Still, he struggled. Even with his paycheck, he couldn't afford the apartment. He was going to be homeless again, and in the winter, he would likely die. Something needed to change.
Max made his way through the prison by guard escort to his cell, as he had been promised. Though he suffered through the night, every ailment that plagued his body showed no symptoms in the morning.
Less than a week later, a letter came in from his cousin. It was short and formal but it explained that his cousin had pulled some strings for him so that his friend, a senator, could write him a pardon letter. It was late coming, his cousin apologized for, but he explained that his friend was a busy man and this was a remarkable favor he was doing for them. He would be coming to pick Max up the following week, once the pardon was processed.
The pardon processed that week and Max was a free man. He left the prison in the same burgundy suit and cowboy boots that he was in during his arrest.
A funny looking short man with curly hair like Gene Wilder approached Andy at the bar doors.
“You don’t look like a bouncer,” the man told Andy.
Andy peered down at the man. There was a look on his face as if he smelled something foul. Perhaps it was the vomit in the corner that he was procrastinating cleaning. Maybe it was the life he had that made him scowl. He chose to ignore the funny man and resume his hawk-like watch of the dance floor.
A wad of money appeared in the funny man's hand. He looked up at Andy with a stern face, twinkle in his eye nonetheless. “Care to make twenty-five-thousand dollars?” he asked.
Max and his cousin drove to the apartment they were to share in the city. It looked much different than Max remembered seeing it, as if his cousin now had a woman living in the house. Maybe his styles just changed. He was grateful, though. His cousin gave him a spacious room in the house, where he stood listlessly.
“I know it's been a while,” his cousin started. “I know it's hard, but we have to start somewhere.”
“No,” Max said, trying to put his cousin's mind at ease. “It's great. I owe you everything.”
There was a pause.
“There was a note waiting for you when we arrived. It said to have you meet someone at the pond as soon as you got here. Looks like a woman's handwriting,” his cousin smiled at him. Happiness was on his face as he watched Max realize what that meant. He knew where to go.
“Thanks,” Max replied, dismissing his duty of unpacking for a later time. “Thank you so much.”
Max jogged through the streets. Nothing could fill his heart more than his desire to be back in Justine's arms. She had waited for him. She was the reason he was able to continue. The reason he still dreamed of freedom every night of agony within that prison. He let his feet lead him like hounds, sure of where they were going. He didn't even need to think about where he was walking. It was in his soul. He walked to his favorite little park in the city, a place he and Justine had made their own. It wasn't far from his cousin's home, devoid of all other people.
The pond that this park was home to was an old friend of his. Many of the first confused nights within the city were spent here, wondering if he could be great even though his parents didn't think he could. He would come here and stare at the still waters. It was a meditation for him, the only way he could ever pacify his internal battles and silence the shouting thoughts. Put his heart to ease.
Here, the blade that the whole world was scarred by balanced perfectly. It could not harm here.
Max slipped out of his cowboy boots and felt the sensation of lush summer grass under his feet as he walked to the edge of the water. He looked around in the dark, watching for Justine's appearance. He dipped a toe into the water. He smiled to himself as the feeling of the cool waters reminded him of peace. It flashed back all the horrible memories he had locked inside of himself, kissed him on the head, and reminded him that all things were small in comparison to this feeling. A free man. At last.
A shot rang out through the night and Max fell forward into the pond. The bullet had tunneled clean through his chest, draining his matter into the warm waters.
Still, his last thought echoed in his head, I am at peace.
One shot was all it took for Andy Winter to become a killer. It dropped the man he was hired to kill like a bird from a nest. With his task complete, he felt no need to stick around. He fled the scene fast, disappearing into the night.
Andy discovered the name of his target the next morning on the local news channel. “Local Maxwell Shepard was shot and killed late last night during what witnesses say was a mugging-gone-wrong.” Andy clicked the television set off in horror, bringing his hand up to his mouth. He trembled as he absorbed the news. He broke down and cried, his body heaving violently. There was no word that Max was found at the park and no evidence existed that Andy was involved. But he knew. He knew what he had done.
He had killed Max. He had killed his best friend.
-Chapter Twelve-
Verdict
The past decade played in Andy's head like a montage. When he first learned of Max's death and his role in it, he had sunk into catastrophic depression. Every day following the news felt surreal and scripted, as though the hallucinations of a degenerating mind. He didn't leave his bed for anything but food and bathroom breaks, but even then he ate so little. Guilt tore down his appetite and made every bite taste like ashes. My best friend is dead, he reminded himself in the mornings. He's dead and I killed him.
He couldn't believe it was true. The concept blurred in his head and he felt dumb and confused if he thought about it for too long. After months of lamenting, the fact became unlearned for him. It always lingered in the back of his skull, of course, but soon the bills were due again and the memory of Max had been trained out of him. He was ready for another job.
