city_limits_npc (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} city_limits_npc) wrote,@ 2009-04-09 08:47:00 |
 |
|||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Counting Back From Ten
The Collector’s station wagon was dark green with wooden panels on the sides. When it was bought used from a family in Indiana, it had two rows of seats and a space in the back for storing groceries and a baby stroller. These days, the back seats were gone and the windows were tinted a dark bluish color, so that no one could see the malformed faces of men crouched in there, silent passengers holding onto straps that hung from the ceiling, gripping tighter whenever the car hit a bump. Today, it pulled to a stop on a residential street. The brakes made a terrible squealing noise, like swine being herded into a cramped place, and as the engine idled, hot, gray exhaust puffed from the tailpipe.
The radio inside the station wagon had a dial and an orange needle that crept back and forth, picking out songs from static. The Collector tuned it to a station that played the Carpenters and Simon and Garfunkel. Only one speaker worked; the others fizzled and popped, a percussive accompaniment keeping time with the music. Karen Carpenter’s vocals were a faraway lullaby when he slowly bent down between the seats and retrieved a leather case from the floorboard. Inside it, there was a tranquilizer gun. He loaded the darts with swollen, arthritic fingers, taking his time because if dropped, the darts could be lost under the seats.
A trio of school-aged kids walked by wearing backpacks and lightweight coats, their conversation a cacophony of youthful voices. Their bus was a yellow-orange hulk pulling away in the rearview mirror. The Collector didn’t look up from his tedious task of loading the gun, but in the back, his assistants watched the children with vacant eyes. After a time, he put on his hat and tugged the brim low over his forehead. He kept the gun in his lap.
The slayer came out of the brick apartment building just after 4pm. She had a cigarette and a pile of mail in her hand, and she was sorting through the envelopes, checking to make sure they had addresses and stamps, that the seals weren’t too loose. She wore a sweatshirt, jeans, and unlaced boots, her hair down and un-brushed, like she had just gotten out of bed. As she stood at the blue post office box making her deposit, a curly-cued tail of smoke lifted away from her cigarette.
The Collector rolled down his passenger window and lifted the gun. He fired. The dart would’ve struck her neck, but she reached up to touch her hair.
Rhiannon felt a sharp sting in the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. Her reflexes were quick and she knocked it out of her skin, almost before knowing what had hit her. The tiny dart bounced in the gutter, a nearly inaudible ping-ping on concrete. Her mail fluttered out of her hands like a flock of birds.
She touched the blood beading up from the puncture and looked around, scanning for danger, only heartbeats passing by before numbness spread into her palm. The world looked wobbly, like the air had turned to gel and was being shaken. Too late she saw the wagon with a rolled-down window, the gun trained on her, the man in a hat.
Making a last-ditch effort for cover, she spun and crouched down behind the mail box, putting her back against the metal. It was cold and damp from earlier rain and it soaked through her sweatshirt. Rhiannon heard the car begin to roll. “Oh god.” She was breathing hard and looking up the walkway to her building, trying to decide if he could hit a moving target, and if her legs (which were starting to feel like they weren’t attached to her) could run. Her pulse beat in her ears; each squeeze of her heart pushed the tranquilizer through her system.
She began to feel warm and sleepy. An old memory resurfaced of having her tonsils removed when she was eight. There was a needle in her hand, a bag drip-dripping its clear anesthesia. ‘Count back from ten,’ the woman said. Rhiannon’s voice was tentative.
She focused on the front door, though her field of vision was getting smaller and smaller. She pulled herself out of the squat and began to move, but it was just like all the dreams she had of running through molasses, where she simply couldn’t make her arms and legs pump fast enough. By the time she counted to four, there were enormous hands slipping under her arms and lifting her up. She was weightless.
The Collector’s station wagon was dark green with wooden panels on the sides. When it was bought used from a family in Indiana, it had two rows of seats and a space in the back for storing groceries and a baby stroller. These days, the back seats were gone and the windows were tinted a dark bluish color, so that no one could see the malformed faces of men crouched in there, silent passengers holding onto straps that hung from the ceiling, gripping tighter whenever the car hit a bump. Today, it pulled to a stop on a residential street. The brakes made a terrible squealing noise, like swine being herded into a cramped place, and as the engine idled, hot, gray exhaust puffed from the tailpipe.
The radio inside the station wagon had a dial and an orange needle that crept back and forth, picking out songs from static. The Collector tuned it to a station that played the Carpenters and Simon and Garfunkel. Only one speaker worked; the others fizzled and popped, a percussive accompaniment keeping time with the music. Karen Carpenter’s vocals were a faraway lullaby when he slowly bent down between the seats and retrieved a leather case from the floorboard. Inside it, there was a tranquilizer gun. He loaded the darts with swollen, arthritic fingers, taking his time because if dropped, the darts could be lost under the seats.
A trio of school-aged kids walked by wearing backpacks and lightweight coats, their conversation a cacophony of youthful voices. Their bus was a yellow-orange hulk pulling away in the rearview mirror. The Collector didn’t look up from his tedious task of loading the gun, but in the back, his assistants watched the children with vacant eyes. After a time, he put on his hat and tugged the brim low over his forehead. He kept the gun in his lap.
The slayer came out of the brick apartment building just after 4pm. She had a cigarette and a pile of mail in her hand, and she was sorting through the envelopes, checking to make sure they had addresses and stamps, that the seals weren’t too loose. She wore a sweatshirt, jeans, and unlaced boots, her hair down and un-brushed, like she had just gotten out of bed. As she stood at the blue post office box making her deposit, a curly-cued tail of smoke lifted away from her cigarette.
The Collector rolled down his passenger window and lifted the gun. He fired. The dart would’ve struck her neck, but she reached up to touch her hair.
Rhiannon felt a sharp sting in the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. Her reflexes were quick and she knocked it out of her skin, almost before knowing what had hit her. The tiny dart bounced in the gutter, a nearly inaudible ping-ping on concrete. Her mail fluttered out of her hands like a flock of birds.
She touched the blood beading up from the puncture and looked around, scanning for danger, only heartbeats passing by before numbness spread into her palm. The world looked wobbly, like the air had turned to gel and was being shaken. Too late she saw the wagon with a rolled-down window, the gun trained on her, the man in a hat.
Making a last-ditch effort for cover, she spun and crouched down behind the mail box, putting her back against the metal. It was cold and damp from earlier rain and it soaked through her sweatshirt. Rhiannon heard the car begin to roll. “Oh god.” She was breathing hard and looking up the walkway to her building, trying to decide if he could hit a moving target, and if her legs (which were starting to feel like they weren’t attached to her) could run. Her pulse beat in her ears; each squeeze of her heart pushed the tranquilizer through her system.
She began to feel warm and sleepy. An old memory resurfaced of having her tonsils removed when she was eight. There was a needle in her hand, a bag drip-dripping its clear anesthesia. ‘Count back from ten,’ the woman said. Rhiannon’s voice was tentative.
She focused on the front door, though her field of vision was getting smaller and smaller. She pulled herself out of the squat and began to move, but it was just like all the dreams she had of running through molasses, where she simply couldn’t make her arms and legs pump fast enough. By the time she counted to four, there were enormous hands slipping under her arms and lifting her up. She was weightless.