Hell Chose Me

by Angel Luis Colón

  I hear a boom. Turn around and see a black plume of smoke rise a block away on East 9th. There’s the distraction, three minutes early. People scream and scramble away from the smoke, panic in their eyes. That 9/11 PTSD ain’t necessarily all gone—sort of counting on it. I hear my phone chirp from inside my jacket. Imagine it’s a clever little quip from Danny.

  The first mook’s buddy comes around the back of their SUV, spots me, and goes for his piece. I get to him before he can tag me. Crack his face open with the butt of my shotgun. Turn in time to nail an undercover officer posing as a bum in the chest as he screams for us to freeze. There’s a jagged rock in my gut. Feels like the old days in Ireland. Thankfully, I haven’t shed too much blood.

  Ayah, she’s been busier than I have. By the time I’m on the other side of the second SUV, there are two bodies on the sidewalk. Alive, but bleeding like hell. Small favor to me, I guess. She runs to the front of the first SUV and pulls her piece. Unloads her clip through the windshield. Looks to me.

  “I got the rear entrance. Kept two alive.” She jogs off.

  I sprint toward the building. A few steps from the entrance and there’s a pair of uniformed officers—wonderful. No time to reload the shotgun. I draw the cattle prod, turn it on and jam the business end into the chest of the first officer to reach me. The reaction is immediate; he jerks around like a stroke victim and falls down the entrance steps. The second officer gets shocked on the left flank. He handles it like a champ, so I give him another dose. He stumbles back and over the stair railing.

  Good call on the cattle prod, Danny.

  I snatch up the shotgun and reload. I hear screams behind me. Ignore them and get into the building. Rush to the elevators and catch the first one—one of those old-style pre-war types that can’t hold more than three people at once. I slap the third floor and fourth floor buttons. Keep the shotgun at the ready. When I arrive, not a soul is there. I head over to the stairwell marked “A” and take the single flight to the fourth floor. I creep the door open and there’s three idiots waiting for the elevator, guns trained. There’s no other choice now—it’s light violence or severe violence. I choose the former. Fire off a beanbag at the first officers head. Seems to take him out. The second gets the same as he turns to me. I catch him on the chin. Hear a crack and he’s down. Probably did a little permanent damage there—sorry. The third manages to squeeze a few rounds my way, but the Kevlar keeps me from getting perished. I bound over and bury the shotgun into his gut and catch him right on the jaw with a mean right hook. I hurry to the apartment door marked 454.

  I stare at the door, frozen, my shotgun aimed down. My breathing starts to come in quick bursts. My heart rate’s through the roof. I remember standing at a door like this so many years before. That time, I went through and brought hell into my life. What now? What happens when I go through here? What kind of awfulness do I bring on my head once I pass this threshold?

  I hear footsteps and turn expecting Ayah. Instead, it’s Liam. He’s so slight, but the shadows around him occupy the floor and the spaces between. The dark eats the light and the warmth. He’s with me—eyes hollow and mouth open to expose a cold, never-ending darkness. I smell ozone. Hear a million tiny wings breaking against the cold air. I can hear that flash bang, the screams of a young mother—mourning her son with all her might.

  “…baby killer…” Liam rasps. His voice is muddled and distorted beyond anything that sounds human.

  “No…it wasn’t my fault.” I wipe the sweat from my brow. How am I sweating if it’s so cold? I can’t keep a grip on the shotgun. I’m leaning against the wall nearest the door to the apartment and I can’t remember when I decided to take a rest. There’s that buzzing again. My hair’s standing on end.

  “…baby killer…” Again, with feeling.

  I don’t have much time. I push myself off the wall and immediately keel over. Empty what’s left of my last meal all over the floor and the lower part of the apartment door. I stagger back and try to compose myself, but there’s this fluttering in my chest I can’t shake. I feel like any minute something will jump into me, fill me up, and seal me away. As if every breath I take I’m pushing a thousand-pound weight up and down my diaphragm. Find the strength to straighten up and compose myself. Swallow a gulp of air and nearly vomit again, but I handle it. I load up the shotgun with the only real shells I brought and blow out the lock and the dead bolt. No return fire. He’s alone. Paulie’s alone and there’s no resistance and I’ve never been so scared in my life.

