SHORT STORY: Sick and Tired

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Miller hadn’t killed for Sonya in over forty years. Hell, he hadn’t even spoken to her for most of that time. Once, he had allowed himself to be swept up by her righteous tempest, had even reveled in the tasks she had given him. After all, he’d had permission from the highest of authorities to commit acts forbidden to most men. Sonya had served as both his divining rod and his moral foundation.

Four decades and the sting of love lost (perhaps even a spot of senility?) had marred his memory. At the time he’d had complete faith in her but after so many murders without miracles, without even one indication from any higher power that he walked the right path, he had begun to doubt--and she had left him for it.

Now her presence stirred within his house again. Her voice waited beneath an insistent, blinking bulb. The machine displayed Gayle, Sonya. With the push of a button, what? Another favor? Forgiveness? Perhaps something more? You’re seventy-two years old, Miller, does she still matter? He couldn’t lie to himself; he pressed the plastic button.

“Miller? It’s Sonya. I need your help. This time it’s bad. Worse than ever before. Call me, my number hasn’t changed.” Her voice was still as sharp as he remembered, her need completely credible. She ended the message with a hook barb, “I miss you, Mil.”

Shit. After all these years, she still had him. It only took one ring before Sonya picked up his return call.

“Mil? Is that you?”

“Yes, I--“

“Hold on, let me get my aid. I can’t hear you.” A hearing aid implied frailty. He had never seen her frail before. She’s in her sixties now, things have changed.

“Sonya?”

“Sorry, I have you on speaker now, so talk louder. How’ve you been, Mil?”

“We both know that’s not why you called. What’s going on? The sickness is back?”

“It never went away.”

“So you’ve ignored it?”

“No, you weren’t the only one, Mil. There have been others. The work had to continue.”

Christ, thought Miller. How many have died since we parted?

“But this time you need me,” said Miller.

“Yes, I know you don’t believe in me anymore and I know you haven’t believed in me for years. I can’t have you dy--I can’t have you living with that kind of regret. You didn’t kill people, Mil. I’ve wanted to show you all this time, but I never had a way. Finally, I found one. I’m so sorry it took so long.”

“You want me to kill somebody.”

“I want you to end something.”

“What’s different about this one? A lazy eye? Does he walk with a limp?”

“That’s not fair. Meet me tomorrow and I’ll show you. Please.”

“Where?”

“Bus 27, the Kensington route north. It stops near you.”

“I know it.”

“I’ll board that bus at the subway station at 9:30 AM. We’ll pass your stop at 10:02, and then his at 10:06.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Mil?”

“What?”

“Do you still have your gun?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I’ll see you there. Get some sleep.”

“Goodbye Sonya.”

He had no intention of killing anyone. He would humor Sonya, follow her victim as they used to do, but once cornered, he would force a conversation. He’d prove to Sonya, and more importantly to himself, that her targets were regular people. What then? Would he turn himself in? Certainly he deserved punishment, but could he bring himself to implicate Sonya? No.

#

Miller waited beneath the harsh morning blaze, an antique man with an empty antique gun stuffed haphazardly into a raincoat pocket. He had dressed warmly on a scorching day due to a slight chance of precipitation, and was now soaked by sweat instead of rain. Once he’d been a warrior. Fearless. Now he felt ridiculous, a retired veteran of an imaginary war. He choked on thick exhaust as the 27 swung up to the curb.

The driver, wired to a miniature radio by matching ear buds, grunted but didn’t bother to look up when Miller flashed his pass. Once Mil passed, the driver’s thumbs continued to assault the steering wheel to a monotonous urban beat.

“Mil!”

He had expected to wade through a crowd of strange faces to pinpoint (and recognize) Sonya, but the two old friends had the bus to themselves. His voice caught when he saw her.

“I, uh ... ”

“I, uh! Same old Mil. You look terrible.”

“And you’re still beautiful.” Damn, that sounded cheesy. I never could talk to her.

“Oh, there’s no need for that.” It was true, though. She’d braided her lustrous red hair into a long tail without even a hint of grey. Freckles still adorned the cheeks beneath focused cerulean eyes. Her skin was age marked, but the lines enhanced her majestic image. Her single flaw was a small device residing in her ear.

Miller took the seat next to her, on the side of her hearing aid. He raised his voice when he spoke. “I thought you--“

“I can hear you just fine with my aid, there’s no need to yell at me.” She smiled.