Andy almost refused to call his shady employers back when they first contacted him after Max's death. He thought on it for over a week. He meditated on the moral implications. But something about him had changed. As if a spring in his machine of reason had broken and would no longer hold tension. He knew what his job was, but his logic stopped there. He never asked why, never wanted to know anything more than he needed. If he thought too much about it, he figured, he could never live with himself. And that's all he could do now. A prisoner of his own.
Killing overseas felt like playing a part in an act. He wasn't Andy Winter anymore but this heartless, calculating murderer. Unflinching in the face of violence. Uncaring. But was this a mask anymore or was it now his true face?
What have I become? Andy asked himself.
He snapped out of it just a few seconds after going into it in the first place. Tears flooded his eyes as all he wished was to join Max. Maybe, in some vague life-after-death, he could beg Max for forgiveness. And at that moment, all he would have wanted Max to do was spit on him. To confirm his deep brooding suspicion that he was, indeed, evil.
“I am an evil man,” Andy said aloud, through gritted teeth. He needed to say it. He needed to tell the truth. If ever there lived evil in every person's heart, Andy truly felt as though he were Lucifer. Tainted beyond his own understanding. A depressive curse.
Anger coursed through his body. It ebbed in his veins and it burned through his mind. He wanted something to strike out at. He wanted to be anyone else sitting beside himself, just so he could give himself the beating of a lifetime. Something no mortal body heals from.
He could never heal from Max's death. He could never forgive himself.
Then he saw it. The brown dingy Subaru he had neglected to sabotage. Haley Flynn was passing in the opposite lane.
He could do it. He knew it. Only his desire to be with Max could lead his hand now. The tears were blinding. He shut his eyes tight.
He pulled hard on the wheel. He felt every fraction of a second go by, ticking like a countdown timer until the shrieking was deafening. Metal scraped on metal, screaming their protest out into the atmosphere as A
ndy lurched in all sorts of different directions, ribs snapping under the seat belt. His breathing ceased, grasped by his lungs as if they whispered to the air, “Shh! Don't leave me.” He felt himself be lifted up and then slammed back into his seat.
The universe seemed to explode at that moment. If he had the breath or time to, he would have hummed to himself as he felt the collision take its full course. Everything around him was breaking. Mirrors, windows, doors. All of them failed to stand strong at the impact with Haley's car. Everything was falling apart, being torn asunder and returning to something much more fundamental. Much simpler. That was Andy's desire. To uncomplicate himself.
All the noises stopped. No more screeching, no more squealing, no more shattering, and no more screaming. Just silence as the cars became still.
He had done it. He was finally dead. He had killed Haley Flynn like he had been paid to and ended his torment in one swift motion.
But no, something was wrong.
He could see! He looked down at his bloodied hands and saw them still clutched on to the steering wheel. He saw the cracked windshield, the shattered passenger window. He saw the brown Subaru. And from it stepped Haley, shaken but unscathed.
“What the – ” she started, but distracted herself from the swear by staring at the damage to her brother's car. “Holy shit,” she murmured. She turned back toward the sick looking woman in the car. She seemed dazed, but she was fine as well. She managed to look around, but when she did, she spotted the offending driver crawling from his wreckage. “Andy?”
Andy sprang into action, leaping away from his car and up onto the street. Haley watched him with wide, staring eyes as he balanced himself and started rummaging through Steven's totaled car. He pulled out the notebook with all of Steven's notes in it and turned to the woman. At that moment, he noticed the bald woman who was climbing out of Haley's passenger seat. Andy shoved the notebook into Haley's hands as she looked him over in confusion, then he started limping away.
“Deliver your evidence,” Andy instructed back over his shoulder.
“Andy!” she called after him, perplexed. “What is this?”
“It's everything we learned about you,” Andy yelled in response. “Evidence. Decree hired me to kill you. This is proof. Deliver it.”
“Where are you going?” she cried, overwhelmed by so many emotions.
He had disappeared in the distance.
PART II
-----------------------
FORTY-TON ANGEL
-Chapter Thirteen-
Crash
The song buzzed out and the radio made empty electronic noises as the deejay changed his source material. A voice came on.
“The news coming in about the Decree supermax prison located near Lumnin, New York has been shocking the nation continuously for the past four days,” the news anchor said, his voice deep and gravelly. “Upon the publication of her article highlighting the company's grab for power, Haley Flynn opened up a lawsuit for the People versus Decree. Skeptics have emerged all over about the validity of this information until this morning, during one of the televised portions of the trial, when Flynn introduced the surprise testimony of one Jane Doe, who claims to be a previous inmate at the Lumnin Facility. Flynn was able to produce several video tapes taken from the prison itself of the Jane Doe in question being routinely irradiated until she was diagnosed with stage two leukemia. Court doctors are currently looking into the authenticity of such a diagnoses.”
The voice transitioned to a recording of Haley Flynn's, speaking to a courtroom of onlookers. “It is not only my belief but my knowledge that the Decree corporation intentionally endangered this woman's life so that she could act as a test subject. They purposefully gave her cancer because,” Haley paused for effect, “who would miss her?”