  Another thump. I spin around, shotgun at the ready. Ayah emerges from stairwell B.

  I hold a hand up. Bring out the burner phone and group text: I’m here. Fall back. I watch her. My eyes fall to her blade, glossy with blood. The hem of her pants legs are covered in gore.

  Ayah checks the text and scrunches her face. Shakes her head. She looks at the leavings behind me and frowns.

  “Go,” I say. I point my shotgun at her head. I feel like a piece of shit pulling this, but this has always been my problem to solve. No more running, no more looking for someone else to solve it for me. Even if I am terrified.

  Ayah pulls her pistol from behind her and steadies it at my head. “Don’t be an idiot,” she says.

  “We’re done. Tell Danny and Ian to run.”

  “And what about you?”

  I close my eyes a moment, snap them back open. What the hell is wrong with me—she’s got a gun aimed at me. No slacking. “I died, I ran, who cares? I’ll handle this and you can all do whatever the hell you want.”

  Ayah leans her head to the side. There’s noise coming from downstairs. “You’re an idiot, Walsh.” She turns and runs back into the stairwell. I hear gunfire and then silence. This waste of time ended up costing more lives.

  Fine, I can’t keep this bullshit up. This needs to end. I turn back to the apartment door and kick it open; keep my stance sidelong to make myself a smaller target. The apartment’s dark. I smell stale cigar smoke. I reload my shotgun with beanbag shells and take aim into the dark. I hear my heart pounding in my ears. In between each beat, Liam’s voice grows louder behind me. It’s as if he’s urging me on—pushing me into the ink ahead. I see the dust stir at my feet.

  There’s a spark in the center of the black. The flame from a gold Zippo illuminates the small space Paulie takes up. He puffs a cigar to life and gives me a sad smile. “Come on in, Bryan.”

  28

  “Is this a social call?” Paulie blows thick smoke from his lips. The smell reminds me of hickory—like a barbecue pit in between his fingers. He looks tired. His skin’s pale, eyes sunken. Shit, he looks like he’s even dropped a few pounds.

  My initial impulse is to pull the trigger, but I hold that back. Concentrate on getting my breathing back to normal. Try to ignore the sweat rolling down my temples and my chin. Can’t imagine what I must look like to Paulie. At least my hands have gone steady and my stomach stopped complaining.

  “Something like a social call, sure.” I raise the Remington level with his chest. Aim down the sight. The urge to nail him between the eyes is strong. It would be a terrible decision. Even with the beanbag, at this range I’d probably crack his skull—maybe give the bastard an embolism. I spot a light switch on the wall to my right. Flip it on and close the door behind me. “Anyone else in here?” I’m relieved my voice is still strong.

  He shakes his head. Keeps that smile on his face. “This is a stupid move, Bryan. A very stupid move.”

  “Not as stupid as passing me off as a rat to a geriatric psycho.”

  He shrugs. “You were getting expensive—made a business decision. You know how that all works.”

  The more I think about it, the more I realize the whole “business” excuse is exactly that, a bullshit excuse. Of course, there’s a personal angle. A stranger, sure, that can be business. Someone you’ve known for more than half your life—a good chunk of that working with and making a profit—no, that’s persona
l as hell.

  “So you play both sides, but going with the feds isn’t keeping you in business.” I’m fit to drive this shotgun’s stock into the fat bastard’s face until I cave it in. Those are bad thoughts. I tell myself to keep it together. I need to hold the anger in. The monster can stay in the damn cage for once.

  He points the business end of the cigar at me. It glows red—black and gray ash layered within the embers. “Money finds a way. Not like I fell head first into this mess. I went to these boys myself. Gave them everything from the jump.”

  That’s surprising. I’d imagined Paulie was picked up on something stupid: unpaid parking tickets or a prostitution charge. “I don’t get it. Why would you flip for nothing?”

  He bites back down on his cigar. Pockets a cigar cutter he was holding in the other hand. “Got my nut squirreled away already. Time is ripe to walk away. Told ya, I never saw myself in this business.”

  “So, this was about retirement?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Then why fuck all of us?”