“You said you had others to help you with your work. Why are you asking me again?”

“Jack isn’t with me anymore.”

“Jack?”

“He died.”

“I’m sorry, were you--“

“Yes.”

“Kids?”

“Two. Jodie and Aaron. I’d like you to meet them, they’ve certainly heard a lot of old stories about you, but they both live in Redwater now. How about you? Surely you have a family?”

“No, I never found anyone.”

“Mil, that’s horrible. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I’ve been busy, haven’t had the time.”

“Busy with what?”

“Thinking, I suppose.”

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go with all that guilt. But that’s why we’re here. Did you bring the gun?”

“Sonya!”

“Oh, he can’t hear us. Did you?”

“Yes.” He patted his pocket.

“You’ll see. There’s no doubt this time. You’ve never seen anything like this before. Two more streets, now. He’s at that stop every weekday.”

“How long have you been following him?” Miller could never rationalize the fact that she could become more obsessed with strangers than with the people closest to her.

“A couple of weeks now. I know where he works, too.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want you to be scared, Mil. It’s going to get really extreme when he boards the bus. I need you to pretend that you’re used to it. Wait--there he is! Do you see him?”

The scrawny man approaching the bus stop appeared to be a teenager. He wore a tattered leather jacket, originally black, but now so cluttered with slogan pins and rock patches that it barely resembled clothing. A dark hood extended from another jacket beneath and covered the top half of his face. His baggy jeans showed gaping holes where knees should have been.

“He’s a looker isn’t he?” Sonya asked.

“He’s probably just a confused kid.”

“No, he’s not a kid. I’ve seen his face.”

The hood boarded the 27 without acknowledging the driver. Wincing, the driver adjusted the volume of his radio. The hood dumped himself into one of the reserved handicap seats near the bus’ front and casually slid back into his seat, arms and legs extended. He seemed uncomfortable, plagued by nervous tics. A junkie?

“Looks human to me,” said Miller. There was no reply.

Sonya’s head lolled and her eyes showed only white. She twitched violently, her quaking much more violent than the hood’s. Miller had seen her do this before, but never so severe.

“You see, M-mil?”

She’s faking this. It’s part of her fantasy.

“You think he’s doing this to you?” he asked, careful to keep his volume lower than the bus’ engine

“Yesss.” Two crimson lines now connected nostrils to lips.

The hood turned towards them. “Lady, you do this every day. Why don’t you go see a fucking doctor?”

“T-tell him I’ll be f-fine, Mil.”

“She’ll be fine,” said Miller, “It will pass.”

The convulsions stayed strong until the hood exited the bus, close the end of the route. Once they were mobile again, Sonya immediately sat up. She fished for a tissue in her purse and dabbed her face.

“Do you believe me now, Mil? See how strong he is?”

“Sonya, I think you need to--“

“This is where we get off. We’ll need to head back a couple blocks, he works at that thrift store we passed.”

“And then what?”

She just stared at him, puzzled.


#
Hands of Help was a squat, uncomfortable building wedged tightly between two government housing projects. Its windows displayed equal parts graffiti and advertising. Statements like Paperbacks: Two for One, Furniture Blowout, and Fuck Your Mother lured in potential buyers. Miller and Sonya found a small span of window between sale stickers thin enough to mask their presence while they spied on the hood.

There were three people in the thrift store, each of them uniquely bizarre. The hood remained hooded, even indoors. He kept shifting positions, entirely too animated. Miller guessed the man was eager for a fix.

The intruders couldn’t hear the conversation, but a muscular dwarf was clearly addressing their target. The smaller man waved his stunted arms about to enhance whatever point he was making, and the hood replied with defiant gestures. The dwarf seemed sick, despite his physique, his skin too milky and his eyes glazed. The dealer’s second in command, thought Miller, and probably a junkie as well. Why hire a dwarf as your enforcer?

The third man seemed uninterested in the conversation. Instead, he paced the perimeter of the shop, knocking on walls, examining floor tiles, and studying the ceiling. He wore a charcoal suit and checkered tie. Miller attempted to construct the third man's story. He's definitely the dealer, and he's searching for a hidden stash. He's ordered the dwarf to keep the hood busy while he has a look around. These are dangerous men, all three of them.

There was a moment of tension when the dwarf pointed a thick finger at the hood. The hood raised his arms, hands pulled into fists and teeth bared. The dealer, however, calmly interrupted them, spoke a few words to each, and then headed for the front door. Miller and Sonya scuttled behind a van.