Back to the initial speaker. “There is also evidence emerging that while Flynn performed her investigation, an assassin that was allegedly hired by Decree attempted to kill Flynn and the Jane Doe as they drove to Lumnin National Airport,” he described. “The hitman has been identified as twenty-nine year old Andrew Winter. It is believed that Winter is wanted for the murders of over nine people within the last three years. More accounts may be accredited to him, including the shooting of Maxwell Shepard in Chicago over ten years ago.”
Tim Simacean got up from his seat in the rocking chair and brought his empty coffee mug to the kitchen sink. He started to rinse it out as he listened more to the report.
“President of Decree Sampson Miles was unavailable for comment, but it has been rumored that he will resign within the night and place the company in the control of vice president Leroy Graves. Graves issued this statement.” The sound buzzed to an outdoor setting. The audio was extracted from a newsreel.
“The people at Decree, including myself, are stunned by the allegations facing Mr. Miles. We are, however, certain that any actions the he may or may not have taken were taken alone and without the knowledge of myself, the staff, or any members of the board. The company continues to stand for justice and maintaining peace to ensure that tomorrow is always a comfortable prospect. God bless,” he said. The radio voice formed back into the male anchor again.
“With Decree's trials, many other accusations have arisen about several large corporations, all regarding unethical violations against humanity. Angry citizens dashed about have....calized their voices so.....performed the largest on Americ.....”
Tim looked suspiciously at the radio. It had buzzed in and out a couple of times as he finished drying his mug and he turned his attention to it. He adjusted the antenna on it but soon the buzzing was all that creeped out of the speakers. Something had begun shaking in the sky and it stole the rancher's attention from the radio. He peered out of the window.
The sky erupted with noise. Tim held onto the window sill as his house began shaking. The radio fell off of the stool it was placed upon and the dishes hopped about the sink, cracking. The air reared with an explosive sound as a metallic form fell out of the sky and collided into Tim's livestock.
The rancher continued to gaze out of the window for several moments after the crash, unable to send any signals to his muscles until the dust had settled. He burst into action and grabbed his twenty-two and charged out the front door. He held the rifle in loose fingers as soon as he stepped outside, his grip slipping until the weapon dropped to the ground. He stared at the shape that now towered where his corral and barn had been.
It was a gigantic metal angel.
Tim dropped to his knees as he stared at the thing. Splinters of wood littered the area, stones and mounds of dirt kicked up from the object embedding itself in the soft ground. He glanced right and saw the hoof of one of his bulls. He squeezed his eyes shut in disgust. The angel stood over a hundred feet into the air, its rusted halo resting on its expressionless head. The thing was constructed of thousands of different sheets of ugly, misused metal bolted together in a divine form.
“Well...shit,” Tim said to himself.
-Chapter Fourteen-
Barney
“I think it's terrorism or something, come on, you gotta send an agent,” Tim pleaded into his corded land line. The insurance claims clerk he was speaking to was a young woman who was clearly distracted by something and rather upset that he wanted to use their services.
“Sir, we only take serious claims,” she said after a slight pause and lots of clacking of buttons.
“This is a serious claim!” he demanded. “All my cattle are dead. Only one survived the crash and it was so messed up I had to kill it.”
“An angel? Come on,” she responded.
Tim was kind of taken aback by her lack of professionalism.
“Can I talk to someone else?” he asked.
“Please do,” she said before hold music started playing. It was a distorted and poorly rendered copy of a Peter Gabriel song that popped at him for a few minutes before a man answered.
“This is Mic
hael, how can I help you?” the agent said.
“My cattle were killed by a storm and I need an agent to file my claim,” Tim lied.
“Absolutely, just give me your account information and we'll have an agent on his way,” Michael replied.
“Thank you,” Tim said before lighting a cigarette.
It seemed like a lot of time had passed, several cigarettes lit and extinguished before Tim saw a lone black Volvo pull off from the highway and onto the hand dug dirt road of the Simacean Ranch. Tim stepped out onto his dusty porch, lighting up again while he watched the man in the car try to arrange his materials as he stared without blinking at the metal angel.
The man had a strong and well defined forehead but a small and scrawny form. His hairline was composed of short, curly brown hair. He wore a dark tan suit with a striped green-and-black tie, all hanging over a baby blue shirt. His papers and folders had all been collected before he turned to look at Tim himself. He had sharp, alert eyes. They almost seemed to be extra widened as he stared straight into Tim's eyes, with no regard for how long he sat in his car doing that before glancing back at the towering enigma and stepping outside.
“You fuckin' with me?” the man asked with a casual Brooklyn accent.
“Sorry?” Tim asked.
“Your claim looked like cuckoo horse shit, but I come here and you either put too much effort in insurance fraud or I'm losing it.” He spoke in rapid bursts.
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