull shine from nearby streetlights leaking into the building. Now I’m no cat burglar, nor do I care about the property value of the bar, so I used an old technique to get through. It’s called the “Breaking Shit” approach. I made sure I was firmly pressed against the walls before leaning my shoulder onto the exposed hole in the glass. I carefully added a little more weight every second until I heard a crack. The trick was to not apply too much pressure as to shatter the pane.
By the time I was done, there was a spider web of cracks along the hole. I used my leather-shielded fingers to pop a few of the large shards out quietly. This gave me a big enough gap to fit my arm in and unlock the window from inside. I pulled the window open. My legs were now burning, so I entered in a hurry. I plopped onto the indoor balcony floor and crawled my way to the theater seating. The rat droppings and dust layer confirmed that no one had been up here for a while. I peeked over the seats and watched employees set up the stage. They conducted microphone checks while I assembled Old Lilith. Once she was ready, I leaned the gun barrel’s bipod onto one of the arm rests and began to toy with the sights.
I’d inspected the weapon before, but still had a few questions about reloading, recoil, and scope adjustments. Regardless, the rest of the rifle seemed to work just fine. Once I verified a clear line of sight between myself and the stage, all that was left was to wait. After an hour or so, the lights dimmed, and a manager called out that she’d open the doors in five minutes.
I used that time to visually review my escape route. I’d left the side window open on purpose. Once I’d confirmed Zombie Pete’s death, I’d climb back onto the roof and hurry to the escape ladder. After I clambered down, I’d walk casually through the alley to the van. Those were the most dangerous moments. In most cases, bystanders panicked and ran over one another, but occasionally you’d get the ex-cop or war veteran that worked the door. Their eyes were trained to spot the bad guy and would give chase. It never had come to that yet, luckily, but if it did, I’d use Thing One and Thing Two, who slept under my jacket.
I heard the doors open, and a clamber of stomping feet and voices echoed throughout the concert hall. Dozens of misunderstood college students and self-dubbed music bloggers poured in. I searched through my sights, using the lowlight modification to brighten up the room. What the hell. Most of these kids didn’t look old enough to drink. Their smooth little faces were painted in dark eyeliner and studded with piercings. They slurped beers in their black leather pants and underground band shirts. One by one they nested around cocktail tables and gathered along the shores of the stage. I wondered how kids who pretended to be obsessed with death would react to watching their favorite musician’s brains explode.
Purple stage lights and a cheap fog machine suffocated the stage. I could have cared less, but then I noticed that the cheap Halloween trick d
rowned out my clear shot. The entire stage was smothered by an accumulation of smoke. And this is why I never go see shows anymore. I played with the scope a bit, but it was no use. The crowd began chanting. At first it was a just a few clearly alcohol-driven slurred war cries, but before long, the entire crowd cheered.
“Zombie Pete,” they shouted in unison. “Zombie Pete.”
“Attention,” called a loud grimy voice from the speakers. “Attention you little shits.” The crowd roared in approval.
“Are you ready for some fun, you pathetic fools?” The horde of fans whooped.
“Are you ready for some real music?” The throaty voice asked. The horde cried louder.
“Then get on your feet and make some noise because you’re ready for Zombie Pete!”
A ballad of the electric guitar serenaded from the amplifiers. I winced from the pressure of the bewitching melody filling the hall. Whoever was jamming strummed the bad boy at an alarmingly rate. The electric sex was soon joined by drums and a bass guitar. It sounded like Black Sabbath and Garage-Rock had a baby. I peered through my scope but could barely make out the hazy silhouettes of several band members on stage. Their definition was too indistinct to tell who was who. Not only would shooting them all be a dick move, but I didn’t know if I had enough bullets to cover it.
“I want to buy booze for kids,” the smutty voice sang. “Like the law forbids.” There was a quick guitar rift. “I want to teach Grandma to draw…with my chainsaw.” The crowd shouted in unison. “I want to party with Mom—” the guitar sped up “—with no clothes on.” The drums banged with the words. “Cuz’ I’m Zombie Pete. I’m Zombie Pete. Give me your soul cuz’ I’m Zombie Pete.”
