by Jeb Bohn
Herman pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to his friend before taking one for himself. “Where do you think they’re taking him?”
“Either deeper into the desert, which is bad.”
“Or?”
“Or they’re taking him to the feds, which is worse.” He reached down and tapped the folder in Herman’s hand. “That her blackmail file?”
“Indeed it is.” Herman pulled out a flash drive and held it up as he scanned the documents. “Complete with digital backup.”
The Tall Man held a hand out to Herman. “Thank you.”
Despite his confusion, Herman shook it.
“I saw the file in your bag. I don’t know exactly what’s in it, but you cared enough to get it. That goes a long way with me.” He turned, retrieving the folder and moving to the door.
“You’re leaving?”
“I can’t be here with the feds show up.”
“Where are you going to go?”
He held up the file folder.
“Is he the one that just saved our asses?”
“Yeah, he is.”
“In that case, thank him for me.”
He tipped his hat, turned, and disappeared into the desert eve.
Tilting his head upward, Herman stretched out his back; as his eyes moved back towards the floor he cursed himself. There sat his sack of armaments, an item he needed to move before the next round of company arrived. Yeah, they were all registered and legal but he really didn’t want to explain why he had such a stockpile in tow. Would it be better or worse if they found it in his car? Would they search his car?
This line of thought continued as he stowed the bag in his car, ceasing only when the whirr of the garage door broke the silence. A series of deep thumps followed as the facility went into full lockdown. Herman jumped when a loud click filled the air; his heart rate accelerated further when something fell two feet in front of him. Kneeling down, he grabbed a small, padded case. Inside was a collection of flash drives.
Schultz’s voice discharged through a series of loudspeakers; the delivery method gave it a tinny timbre that was devoid of humanity. “There’s enough there to keep you busy for the next six months.”
Herman walked to the side of the building, standing underneath an open window. “That’s great, Greg. What are you doing?”
“Nothing there is falsified, forced, or otherwise tainted; everything is verifiable and it’s more than enough to finish all this off.”
“Then I’ll be sure to put it to good use. Mind telling me why you sealed the building up?”
A light desert wind was the only sound for a few seconds; Herman found it both peaceful and ominous. When Schultz spoke again he eschewed the PA, opting to use the window. “This, is the logical conclusion. I’ve accomplished everything I set out to, now I’m going to captain this last stage properly.”
“This isn’t the Titanic, Greg. Use this information to plead your case, go on the run, do whatever you need to, but you don’t have to do this. There’s always an out.”
“This is the out, that’s how I designed it. Take care of yourself, Herman. You’ve got about two minutes to get to the main road, don’t waste it.” He closed the window and was gone.
“What happens in two minutes? Greg? Yeah, now’s the time to be cryptic.” Herman drew back and kicked the garage door, instantly regretting the decision. “And to break your foot.” He pressed the button to open the garage; the only response was a sound that reminded him of a buzzer on a game show. “Cue The Price is Right losing horn.”
“Sixty-seconds, Herman. Get in your car and get the hell out of here.”
He wanted to respond; ultimately, he knew there was no point. Schultz’s mind was made and he was going to end his mission and his life in one grand, final action. The man was unquestionably volatile and had, by all accounts, done some bad, bad things. Just the same, Herman was having a very hard time walking away when someone was about to end their own life. He couldn’t help but think about his own attempt and how close he had been. In a way, it sparked some slanted type of kinship; their situations were vastly different but had ultimately led each man to the same destination.
A shot rang out and a bullet buried itself in the ground less than five feet from Herman, leaving a tiny puff of dust. Another shot followed; then a third. There was no immediate threat of one hitting him and he realized that was the point. A fourth shot came, this one closer that the others. Herman ceded his ground and retreated into his car. He felt like a coward, leaving a troubled man to die by his own hand. He also knew that he had no chance of changing the outcome. It had been etched in stone and Herman had neither the time nor charisma to alter it.
Instead, he swung his car onto the service road and headed towards the highway, his eyes fixed on the building in his rearview.
◆◆◆
Gregory Albert Schultz sat on the floor, his back to the wall, knees splayed apart. His closed eyelids served as a screen upon which memories flickered and danced. His greatest regret was that he had spent so much of his life doing what he thought was expected of him. This course had brought him professional and financial success but had done so at a tremendous cost. He and Elizabeth had planned a prolonged vacation: local whisky in Ireland, porchetta and tiramisu in Italy, Gullfoss Waterfall and Lake Myvatn in Iceland. They were newly married and ready to see the world.
Then, as became custom, work got in the way. Intelligent and ambitious, Greg had been promoted within a month of the wedding. The higher salary was welcome; the increased hours and responsibilities less so. The once happy couple had slid into their thirties well heeled but seeing less of one another with each passing week. By the time Evan was born, they had resigned themselves to postponing their country-hopping until their son was older. When Isabel came along, they agreed that it would work best as a retirement trip.
