Impetus (7 page)

His
thinking leaned toward everything bad. It flashed made-up images and terrible situations. It could be those damn cannibals that strung people up on the dark side of town for all he knew. What if it was some crazed group of disease-ridden lunatics that he did not have enough bullets to stop? The truly sad thing was that these were all distinctly real possibilities. Science fiction had become science fact since Impact. The human mind was powerful for sure, creating and destroying in less time than it took him to take his next breath, but it did not necessarily make those creations any less real.

His
hands were steady, his breath controlled. He had been in situations like this before. His thoughts went to his kids, their beautiful faces and waning innocence. He valued his own life well below theirs, much like any loving parent would.
Maybe I should have stuck to the routine
, he thought, checking that the rifle’s chamber was loaded and ready.
Always listen to your gut.
That was what his father had told him. Maybe he should have paid more attention to that.

He
had been forced to fire his rifle twice in the past ten years. One bullet was a warning shot that had worked as intended. The second bullet was something he tried to forget every day. Even so, he was prepared to fire it a third time if left with no choice.

He
hugged close to the wall, careful with his steps. He stayed on his toes to avoid the full weight of his feet and the added sound that would bring.
Control your breathing. Steady your mind.
Between each step Mick processed any and all sounds, of which there were few, and none sounded like what he had assumed to be a tin can before.

Closer
he crept.

He
looked in every direction, soaking in every piece of information that his brain deemed critical.

Ahead
and to the left was another alley.

A shadow
emerged from obscurity and vanished just as quickly.

Was that
a shadow? He was not sure.

His heart beat faster.

He rubbed his dry eyes quickly and squinted back to the alley, staring at the brick wall, waiting for confirmation that he was not seeing things and that a shadow had indeed darted quickly out of his sight.

He
paused at the alley’s entry. He held his breath and listened. The rifle’s barrel pointed upward in line with his body. He was a statue, stiff and unmoving. His heart pounded with the force of a runaway freight train that rumbled down the tracks.

Maybe I should just head back. Be smart, Mick.

Then another tiny piece of that morning’s meat concoction dislodged from his back molar. It reminded him of why he was there in the first place. But at that point it almost did not seem worth the trouble.

In one
swift and decisive motion, Mick leaned into the alley like a door on a hinge, prepared as best as he could be for what awaited. He swung the rifle ahead so it led the way. His senses were peaked, and his finger was on the trigger. The alley appeared to be empty, ending abruptly at a window-lined wall of brick that rose high above his head. A dead end. He remained still, watching, listening. If there was someone down there, then they were most likely watching him. He had the disadvantage in this sudden situation.

Still not too late to turn back.

The hair on his neck rose as another wind kicked up and whirled down the street behind him, but his eyes remained transfixed on the end of the alley. This was no time for lax concentration. He could have sworn he had seen something else. No shadows this time. No, this time he was sure someone or something was crouched near a large dented Dumpster whose green flaking paint had given way to large Rorschach-shaped patches of rust.

“
Who’s back there?” he shouted. He studied the alley for movement, but there was none to be found. He then shifted slightly left to gain a better view, while remaining at the mouth of the alley in case things turned sour. “I’m not looking for a fight.” He went up on his tiptoes. The alley was too dark to make out what may be hiding there.

The way
Mick saw it, he had two options: go back the way he came or give in to his curiosity. Having gone so long without seeing something new, the choice was clear to him, even though it was clearly not the safest one. He thirsted for an answer despite the danger he felt he put himself in.

“
Listen,” he said. “I’m coming down there. And I’m armed,” he added, before realizing he should have just kept that to himself. But if someone was watching him, then the fact that he held a rifle was obvious. “I have no intentions on using it unless you give me a reason.” And even then he was not sure if he could pull the trigger. Could he live with another death by his hand? He hoped he did not have to find out. The face of that deranged woman who’d left him no choice remained burned in his memory.

Mick
stopped in his tracks about halfway down the alley.

The sound of metal on metal, while muted and
hidden among the gusts of wind, was loud enough to convince him that he was not alone.

His
heart pounded still faster. The blood flowed too quickly and freely to the wrong parts of his body as a sense of frightened light-headedness overwhelmed him.

“
My name’s Mick. Whoever you are,” he said, thinking it could also be a whatever. “We can just go our separate ways. For my safety, though, I need some assurance that I won’t need to keep looking over my shoulder.” Nobody owed him assurance. Mick knew that. He simply hoped the rifle in his hands would afford him some.

He
slowly made his way farther down the alley, cognizant of the open space behind him. Was this a trap? Could he be stupid enough to fall for something so easy?

The alley was short
, but the journey to its end seemed exceptionally long. Like an actor onstage who forgot his lines, his mind went blank when he neared the alley’s end.

A
t the front edge of the Dumpster, Mick used his height to peer over its lid. He inadvertently locked his jaw in a moment of nervous tension. Slowly the inky dark corner came into view. And then he breathed deeply, laughing to himself.
Stupid Irish bastard.
Much to his relief, the corner was empty—nothing more than a few scraps of paper and some loose bricks.

He
closed the gap to the end of the alley with one giant purposeful stride and swung the rifle to his right and toward the corner just to make sure.

It was indeed e
mpty.

