Greg Gifune - Sorcerer

A drizzle began to fall, startling a congregation of blackbirds perched along the roof into flight. Jeff watched until they disappeared into the dark clouds overhead. He slowly forced himself up the front steps.

As he entered what had once been a lobby his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light. A variety of lurid smells wafted all around him, and rain trickled in through several cavities in the high ceiling. A timeworn staircase stood to his right. Jeff ascended it cautiously, testing each step with his weight before continuing.

When he reached the top he followed a long hallway filled with garbage and the splintered remains of furniture to the first apartment. The door had rotted from its hinges and collapsed just inside the entrance. He climbed over the door and into an open area.

Broken pallets and a few discarded empty crates lay scattered about, and upon seeing him, a covey of plump rats scurried off, seeking refuge in corners or small portals previously gnawed in the decaying walls.

A rustling sound diverted Jeff’s attention. A large piece of tattered plastic hung over one of the windows, rippling in the mounting breeze, and on the floor just beneath it sat a pile of spent liquor bottles.

“Hello?” The only reply was the echo of his voice. “Is anyone here?”

“Joint’s taken,” a voice behind him said suddenly.

Jeff spun round to see a man standing a few feet away. “Jesus,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“What do you want?” Keeping a wary distance, the man produced an enormous hunting knife from his belt and brandished it about between them with a slow and threatening arcing motion.

“Take it easy,” Jeff said putting his hands up. “I don’t want any trouble.”

His eyes widened, as if he were losing sight of him. “Who are you?”

It was difficult to tell the man’s age. His clothes were soiled and worn, his hair and face needed to be washed and he was clearly exhausted. “McGrath.”

“I don’t know nobody named McGrath.”

“I’m looking for Steven Wychek.”

The man stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Are you Mr. Wychek?” Jeff asked, already wondering if he could outrun this man if need be. “Do I have the right person?”

The man slowly lowered the knife to his side. “Nobody knows where I am. How did you find me?”

“Your wife told me you were hiding here.”

“My…wife…” His hostility turned to terror. “My God,” he muttered. “You…You’re one of them.”

“No, I’m not, I-I’m caught up in this the same as you.” Confused, Jeff continued to hold his hands up to assure the man that he harbored no bad intentions toward him. “A man named Foster Hope hired me, he’s forcing me to work for him.”

Wychek raised the knife a bit higher, ready to use it if need be.

“That’s not necessary, OK?” Jeff smiled nervously. “All I want to do is-”

“Stay where you are.”

“I won’t come any closer,” he said, hoping to mask his own fear with a docile tone. “Relax, OK? Mr. Hope asked me to tell you that it’s in your best interest to settle your debt with him and that you should contact him as soon as possible. He just wanted me to deliver that message. That’s it.”

The man gave a questioning stare. “You don’t know what you’re into yet, do you?”

“Honestly?” Jeff asked through a sigh. “No. I don’t have any idea.”

“You will.” Wychek moved toward the window, the knife leveled in front of him. “But by then it’ll be too late.”

Jeff glanced in the direction of the doorway, fairly certain if he made a quick dash for it he could make it outside well ahead of the man. “What do you owe him? What does he want from you?”

“Everything.” Wychek slumped a bit, defeated. “And I’m tired of running, McGrath. I’m tired of being afraid.”

“Come with me, and I’ll get in touch with Mr. Hope. I’m sure we can all sit down and work out an arrangement both of you can live with.”

“You crazy or just dumb as a brick?”

“I’m frightened and confused, same as you.”

“Funny how it all fits together,” he said, as if to himself. “All I wanted was to get out from under my problems, I…I wanted me and my wife to be free from them, you know? My drinking, the drugs, my running around, I-I can’t stop, I’m a fuckup, and she-she’s a good woman, my wife. Too good for me, she never deserved this. I wanted to get better so we could both be happy…free. He told me he could help us, told me he could make it all come true. But it was a trick.

He’s a cruel and evil fuck.”

“Maybe you and I can help each other.”

“Ain’t no help against his kind.”

“He’s powerful, rich and plays demented games with people’s lives, but he’s a man just like you and me.”

“No he’s not.”

“Come with me,” Jeff said again. “We’ll confront the bastard together and get to the bottom of this.”

Wychek hopelessly bowed his head. “You tell Foster Hope I’ll see him real soon.”

Before Jeff had a chance to respond, Wychek rushed to the window, and with a horrific scream, launched himself through the plastic drape and plummeted to the street below.

A stomach-churning thud followed.

Jeff ran to the window and saw the carcass of an old refrigerator in the alley below. Sprawled across the top was Wychek’s broken body.

It flopped over like a rag doll, leaving behind a wide red wake as it slid lifelessly to the ground.

Staggering back, Jeff fell to his knees and vomited. When the nausea had left him he forced himself back to his feet and staggered from the room.

Ignoring the now heavy rain and a burning sensation deep in his gut, he crossed the vacant lot at a full run. As he rounded the corner and joined a more congested street he slowed his pace and tried to appear calm.

At the next block he leaned against the corner of a bank, fumbled his cell phone from his belt and frantically punched in the number he’d been given. It was answered on the first ring, but all Jeff heard was heavy breathing. “Hello?” he said, voice breaking.

“Hello!”

“Jeff, is that you?” Mr. Hope asked.

“Something terrible has happened!”

“Calm down. What’s going on?”

“Wychek’s dead,” he said, blurting the words but trying to keep his voice down due to the amount of people passing by. “He’s dead.”

“I want to be certain I heard you correctly. Would you repeat that please?”

“Wychek. Is. Dead.”

“Dead, you say?”

Jeff wiped rainwater from his face with his free hand, looked out at the street and pressed the phone tighter against his ear. “ Yes,” he hissed. “He threw himself out a fucking window.”

“Excellent work, Jeff.”

“What?” Jeff spun back against the building. “Are you out of your mind?”

“You’ve successfully completed your first negotiation.

Unfortunately, I just don’t see it working out for you here at International Facilitator, Inc. Your lack of enthusiasm in this situation clearly shows you don’t possess what it takes to become a permanent member of our team.”

“A man is dead!”

“Yes, how marvelous. Be that as it may, I’m afraid I’ll have to terminate your employment with us, effective immediately. However, I am a man of my word, Jeff, and I do plan to live up to my end of our bargain. You will be paid for your efforts today, as promised, and the compensation will grant you what you asked for, financial independence. Meet me at the offices and payment will be arranged.”

“I don’t want your money, I want answers!”

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

The line clicked and disconnected.