Endings

Copyright © 2004,2012 K. Udo Schuermann
All rights reserved

All people, places, and events in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, places, and events are purely coincidental.

Two days and two nights ago, neither of which was the distinguished event that old literatures praised it to be, a man had killed another man. The killing had been an elaborate one, involving one man stalking the other, then setting off a carefully arranged series of distractions to drive the other off his usual route and into an alley that stank of chemical and human waste. The odors were so permanently engraved on the alley that a thousand days of rain could not have washed them away. The gentle rain of this night merely made the stench a wet one. The alley was where the one man awaited the others coming.

Out of a dark crack of an ancient doorway the man then stepped when the other had passed him and unceremoniously fired a slug from his gun into the back of the other.

The explosion of the cartridge's propellant shattered the night, tore through the wet alleys and the empty streets, bouncing like a crazed rat off the soot-soiled walls and windows. Finally it faded into the night, faded so quickly that it failed to muffle the victim's astonished steps, the desperate struggle to remain standing, the stumble and the slip of his foot on the cold stone of the alley, and then the pain-filled exclamation that fled his lips when his body collapsed and crashed to the alley's broken pavement.

Had the victim not heard a scrape on the stone from his assailant's boot as he stepped out of hiding, he might have died from the bullet on the spot. Instead, the projectile tore through the outer edge of his right lung as he turned almost out of the way. Another few centimeters and it might have missed him entirely.

Not a word did his killer say, and his eyes would not meet those of his victim as he stepped over him. Perhaps he knew the silent question he would find written there, the silent scream in the prone man's eyes: “Why?!” Instead the killer scanned the alley ahead and behind, while holding the rusty gun in one fist and tearing at the dying man's clothing with the other, searching his pockets. He found a wallet, two misshapen envelopes, and a small, dark glass vial.

He seemed pleased with his find, so at least the dying man thought just before he could no longer spare the strength to keep his head aloft. He hated the cold wetness of the alley on his scalp and in his hair, hated the filth that he knew it carried. And then the rain swallowed the sound of boots running away into the night. He thought his fate ironic. Tomorrow was supposed to be his thirtieth birthday and now he lay dying in a filthy alley. He had never in his life lain on his back and watched the rain come down. With each drop that struck him in the eye he blinked, then opened his eyes again to miss not a single moment of a sight that he knew would be the last of his life.

✫  ✫  ✫

Nobody had observed the killing, thought the man with the gun. He was so accustomed to being the stalker and the attacker that he could not imagine himself in the role of the prey.

But a witness had already followed him for two days and two nights, neither of which differed much from the other. Norwash Quarter was more dark than light anyway, owing to the thick and permanent cloud cover, the almost ever-present drizzle, and the frequent power failures that plunged large areas into darkness for hours.

The witness had studied the killer for longer than just two days, had known where he lived, in fact, for the span of ten days. The building was a sorry affair, even for this part of Norwash. Encircled by other dead buildings, and already abandoned before the killer was born, it had sunken into a state of disrepair since then that kept even the most desperate souls out from under its dangerously fragile beams and partially collapsed floors. But the killer had struck a bargain with the decay and knew where to step and which sections to avoid. He seemed almost oblivious to the delicate weight of fourteen floors of rubble suspended above him as he sat on the floor of the only room that wasn't choked with dust and debris.

On the floor before him lay unfolded a small packet of ten cartridges for his gun. He had obtained them just hours ago from someone who built them from the empties and the remains of lead slugs that he collected, combined, and reformed with a machine. The greatest expense was, of course, the chemical that formed the sensitive propellant for each cartridge. The ten that lay before him had cost the killer nearly half of the money that he had found on his last victim. It had been a good investment, though. One bullet against ten, with enough to spare for another dozen; or food for at least a month and even some booze for a little party or two.

A single word, spoken not far from him, suddenly reached his ears from the darkness outside the small room. It brought his body to stiff attention: “Murderer!” He snatched at the gun, but his fingers missed: A small flash erupted from where the voice had come, and a blinding pain erupted in his left thigh. The heat of the blast was so intense that his pants were instantly set ablaze. He screamed with the pain and the unmitigated terror that gripped him.

