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by Scott Normandin
Alex walked
down the street where he had been the night
before. The air seemed warmer to him. His
car had been towed so he had to take a bus
down to the corner on the main street a
block or so away. He walked hurriedly toward
the small storefront restaurant with eagerness,
as he knew whatever happened to him originated
there. The constant pain in his gut and
the shocks of sudden sharp agony that shot
through him a constant reminder of his urgent
purpose. Just to be on the safe side he
stopped at home and retrieved his handgun.
It was a small nin millimeter with a fifteen
round clip that he had purchased when he
lived in a less desirable part of town.
It had not left his closet in maybe five
years, but now its services were required
again.
The night
air didn't smell the same anymore, the winds
had changed and everything smelled stale.
He reached the restaurant and sat quietly
across the street. He did not want to go
in just yet. They were an hour away
from closing and the place was very busy.
He did not want any witnesses to see what
he had to do.
So there
he waited. His jacket wrapped tight around
him that just couldn't take the chill away
from him. His body temperature would never
warm him again. As he sat there waiting
for the customers to filter out, he meditated
on his condition. It was as if he were stuck
in one of those movies where everyone was
turning into zombies. He laughed to himself
at the thought of something so ludicrous.
As the
last customers were leaving Alex would his
way across the street. The workers he could
see through the windows were putting the
chairs on top of the tables to clean the
floor. He sped up as he saw one of the waiters
walking toward the door to lock it. He had
to get there and get inside before that
could happen.
He reached
the door as the waiter was sliding the key
into the lock and kicked the door open with
all his strength, knocking the waiter back
into the floor, spilling the contents of
his pockets out around him. Alex pulled
his gun out and stuck it in the man's face,
his hands trembling with both anger and
the permanent chill that now overtook his
being.
He yelled
to the man, "What did you feed me last
night? You had better start talking before
I blow your head off."
The man
lay on the ground with his arms outstretched
in fear, his mouth rattling off explanations
in a language Alex did not understand. This
made Alex even angrier. "I know you
know English, pal. Now talk to me before
this gun does the talking."
Another
man from the waiting staff walked up to
Alex. Alex lashed out at the approaching
man's head with the pistol and smashed him
across the mouth. The second man tumbled
back and fell to the ground, clutching his
mouth in pain. Alex turned the gun back
to the first waiter, and put his sights
on the man's head.
"Say
goodnight, jerk-off," said Alex as
he pulled lightly on the trigger until just
before the hammer fell, a calm serene voice
came from behind him.
"Don't
do that, friend," said the voice. It
was slow, calm and soothing.
Alex relaxed
his finger from the trigger and turned around
to see a man standing there he had not seen
the last time he was here. The man was an
American. He seemed to be in his late thirties,
and dressed very well. Maybe this man was
the owner of the restaurant. He didn't seem
alarmed at all, as if this sort of thing
happened in his life all the time. That
would make sense if he were the responsible
one. There have probably been many angry
visitors with the same problem.
Alex turned
the gun on the man addressing him.
"You
don't need the gun. What's your name sir?"
asked the man. "My name is Brannigan.
I have some interest in this establishment
and its customers. Was your meal not to
your liking?"
Alex stared
coldly at the man. "My name is Alex,
and I was a patron here last night. You
guys poisoned me or something and I want
to know what you did to me." His anger
was still flaring, and his aim on Brannigan.
His gun never wavered. He trusted no one.
"Please,
Alex, sit down and talk."
"Did
you do this to me Brannigan?"
"Alex
we need to talk."
"Did
you do this to me?"
Brannigan
paused, "Yes, I did, Alex."
Alex fired
a shot at the man's stomach. Brannigan never
faltered. Did he miss? No, he could see
the bullet hole in Brannigan's stomach.
He hit him, but Brannigan continued to stand,
emotionless. Alex was confused, "What
is this?" he asked.
"Alex,
I am all that you ever wanted to be, and
you are now."
"As
far as it's been explained to me, I am dead."
"You
are dead, Alex, and much, much more. I have
been dead for two hundred and fourteen years
and here I am talking to you. Even though
you shot me I will be here in yet another
two hundred and fourteen years, Alex. You
can be here with me."
Alex convulsed
again. It was more severe this time. He
fell to the floor as the shocks once again
waved through his body, every nerve in his
body sent a jolt of high-energy pain to
his brain. He dropped his gun as he fell
to the floor. The spasms in his stomach
made him double over forward and the screaming
began again. He brought his muscles tight
in his body and clutched his midriff in
agony. Moments passed where he lost all
control as the seizure took hold, and began
to subside.
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