He
exhaled a large breath that he could not remember holding in the first place. His mind had gotten the better of him, coerced him into believing something that was not. Was he starting to lose his marbles?

He
relaxed and shouldered his rifle. He then flexed his hands to pump more blood into his once-tight extremities. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him. The dim light that still reached through the atmosphere did that at times, made him see things that were not there. His arms ached from holding the gun prone. Thankfully, it appeared that his error in judgment would be forgiven this time. But what if it happened again? What if he was losing his edge? Was he becoming complacent with the way things were? If he was, then he knew it was the beginning of the end. Complacency led to death in the word after Colossus.

He
exhaled another deep breath and calmed his shaky nerves.

He
turned to leave the alley.

T
he Dumpster’s lid pushed up from the inside, then closed in the same stolen moment.

“
Who’s there?” Mick shouted, pointing the rifle at the lid. He knew he saw something. This was no mind game. This was real. His heart again revved, and adrenaline coursed through his veins. The thoughts he’d just let die rose from their graves and crashed into the forefront of his mind. “I’m only going to ask one more time. Who’s in there? Show yourself.” Still no reply came. His mind told him to shoot now, put a bullet through the side of the rusty Dumpster, ask questions later when he would be afforded the opportunity to ask them. But he could not. The world was savage and inhumane, but that did not mean he needed to feed its hunger.

He
inched closer to the corner so the Dumpster was in front of him, the lid only inches away from his fingers. Again he held his breath. He positioned the rifle in his right hand and freed his left.

On
e.
He thought of his children.
Two.
And of the rest of the herd.
Three.

He
grabbed hold of the lid and flung it open. He pointed the rifle down into the darkness, half expecting some wayward jungle cat to pounce on him and delight in a fresh meal.

But it was a
man that slowly rose from within the dark interior, his face filthy and ragged. Mick instinctively fell back against the alley wall behind him. He was startled but not fearful. Something in the man’s eyes conveyed a sense of restless peace. It only took a moment for Mick to realize that this hidden man was more scared than Mick was.

“
Are you armed?” Mick asked. It was the most important question—a question that needed to be addressed right away for both of their sakes. The space between them was solidly occupied by Mick’s rifle should he need it. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties, though it was difficult to tell with the amount of filth covering him. He said nothing, nor did he move. He simply stared at Mick with large saucer-shaped blue eyes that cut through the grime like a rainbow on a cloudy day. “Listen,” Mick said. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I need to know you feel the same about me. Okay?”

The man in the
Dumpster remained still. Their eyes remained locked. Mick was unsure of what to do next, searching for options but finding none available. So he stared back, lost in the moment. The more he studied the man’s eyes, the more comfortable he felt about not having to use his weapon. They said the eyes were the windows to the soul. Mick wholeheartedly agreed with that notion. More times than not the eyes told him more than words ever could. And he had already foolishly ignored his gut by coming down the alley in the first place. What was one more time?

He
lowered his rifle while keeping his gaze locked on the man. It could be the last mistake he ever made. The man’s hands were still out of sight. For all he knew, this guy had a pistol at the ready and was simply waiting for Mick’s sense of humanity to kick in, a sense that was not as strong as it once was. But he could not stand there forever. The stalemate had to be broken.

“
Listen,” Mick said. “Why don’t you come out of there?” He slowly walked past the Dumpster so that his back was now facing the way he had originally entered, toward the mouth of the alley. He would give the man some room to come out, put some distance between them. The alley was tight, so it was in his best interests to be able to retreat should he need to. “Come on,” he said, waving the man out. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

The man
looked him over for another moment before timidly nodding his head. He then brought his right booted foot up to the lip of the Dumpster and pushed himself up and out. He landed clumsily on a rock and stumbled back into the wall, but his eyes never left Mick.

The man
’s hands were cut up and dirty. His fingernails were long and yellow, chipping at their tips like jagged teeth. He had no weapon that Mick could see. With the man’s hands now visible, he felt easy enough to again shoulder his rifle.

“
What’s your name?” Mick tried to make the man feel at ease. He had a timid aura about him.

“
S-S-Solomon,” the man stuttered in a hushed tone. His mop of bouncy black hair flopped back and forth as he did. The longer hairs of his patchy black beard shifted ever so slightly in the captured alleyway breeze that left as quickly as it came.

“
What were you doing back here, Solomon?” Mick asked.

Solomon did not reply.
Mick figured that maybe a different question would work.

“
Do you live around here, Solomon?”

Solomon
nodded again. This time it seemed to be a more accepting nod, friendly in a cautious way.

“
I’m sorry if I scared you,” Mick said. “Can never be too careful nowadays.”

So
lomon remained still and quiet. He looked toward the ground, away from Mick’s friendly gaze.

Som
ething about Solomon clung to Mick, like a precipitous fog he could feel but not see. And at the same time, something did not feel right about him.

Mick
’s compassion, something that had been buried for a while, found its way back out. “Are you all right, Solomon?” He sure did not look all right.

Solomon
’s chapped, cracking lips parted slightly, enough for the smallest of mutters. “Y-yes.”

Mick
figured he would ask again now that the proverbial ice had been broken. “Do you live around here?”

Solomon
nodded once and looked over Mick’s shoulder and toward the street.