“Watch for traffic,” said Miller.

Despite protests from his various joints, Miller slowly lowered himself to the asphalt and peered beneath the vehicle. I hope this isn’t your van, thought Miller.

As the two strange men exited the thrift store, Miller noticed that the dealer wore no shoes. Barefoot, he began to stride away from the shop despite the heated sidewalk. Miller felt the heat on his palms even in the van’s shade. The dwarf stopped dangerously close to Sonya.

“Can you smell that?” asked the dwarf. He tilted his head back and put his full body into an exaggerated sniff.

“Smell what?”

“Old people. Smells like aspirin and urine.”

“They know we’re here. Did they see us in the window? Sonya--I don’t have any bullets …Sonya?”

Slumped against the van, Sonya convulsed and struggled for air. Miller pulled her into his arms.

The dealer spoke again, this time loudly, “You really don’t want to go in there, grandpa. Houl’s not big on company. Short temper, too.”

“These two are even stronger, Mil. Too strong. I can’t breathe.”

“Hold on, I’m going to move you.”

“Wait. They’re gone. They’re gone now.”

“You’re OK?”

“I’m OK.”

“We should leave, then. The bus should be back soon.”

“Leave? No, Mil. I need to prove this to you.”

“I’ll prove it to myself, then. You wait here.”

“But you have no bullets!”

“We’re going to have a talk. That’s all.”

“You don’t know what you’re--“

“Wait here!”

Miller walked straight into Hands of Help like any other customer. The door chimed as it swung.

“We’re closed,” said the hood.

“Oh, I didn’t see a sign. Maybe we could talk for a minute?”

“We’re closed, old man.”

“Listen, Houl is it? My friend is convinced that--“

“How do you know about Houl?” Rage replaced apathy. The hood clutched a carving knife from a kitchen bin at his side.

“Hey, wait a minute. I just want to--“

“You were with the sick woman! Who sent you?” He traced erratic arcs in the air with the blade’s tip.

Miller drew his gun. He pointed it at the hood’s forehead. Forty years ago, he could have nailed the shot from across the room. Forty years ago, the gun would have been loaded. “Back off! Now. I just want to talk.”

“Oh, we can talk. I like to talk.” The last word of the hood’s statement caused a ripple in the air around his face. The word had been spoken with thousands of voices in harmony. Soon, his breath was visible, though the store was uncomfortably hot. No, not his breath. It’s something else.

The hood’s body began to vibrate; irregular twitches overtook him first, then pushed into a rhythmic wave. The man-sized blur strode slowly towards Miller, toppling shelves of second-hand records, pulverizing old ceramics, even cracking the very foundations of Hands of Help. The building’s screams, however, were muted by the hood’s own cacophony. The weapons of the duel had changed. The junkie’s knife twisted like rope and fell to the floor. Miller mimicked him, dropping his useless firearm. The aural assault loosened the old man’s muscles and his legs failed him. He could feel his tissues tearing inside but he wasn’t sure if he was actually crying out. The horrible sound seeped into his mind, past his hands, even as they clasped tightly around his ears. The noise was crippling, he could barely remain conscious. This is it, Miller. At least you know.

A new figure entered the building. Sonya. Miller tried to warn her to run, but his voice was impotent. She held her hearing aid in front of her like some holy relic. It screamed feedback.

Though his shape was nearly gone, the hood fell upon his ghost limbs. He rocked in pain.

At first it seemed that Sonya was waving the device in defiance, but Miller soon realized it was pulling her forward. She pointed with her free arm and spoke, but her words were lost in the chaos.

Coils of substance stripped from the hood as they were tugged towards the tiny device. First, sheets of skin danced through the air, but soon muscle and organs joined the flow. Blurred limbs became stable for a moment before they were pulled free of their host. Drenched in the hood's fluids, Sonya hurled the hearing aid into the center of the storm. What remained of the the junkie’s mangled body spiraled into it. The thrift store dripped with remains. Sonya loomed over her fallen friend.

“Mil! Are you OK? I heard the sound outside and it hurt my ears, so I took out my hearing aid. I could feel it tugging at him before I even came in! Did you see that? Oh God, I’m so happy you saw that. You hang in there, Mil. I’m going to take care of you.”

Cradled in her bloodstained arms, Miller put his fists against his ears and then stretched open his hands to indicate he couldn’t hear. The old man smiled.