The sabbatical that never was served as a snapshot of their lives; they had the money to do anything they wanted to though the time was never enough. He had often thought about quitting, moving on to another position with a more lenient schedule. The closest came on a trip to Disney World to celebrate Evan’s sixth birthday. His son had been a ravenous fan, his room littered with stuffed animals and toys that bore the likenesses of his favorite characters. The walls were adorned with posters, his bed decked out in a collage of cartoon heroes.
During the first night of their stay, Greg had received a call summoning him back to his Bermuda, Florida office. Convinced that he could handle the issue remotely, he opted to do so and stay with his family. When his boss refused, Greg had told him to go fuck himself and not to call him again. This was countered with the threat of being fired. Greg called the bluff, tendering his immediate resignation, effective immediately. Once the adrenaline wore off, he went into a panic. He had looked at his wife and children, sure that he had derailed their futures, and bid them farewell. He had saved his job but lost his self-respect, something he had only recently started to regain.
The problem was that his fragmented mind had inverted everything. It was akin to being behind the wheel of a car speeding towards a cliff, being cognizant enough to realize what was happening, yet unable to change the outcome. He had been hellbent on taking QNI down despite being incapable of doing so. By the time he realized that, he had become every bit as despicable as those he went after. That was unacceptable and needed to be rectified; this was as good a time as any.
While he never considered himself an atheist or agnostic, religion had never been a big factor in his life. As his breaths came with greater ease, Greg wondered what, if anything, he would meet with next. This thought turned his head into a dark abyss, one free of anxiety. He thought of his wife and kids and felt at peace for the first time since his childhood. The work was over; now was his time for the long sleep. His mental projector fluttered and went dark as the bomb’s intense heat turned him to ash.
He never felt a thing.
◆◆◆
Her
man stood at the rear of his car, parked on the sandy shoulder near the intersection at State Route 78, and waited. For a moment he thought that Schultz had changed his mind or that the bomb was a dud. He had moved to the open door when the desert took on a celestial glow, freezing him in place. There was an eerie period of silence before the sound reached him; the temporary calm made the entire scene unreal. That facade was shattered when the blast wave stuck, buffeting him with sand and driving him to the ground.
He tried to push himself up only to find that his lungs were unable to draw in enough oxygen. Exhausted, he allowed himself to collapse, a thin trickle of drool oozing onto the sand. The thought crossed his mind that, had he been smoking, he would have choked to death. A fit of laughter took hold and it felt good until it turned into a spell of ragged coughing. As his head cleared, he realized how close he was to crying despite his spirits being elevated by his giggling outburst.
“Oh well.” He retrieved his cell phone, dialing Walt’s number.
“This mean you’re not dead?”
“Body’s as good as it ever was, mind is fucked, and, well, let’s just say rest in peace to my spirit.”
“You guys still at the plant?”
“There is no plant and it’s just me. Renegade is off on another adventure.”
“What about Schultz and what’s her name?”
“Dead and dead.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think these two are gonna be rising again.”
“What about Wright?”
“Walt, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Also, I’m too tired to tell you, so you’re shit out of luck.”
“What’s next?”
“The Canes have a homestand coming up so I’ll spend a week and a half in Raleigh, watch a lot of hockey, and drink a lot of bourbon. Oh, did you mean work?”
“I did.”
“Schultz gave me a file the size of War and Peace to look over, I’m sure there’s enough there for a novel.”
“Any of it you’d like to share?”
“Christ, Walt, I haven’t even looked at it yet.” He took a deep breath, seeking to stem his rising anger. None of this was Walt’s doing. Wow, look at that, sincerely realizing you’re being a dick and stopping. That’s personal growth. “I’ll send copies to you once I get settled.”
“Settled? Are you planning to stay out there?”
“Not a chance in hell. Once my hockey holiday is over, I’m renting a house on the Outer Banks. I’ll fax those files over but don’t you fucking call me. I’m taking a vacation and I don’t intend to be bothered. I’ll give my god damned phone a Viking funeral if need be.”
“Sounds good. Hey, did you hear about what happe—”
“Not tonight, Walt.” Herman turned his phone off before returning it to his pocket, swapping it for a pack of cigarettes. He smacked it against his palm a few times, nearly putting it back in his pocket before pulling one out and lighting up. Easing himself onto the hood, he laid back and surveyed the night sky, losing himself amongst the endless stars as he waited for the calvary to arrive.
Also by the author:
Bermuda
Herman Ingram Book One
Random Synapse Misfire, Vol. One
A horror anthology novella
Random Synapse Misfire, Vol. Two
A horror anthology novella
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