I kept flipping through the different optic settings while the music went on. When I passed the ghost-view, my eyes went out of focus. Dozens of small gold glowing beads ascended from the kids in the crowd. They hovered above the assembly like a swarm of fireflies. As the lead guitar went into a short solo, the orbs of light flew onto stage where they were swallowed up by the amethyst lit fog. Zombie Pete was collecting his immortality. I peeked up over my own head but didn’t see any little glowing lightbulbs.
There’s irony in that, I’m sure.
“Now ladies and gentlemen,” Zombie Pete’s voice called out while he continued to play the Telecaster. “Before we continue our show, I want to introduce a special guest. You see, not everyone is a Zombie Pete fan.” The gathering booed. “I know, I know. But that’s okay because we have a special surprise for our music critic. You see ladies and gentlemen; I’ve been tipped off that a certain assassin in our stands has come to wipe me out. So, Mr. Hitman hiding on the balcony.” Zombie Pete finally stepped out from the fog onto the center stage. He was shirtless. A network of ebony veins pulsated from his bare mauve chest. His eyes shined a gold that matched the souls he’d just swallowed, and his serrated teeth and Gene Simmons tongue hung out of his mouth. “Say hello to my groupies.”
I jumped back behind my scope to see if I could take a shot, but just as I centered my aim on Zombie Pete’s forehead, an extra from The Walking Dead shambled out from the backstage and stepped in front of him. The grey-skinned corpse wore a denim vest and red bandana. One of its eyes hung from its sockets and its gnarled teeth gnashed from a lipless mouth. I squeezed the trigger and a luminescent bullet fired from Old Lilith’s barrel straight through the creature’s brow. Green slime sprayed over Zombie Pete, but his undead meat shield blocked me from finishing the job. A pack of twenty other zombies shuffled out from backstage and through the crowd. They were headed straight to the roped off stairs that led up to me.
Zombie Pete laughed into his microphone. “Looks like you won’t get to hear my encore, Mr. Hitman,” he mocked as he strummed his guitar.
I had two choices. I could either take out the horde of zombies headed my way or risk having my guts ripped out to focus on Zombie Pete.
Remember the mission.
I strained through the scope and targeted the Fender Telecaster. Zombie Pete continued his rift, collecting souls from the now hushed crowd. I fired, and the fluorescent bullet shattered the guitar, sending shards of wood into Zombie Pete’s guts and ribs. A spray of tiny stars poured from the instrument’s fretboard and showered back into the audience. As pieces of soul reentered Goth kids, their bodies fell over unconscious. Strange. Though Zombie Pete’s Fender stopped its beat, his band continued to play. Zombie Pete looked up to the balcony, eyes wide. I didn’t wait. I pulled the barrel up, zeroed in, and fired again. The blazing bullet kissed him between the eyes, causing his head to explode like a pumpkin loaded with fireworks. Zombie Pete’s body dropped to the ground.
“Insert catch phrase here,” I said to myself in celebration. Thump, slap, thunk. The sound of sloppy footsteps clamored up the nearby stairwell. “Time to freaking go,” I muttered as I slung Old Lilith from her strap over my shoulder.
* * *
The lead zombie wailed as she reached the top step. An emaciated girl with blonde pigtails and a trail of chunky drool oozing onto her Radiohead t-shirt led the pack. Her eyes were white and her cheek wore to the bone. The zombies behind her, including an aproned cook with a fork in his shoulder and a nose-less lady that looked like Angela Lansbury, shoved Pigtails forward with their clumsy shuffle. There was no way I could make it to the window and scramble up to the roof without these things taking a chunk out of me. I needed to put some space between us. I dug in my jacket and drew out the two silver .45’s. Pigtails reached out to grab me, but I gave her a stiff kick before opening fire. Two bullets pierced her clavicle before the third cleanly went through the top of her skull.