Adrenaline powered his muscles, allowed him to come to his feet even though the muscle and flesh of his left thigh was largely evaporated from the bone. The killer turned and looked his attacker in the eye: two narrow slits, framed by bright red hair, stared back at him across the flat barrel of a blaster.

Another flash from the weapon struck him in the abdomen and this time he knew that it was over. Before his upper body bent sideways and began its ponderous descent to the floor, his opponent had already lowered her gun. And then the floor met his head, joined a moment later by the bubbling and burning remains of his lower body. His vision was the first to go. Somewhere, far away, he heard a boot scrape in the dust, as its owner spun around her axis. He found the fact intriguing that he could identify the action from just a sound.

The steps faded, and the silence came gradually to meet the darkness around him.

✫  ✫  ✫

The old proprietor, squeezed between a well-worn counter and the narrow shelf behind him, smiled at the pretty red-head who visited his store every morning. Unlike so many of his customers she was always friendly and rarely in a hurry, but he considered it a special service to have her order ready each morning when she entered his small store.

A gaunt-looking man with a nasty skin rash, who had just paid for his purchases, turned away from the counter and squeezed past the red-head on his way out. Unlike any of the regulars he stepped on the floor board that creaked under his weight, then snapped back with a click that never seemed to wear away. When he was gone the red-head returned the proprietor's smile, as she did every morning, and asked him how he was feeling today. He returned the courtesy and produced her lunch from the cooler against which his knees were pressed, and asked her if there was anything else she needed.

She bought a few extras this time, even afforded herself a package of genuine South American coffee, rather than the usual fare that would taste no worse in styrofoam than china. Two more customers came in, closely followed by a third, so she smiled good-bye and worked her way past the new-comers into the street outside. For a moment he watched her go, felt a momentary twinge of guilt for looking at the swing of her curves moving the way she did. But he smiled to himself: these were the moments that made this life worth living.

✫  ✫  ✫

She was glad that today was a holiday. It made the streets less crowded than usual. Even so, she could not take the same long strides in the day — not even on a day like this — as she could at night when the streets emptied themselves of all but the roughest of elements. At night she didn't have to watch out for stepping on someone's heel; at night she didn't have to use that universal shuffling gait and the careful, constrained motions that marked traffic on a normal day; at night she could stretch her legs, could step sideways, walk (run!) in any direction, yes even stop all at once and spread her arms and spin in circles. To try such foolishness in the day, when the rivers of people pushed their way slowly and inexorably through the streets; in the day such craziness would be antisocial, might even get her arrested.

But at night the streets were also dangerous. An hour before curfew the streets emptied themselves, and few took the risk to wait until the street lights switched to low-consumption. Those who stayed out after curfew were either special personnel, such as maintenance workers with business to conduct, or they would have the enforcers to contend with because their business could only be illegal.

Today, however, was not just a holiday, but the rain had stopped for a while and a brief hint of sunlight stood behind the clouds, deciding if the effort to break through might be appreciated by the world. For just a moment she lifted her head to get a glimpse of the bright spot against the grey sky, then she looked down again quickly so that she wouldn't step on someone's heel. The sky had seemed promising. If only there was a place where she could stop to enjoy the light, should the sun choose to break through against all hope.

She worked her way to the right, joining the flow of people that would turn the corner ahead. Then a child's voice, somewhere behind her in the crowd, asked: “Mommy, is that woman's hair on fire?” Someone near her shoulder chuckled and she smiled at the thought of her red hair being flames of a sort. For a moment she toyed with the idea to turn her head to catch a glimpse of the inventive child, but she reached the bend and was swept with the crowd that turned the corner. The mother's answer was lost in the noises behind her, but she thought it sounded something like “Shhhhh!”