  “Your uncle’s got dementia, but he’s predictable. Figured he’d clean house—cut all connections—if he was pushed enough.”

  He’s smarter than he looks. Always has been. “Including anything you’d need to clean up. You feed him to the authorities and get yourself immunity, a little time in witness protection…”

  “You’re on the right track.”

  “So why not leave now?”

  Paulie arches a brow. “Well, that shotgun is keeping my ass put.” He looks over his shoulder. “Though, yeah, they left me here all on my lonesome.”

  “That’s stupid of them.”

  “They trust me. I’ve been an amazing informant. More than cooperative.”

  “Like I said: stupid.”

  Paulie laughs. He sits down in a shitty lawn chair. I hear the plastic creak as he settles into it. The parts of the room that remain in shadow feel alive. They swell with the rhythm of his movement. They’re restless, like junkyard dogs on a short chain. I shift my weight to another leg. My shoulders are beginning to feel sore. I don’t need distractions right now. I see dark specks at the corners of my eyes. Hear what sounds like chainsaws in the distance.

  “So, what now? You shoot me? That ends nothing, you know that, right?” Paulie ashes his cigar on the floor. Rubs his expensive soles over the mess and grinds it into the wood floor. “This was a mistake to come here.”

  “You keep saying that, but I’m beginning to think it wasn’t.” I step forward. “And I ain’t here to kill you.” Lower the shotgun. There’s a wail coming from the walls. Something tickles my back and legs. I hear sirens outside. I take a long breath and let it out. Point to the door behind me with the barrel of the shotgun. “Go. We cleared the rear. You make a run for it now, you can get to your money and your escape plan before anyone can catch up.”

  Paulie gives me the stink-eye. “I’m supposed to believe that?”

  I shrug off a sharp pain that runs from my shoulders to my back. “You believe what you need. Only ammo I got is beanbag shells. Couldn’t kill you with this unless I clocked you upside the head a few times with it.”

  He crosses his legs, leans back. No sign he’s ready to leave. “What about you?”

  “What got you so concerned about my well-being all of a sudden?”

  Shots ring outside. I hear yelling. Must be a full-blown firefight. My burner phone beeps. I ignore it. I focus on Paulie. Not the noise. Not the memories of my transgressions or that chill behind me. Liam’s standing beside me and screaming in silence. The edges around him are cracked and black on the inside. Reminds of the tip of that cigar without the heat.

  Paulie eyes the shades covering the window to his left. He looks to the door and back to me. I can read it; he’s not fond of the situation. “Sounds like all hell is breaking loose out there.” He shakes his head. “Nah, fuck off. I’m staying right here.” He wraps his fingers around the edges of the chair’s arms. “Anything happens, my babysitters will know it wasn’t my fault.”

  Something growls in the dark.

  Paulie leans forward. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He blows a thick stream of rank smoke my way. “Now’s not the time to be all whack-a-doo with me.”

  The growling cuts out. The ashes near Paulie’s feet kick up centimeters into the air and settle in a fine layer on the patent leather toes of his shoes.

  “…terrorist…”

  “What?” I look back and forth.

  “…coward…”

  More gunshots—closer this time. Paulie stands and edges toward the window. “Sean sent people.” Glass shatters in the other room. Paulie jumps near a foot in the air. “Fuck.” He’s on his feet. Turns around and jumps back to face me when he realizes he had his back to me. “Who else is with you?”

  “…baby killer…”

  The growl returns—louder. My head throbs, but I can’t tell if it’s the sound of my own heart or something coming for me, for us. I step back. Feel dizzy. Stomach is back to somersaulting like a goddamn trained monkey. I bring the shotgun back up, right between Paulie’s eyes. All I need to do is pull the trigger. Hurt him like he hurt me. “Nobody. Told you.” I point behind me. “Just go. Before it’s too late.” I can fight this; I can keep this from going the way it always goes. I can choose to not be the person I used to be.

