Adam Drake - The First Day

Previously published as Blackout .

Pistol in hand, Nate Davenport eased through the bushes, then paused.

His eyes scanned over the backyard, an ocean of tall grass and weeds occasionally marred by an island of garbage. A child’s swing set sat along one side by the fence, rusted from years of disuse.

Nate looked at the house. The windows of the two story derelict were boarded over, its back porch covered in leaves and dirt.

For several long moments, he waited. He’d learned from past mistakes not to rush headlong into a place he was unfamiliar. You can get into all sorts of trouble that way, especially when on a job.

Use your head, or I’ll shoot it off!

He heard Unger’s voice in the back of his mind. The boss loved to berate the men in his crew, even if they did a good job. A warped way of keeping people on their toes.

And it worked.

Nate checked his temper before it grew too hot. Focus, he thought. Get in, get it done, get out.

Satisfied no one was around, he slipped a nylon mask over his head and stepped out of the bushes at the back of the property line, then crossed the yard.

The high grass swished against his pant-legs as he navigated around piles of crap. The pistol was kept low at his hip.

Reaching the bottom step of the ruined porch he paused. Not having the chance to scout the place ahead of time, he didn’t know how creaky the old planks were.

Cautiously, he placed a foot on the first step.

A sudden noise made him freeze. He looked about in alarm.

A high pitched whirring sound echoed off the neighboring buildings. Apprehensive, he slipped his finger through the pistol’s trigger guard.

The noise continued; whirring, grinding, clanking.

He recognized it. A garbage truck making its morning rounds down the street on the opposite side of the house.

The tension eased in his shoulders and he allowed himself to breathe again. Shouldn’t have guzzled all that coffee earlier.

He climbed the stairs, with little noise and crossed the porch to the back door. It was ajar, the opening only revealing a wall of faded paint, beyond.

No one should be here. At least, according to Morse, the screw up. Unger’s lackey was supposed to come by and check the place out first. Said it was all clear. Maybe he didn’t even do a simple drive by.

That lazy bastard.

Nate’s anger heated up like a bubbling volcano. He’d deal with Morse later.

Keeping to one side, gun at the ready, he pushed the door open.

Darkness and debris.

He tried to listen for movement, but all he could hear was the garbage truck; closer and louder.

After a few seconds of peering into the derelict’s murk, he entered.

The place was empty of furniture. Dirt and garbage covered the cracked tile floor. A careful search of the bottom level came up with nothing. Why was the door ajar? Maybe a bum or junkie had spent the night and left.

Nate stopped at the stairs leading up to the second floor. No sign of movement or shadow play above.

The garbage truck was one house over, the sound almost deafening.

Keeping his back against the opposite wall he climbed the stairs slowly. At the top was a hallway and a couple of bedroom doors, one wide open.

He checked the room with the open door and found it empty. A large broken window streamed in morning sunlight. Beyond was an apartment building.

With a quick glance behind him, he entered the room and sidled up to the edge of the window, and peeked out.

Directly across was another window, its curtains open showing a living room. A big screen tv on the far wall was playing a porno. Naked people jiggled about.

He could see chairs and a couch, but no sign of his target.

The sound of the garbage truck seemed to drown out the world. Damn, those things are loud.

The back of his neck prickled.

He spun around, pistol in both hands, its silencer barrel like a sword.

No one was there.

Nate took a second for his heartbeat to slow. He knew to never ignore that sensation. It had saved his life many times before and now he couldn’t finish the job without being certain.

He reentered the hallway. Only the closed bedroom door on the opposite side confronted him.

Okay, then.

As he padded down the hall a vibration at his hip brought him up short. Cursing inwardly, he fished out his phone while keeping the pistol pointed at the door.

He peered at the little phone’s display.

Done yet?

It was Unger on a burner, checking in.

His eye twitched. What kind of moron sends text messages during a hit he ordered?

Nate knew he worked for an idiot. If not for Unger’s incestuous family connections, the guy would have been encased in concrete or hanging from a tree by his intestines, long ago.

Ignoring his boss, he pocketed the phone and approached the door.

The garbage truck’s angry presence outside reverberated through the old house.

Gingerly, he turned the door’s knob then pushed it open.

Another bedroom. Empty, except for two problems.

A man and woman were laying on a foam mattress on the floor, both naked. Clothes scattered about, a pair of backpacks leaned against a wall.

The woman, early twenties, was out cold, snoozing. A colorful tattoo of a butterfly perched above the nipple of one breast.

A syringe stuck out of the arm of the man, who looked up at Nate and offered a groggy smile. “Hey, man…”, he said. He blinked slowly, flying high.

Vagrants. Homeless. Bums. Whatever, Nate thought.

Outside the truck rumbled past, shaking the room’s cracked window. No garbage worth picking up here.

Nate pointed the pistol at the man. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

The young man’s drugged out state kept him from even registering the presence of the gun. “What?” he slurred. “I can’t hear-.”

Nate shot him in the forehead, the silencer coughing loudly, its noise suppressed further by the passing truck.

He shot the woman, too.

As he went back into the hall, he closed the door.

They’d been here all night. If Morse had done his job, Nate would have been informed. A new plan would have been made.

He and Morse were going to have a conversation later.

In the other bedroom, back at the window, he looked across.

A man was sitting on the couch, his back to the window. The porno still played out its fleshy antics, but with different actors this time.

Nate glared at the back of the man’s bald head.

Perry Levine.

This twit got himself in debt with Unger. Something people with brains don’t do. After repeated attempts to collect, Unger, as usual, lost all patience and sent Nate to ‘punch his card.’

Nate shook his head. Nobody has said ‘punch his card’ since the nineteen twenties. Except Unger, who liked watching old gangster flicks and emulated their characters.

I need a new job, Nate thought and aimed at Perry’s head. It was like one of those shooting targets at the fair. Only this one would bleed.

The garbage truck had stopped outside the apartment building, and its keening grew louder as it loaded up.

Perfect, Nate thought. At least he had this going for him.

He slowed his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. His hands steadied. The end of the silencer was pinned to Perry’s skull.

He squeezed the trigger.

The garbage truck suddenly turned off.

Nate stopped pulling at the trigger. Shit.

The porno on the television winked out, the screen going black.

Perry reacted by moving about, probably looking for the remote, making for a messy target.