✫  ✫  ✫

The carrier's powerful cushion blew rain water out from under its belly as it moved swiftly down the wide, dark street. It slowed rapidly in a cloud of water particles, then turned a corner and took up speed again, slipping neatly over the debris on the uneven road surface, ignoring discarded containers, broken beams of wood, and flying unhindered across stones of all sizes that once had been part of buildings, but had rained down from the heights, the cause of their fall now forgotten. A wheeled vehicle would have been slowed, if not entirely stopped by some of the obstacles, but the carrier moved out of a straight path only once, to steer clear of the ghost of a burnt-out vehicle.

The dark and sullen buildings watched the carrier pass in the night. Few eyes took notice of its powerful beams of light that scanned the path ahead and searched the facades of the buildings it was about to pass. Few eyes saw the four dozen armored men who stood tightly packed against the body of the carrier, waiting to be delivered to where they would spring into action, to put down riots, arrest looters, hunt down criminals, and enforce the law. These were members of the elite police troops of the Washington Quarter. Their motto: The Washington Enforcers. W.E. Keep You Safe!

The carrier entered a district where power had failed. Shortly it turned into an alley and slowed to a crawl, then slid into a space lined with trash that seemed to overflow the designated containers in every region in the Baycore, though the problem was especially pronounced in the Norwash quarter. The spray of water lessened and the carrier gently lowered itself onto a set of wheels that would allow it minor mobility without having to power up the cushion, Then the spray of water stopped entirely and a voice barked orders into the helmets of the enforcers.

Almost to a man ninety-six boots struck the pavement, special soles gripping the surface and providing superior traction despite rain, oil, or grime that might make it slippery to other feet. Four dozen hands unlatched the infamous Mark IV MP blasters from the belts and while most of the troops invaded the building closest to the main street, three of them moved to cover the perimeter. Image enhancers stripped the darkness of its secrets, cast the subtlest of edges in instant sharp relief onto the inside of the visors of each helmet. Other data poured into the periphery, to warn of unexpected motion above, below, behind, and to the sides. The enforcers then flooded the lower floors of the building faster than a hundred cats could have moved through the darkness, almost silently, virtually unstoppable, and equipped with deadly force.

With the lifts disabled by the power-failure, three enforcers remained on the first floor, while the rest moved on to operate in the exact same manner on each of the floors above. Of the three, one stood at the stairs to prevent any escape. Two moved as a pair, rapidly scanning each apartment or office space. Without any warning the occupants found enforcers coming through their doors, doors which usually opened to their own keys only. Like whirlwinds, the enforcers rushed through every room, examining every closet, every space, and recording every face and feature for later review. Once they had assured themselves that their quarry was not present they threw a hasty apology at the apartment's owner, and out again they went to inspect the next. When a triple had completed the sweep of one floor they rushed up the stairs to the top of the column and began this routine anew.

About seventy-five minutes passed in this manner, when on the one-hundred and twenty-fourth floor two enforcers opened the door to the apartment of a woman with fiery red hair who shot upright in bed with surprise and reached for what later turned out to be a military grade Mark II blaster. The enforcer whose Mark IV was set to a non-deadly charge fired an electric pulse at her, causing every muscle in her body to tense powerfully. She was flung against the wall by the abrupt tension of her own body's strength, collapsed onto the bed, and then rolled slowly, almost lifelessly off the mattress and onto the floor.

Five minutes later a field test confirmed it: The enforcers had found their quarry.

✫  ✫  ✫

The next morning, the old proprietor waited in vain for his friend, the red-head, to arrive. That day he served his customers feeling sadder than he usually did. Following that, he prepared her regular order each day for a week. All he had now were regrets. He had never even asked for her name. Eventually he resigned himself to the fact that he would not see her again.

✫  ✫  ✫

“I heard she was a lawyer,” said the gaunt man with the rash, which was not nearly as bad as it had been a few days ago. Staying out of the rain seemed to be helping. He lifted his chin to point at the panel in the corner.

“A lawyer?” asked the old proprietor. The panel behind him was for customers who had to wait. He never paid it any attention. But he turned his head to follow the man’s glance, just as the story faded into another.

The man was going through his wallet now to pay for his purchase. He said, “Who would have thought that the Norwash Killer turns out to be a pretty red-headed lawyer, eh? Still, a female serial killer, what’s the world coming to?”