  “Cut it out.” Paulie steps toward me and brushes the shotgun aside. Opens his mouth to say something else, but Ayah’s blade bursts from it instead of words. He lets out a sound between a moan and a cough. The blade splits into three and twists to a vertical position, ripping his lips and the surrounding flesh into a shredded mess. He stands on his toes and stretches his arms out. Fingers go into a wild frenzy of twitches. The blood falls in fat drops between his feet and down his pressed pants. The blades come back together and disappear into the inky black of his mouth. Paulie’s eyes roll into the back of his head and he falls to the floor face first. His left leg continues to kick out. Reminds me of a dying spider.

  Ayah stares at me, a frown on her face. She wipes the blade clean on her pants leg. “I’m not sorry.” She spits on Paulie’s corpse. The wad of phlegm lands flat on the collar of his suit jacket—stands out against the black sheen. She steps over him and reaches out to me with her good hand. “Let’s go.” The floorboards in the apartment vibrate. Another explosion? No, something else. I lose focus and my footing. Find it again, but my ears are ringing. My eyes feel like they might burst. I’m on my knees and dry heave—there’s nothing left to let out.

  When I find my composure again, I look to Ayah. Her lips are moving, but she’s drowned out by the ringing and the growl. The shadows bend at the corners and rush toward Paulie’s twitching corpse. The smell is overwhelming—like a dead animal on a hot day. Stings my nose and eyes, but I can’t look away. I can’t stop taking it in. I wait to see him, to see the newest source of my pain, but nothing comes. Liam still stands in silence, his shoulder slack and head held low.

  Ayah’s out of focus—muted. Behind me there’s a crash. She turns and runs into the darkness. I feel a sharp pain at the back of my legs and fall to my knees. Another shock to my arms and the shotgun falls to the floor. There’s movement all around me. Hands grab at me, pull my arms to cross behind me. Liam finally straightens up and smiles. Not that dark smile I’m used to, but something sincere—kind. His face is soft and clean.

  “Please don’t leave…” he says it so soft, above a whisper, but I can hear it so clearly.

  My wrists go cold and hot at the same time. There’s pressure at the back of my head and I hit the ground—my cheek bouncing off the wood floor. Try to turn my head to watch the rest of what’s happening around me. I close my eyes and hold my breath. The temperature in the room’s gone down to below freezing.

  I’m pulled to my feet. Hear the scuffle of a few dozen shoes. Someone’s talking to me about remaining silent, about lawyers and rights. Hands dig i
n my pockets, under my arms, and between my legs. My belt is slipped off and the Kevlar vest is torn off me. I take a sharp breath when I feel a shock of needle pain on my side near where the Kevlar held a bullet off from playing in my gut. Must have broken a few ribs. I open my eyes and see Paulie’s body—still as the shadows in the corners of the room. The lower part of his face shredded apart. Looks like a wet, red paper bag. His tongue—bisected—is hanging limp from the side of the wound.

  “Are we done?” I ask the owner of the hands holding me up.

  “Shut the fuck up.” It’s a uniformed officer. One of the ones I got outside. He takes me by the crook of the arm and turns me around. “Get walking or we roll you out on a fucking gurney.” He gives me a rough shove.

  I shuffle forward. Search for a sign—any sign—that they’re still here. The lights flicker, and everyone stops what they’re doing. A breath goes by. The lights stay on. The officer leads me out of the apartment. There’s an open elevator waiting. He shoves me into the arms of two irate men in nice, tailored suits. I can only assume they’re agents from some shady organization. They both grimace and each take me by an arm. Silence all around us save for the hum and occasional thump as we pass another floor. My head’s still swimming; feel like I’ve woken up from a long bout of terrible sleep.

  “So who gets to take me in?” My mouth feels like it’s lined with sandpaper. “Interpol? A federal agency?”

  “Shut up,” the special agent on my right says.

  “Sorry.” I stare at my feet. See I’ve trailed Paulie’s blood in with me by the faint, red footprints on the laminate floor. I still smell the stink of him. It’s all physical, though. There’s no sense of dread, no feeling as if he’s at the periphery of my vision. Paulie deserved to die, and maybe that’s all it takes for me. It wasn’t my goal to see his life taken away, but for once, I didn’t do it. No, Ayah said herself. She wasn’t sorry; she’d own that weight for me. Whether she knew it or not. In a lot of ways, it’s the best punishment for Paulie. He’ll be forgotten—completely.