Robert Crane: Omega

They’re coming for me , he thought, as he hurried down the sidewalk. The wind cut straight through him like a razor as it whipped through the space between the buildings and tore leaves from the trees that protruded from the sidewalk planters. Downtown Minneapolis is somehow far colder than Dante’s last layer of hell , he thought as he avoided a steady stream of men in suits. All the worse to know it’s coming to an end soon . The crisp smell of fall permeated the ebb and flow of exhaust fumes from passing cars. He huddled tighter in his coat and pushed his hands in his pockets, stretching the material as he did so.

Downtown was bustling but not too busy. Though you couldn’t tell it by the dearth of sunlight, it was afternoon. The lunch rush had subsided and rush hour had yet to begin, so he was able to keep his route without worrying about fighting his way through the crowd. He passed a cafe that extended onto the sidewalk, only a table or two occupied. His hand ran over the cold metal rail that separated the empty tables from traffic passing by. As he caressed it, he felt a pause, a reluctance to go. In summer, on weekends, every table would be full, with a line of people extending out the door, waiting to be seated. It was a good place; he’d eaten there a time or two himself and enjoyed it. He lingered now, each step hesitant, a slow drag, as though the sidewalk were holding him back from the inevitable. Here, there—either way, they’re coming . If only I had more time , he thought.

He reached the entrance to his apartment building, and as he stepped into the revolving glass door, he caught a flicker of something in the reflection; eyes. Eyes focused on him. He followed the gaze back to a young man, blondish hair, in his twenties, unremarkable save for the fact that he’s watching me . The blond man’s eyes flickered elsewhere and he disappeared down the street after a moment, almost fading into the minimal crowd.

The revolving door discharged him into the lobby, where bronzed trim and marble floors made for a stunning spectacle. Full—length tapestries hung in four places around the room and a center desk controlled access to the elevators. He ignored the splendor around him, thinking again of the young man on the sidewalk who’d been watching him. He’d seen too many gazes like that lately, eyes following him in the streets as he walked, did his shopping, went to the clubs and talked to women. The tentative feeling gnawed at him again. They’re coming.

Flashing a smile at the security guard behind the desk, he made his way to the elevator bank. The doors were bronzed, reflective, and fit with the decor in the rest of the lobby. He waited after punching the button for the elevator, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on his pleated khakis. He looked down and saw the faint discoloration of the tan made wet by his fingers and he pushed them against the cloth harder, wiping his sweat there. Nerves , he thought. Just nerves .

Casting a look and a nod back at the guard, he waited for the elevator. The revolving door in the lobby discharged another man, heavyset, with a balding head. He was big, older, wore a suit, and passed the security guard with a nonchalant wave. The big man came to the elevator as it dinged and followed him in.

“How ’bout them Vikings?” the big man asked. His face bore scars of old acne, and when he smiled, his teeth were yellowed from either coffee or tobacco.

Why does he have to turn this into an awkward moment? Was there something wrong with silence? The younger man returned the smile, weakly, wishing the elevator went faster. “I don’t watch football,” he said, feeling the distance between them in the elevator and wishing it were considerably more.

“Oh, man, they’re off to a great start,” the older man said. “I haven’t seen a start like this since the year Favre was with them.”

The younger man maintained his pleasant smile; he was good at that. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, but good to hear.”

“Ah, you should watch,” the older man said, and turned back to the front of the elevator. “Great stuff.”

“It’s not for me. Too violent.” He smiled politely and watched the dial slowly move until the elevator dinged and he sighed in not—too obvious relief. “Well,” he said with a nod to the older man, “this is me.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” the older man said, and squeezed his large frame to the side of the elevator. “Have a good one, okay?”

“You, too.” It even sounded sincere.

The elevator opened to a long hallway, and at the end was a window, autumn sun shining through it onto the red carpeting. The walls were done in crimson and beige tones, warm and inviting. He walked, trudging almost, enjoying the heat that came from the radiators on the walls around him after the chill of the street. Winter is going to be terrible , he thought. If I’m even around for it . Misery settled on him like the chill weather, and he shuddered.

A woman emerged from the doorway across from his, only a few feet ahead of him. Her hair was long and blond, and she was striking, willowy, athletic—and surprisingly busty, he wasn’t too distracted to notice. His smile was easy, it didn’t just pop up like some cheesy car salesman—it started slow, and spread across his entire face, a warming effect that he’d practiced long and hard to achieve. He didn’t feel much use for it right now, but for her …“Hello,” he said.

She returned the smile. She was stunning, her hair falling to her shoulders, the green in her eyes giving her a warmth that he couldn’t recall seeing in any of the women he’d dated recently. “Hello,” she said.

“Wow, hey,” he said, as she walked on, turning slightly to watch him as he continued to speak, “looks like we’re neighbors.” He almost slapped himself in the forehead for the sheer ridiculousness of that statement. He held the smile on his face in spite of it, and saw the return from her.

“Well, I guess I’ll…” He watched her receding back as he admired everything about the shapeliness of it, “…see you around.” Still got it, at least . His smile turned genuine again, but she did not turn to respond, and arrived at the elevator as it opened again, revealing the big man who’d ridden up with him.

His smile vanished and he pivoted abruptly to walk back toward his door, as though a simple change of direction could make the big man disappear. He cast a look back and the two of them were standing there, at the elevator, waiting, watching him. He felt a pang of uneasiness and looked in the other direction, toward the end of the hallway where the stairs were. There, waiting, was the blond man from the street, staring down the hallway. With him was a shorter, muscular man with a blunter face and blond hair a shade sandier than his companion.

He drew a sharp breath and felt a tremor of recognition, seeing all four of them now. They’re here. Blocking the stairs and the elevator. No retreat . He hesitated only a moment as he fingered his keys in his pocket and felt for the right one, knowing that movement would seal his fate, would spring them in motion against him.

He felt the key, the grooves, how it differed from the plastic top of his car key, how much larger in size it was from the key to his padlocked storage unit in the basement or the one that unlocked the safety deposit box at his bank. He looked again, and they had all begun the walk toward him, all four of them— Katrina Forrest, he thought, looking at the blond whose eye he had been trying to catch only a moment before. Kurt Hannegan , the big man, Scott Byerly , the blunt—faced man near the stairs. And Zack Davis. Of course he looked familiar. He’s her boyfriend …