“Sorry,” I unleashed more rounds into the horde. “No last meals.”
The front row of walking corpses collapsed from the gunfire, creating a pile for the others to clamber over. I hoped that it bought enough time and sheathed the hot guns back in their holsters. I scrambled to the window. Moans grieved behind me. I leapt out onto the ledge and pulled my way up. I dangled from the roof, using every ounce of strength to pry myself up out of harm’s way. As I did, a rotten hand grabbed my boot. The creature went to take a taste of my ankle, but I hurriedly practiced the removing-dog-mess-off-your-heel system to peel the thing’s fingers off. I then used the zombie’s head as a stool to boost myself up as quickly as humanly possible. Once on top of the building, I rolled onto my back.
Holy shit. I’d almost been zombie dinner.
“No time to rest, soldier-boy,” I whispered as I stood. I hurried to the fire escape and scrambled down until I was a safe jumping distance to the ground. I took a leap of faith, which for some reason didn’t cause my bad knees to cry for help. I fast-walked down the alley, my rifle clutched at my breast like a baby in a poor attempt to conceal it. I glanced over my shoulder. No one ran out of the bar. There were no screams or police sirens. Highly unusual. I kept up my brisk pace until I made it to the van.
I slid into the back of the cab and locked all the doors. After disassembling Old Lilith, I hid her in the hollowed space and then made for driver’s seat. The primer grey dragon roared with life as I turned the key. I put the van in drive and rolled out of the crumbled street. As I did, I noticed that my rearview mirror was crooked. I adjusted it, and when I did, there was a massive shadowy figure huddled behind me.
“What the hell?” I shouted. My eyes did a double take. Death was reading the back of a bad kung fu DVD.
“Sorry, man,” a voice from the passenger seat apologized. My free hand went for a pistol while my eyes narrowed toward to the passenger seat. Jumbo sat slack in the carpeted chair, his seatbelt holding him upward. “Easy, it’s just us.”
My heart stampeded and my nerves surged with life. “How did you even get in here?”
Jumbo pointed his nose downward and looked over his glasses. “Seriously? Are you really asking that?”
My hand crawled away from Thing One and instead pinched the cigarettes in my coat pocket. I pulled out the pack with my free h
and, and then pressed down the car lighter. After plucking a smoke out from the package with my lips, I grabbed the charged burner and lit my guilty pleasure.
“In the army,” I said between puffs. “We call people like you Hide-and-Go-Seek Champions. You get a special prize and everything.”
“Okay, dude, I’ll bite.” Jumbo smiled. “Why?”
“Because every few years,” I explained. “A soldier who thinks he’s funnier than he is hides in the bush to scare friends from his squad. When he leaps out to say boo, he gets shot. Whether he survived or not, his platoon always refers to him as the Hide-and-Go-Seek Champion.”
“You army guys are sick,” Jumbo laughed.
“Yes.” I agreed, rolling down the window to blow out fumes.
“Anyhow,” Jumbo kicked in. “You can tell war stories later. We’re here for your evaluation.”
“This should be rich,” I sighed. I could already feel pitchforks poking me. “I’m assuming I didn’t do well.”
“On the contrary,” Jumbo objected. “You scored very well.”
“How?” I turned onto the expressway. “He was ready for me. It was a freaking ambush.”
“Yeah.” Jumbo licked his braces, “I know. We tipped him off.”
“You did what?” I hit the brakes.
“WE,” Death said slowly. “TIPPED,” he annunciated louder. “THEM OFF.”
“Thanks, you clown dicks,” I hissed, cigarette clenched between my teeth. “May I ask why you did that?”
“Buck,” Jumbo said in a low steady voice. “Think about it. Anyone can kill someone. It doesn’t take much. What we needed to see was how you did with adversity. You know, when the deck is stacked against you.”
A Dead-End Job Page 5
