Adam Drake - Blackout

Perfect, he 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 at 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.

Double shit. Nate blinked in confusion at the loss of his covering noise and the sweet moment of splattering Perry’s melon all over his living room.

Somewhere in the distance he heard a crash, the crunching of fiberglass and metal. Then another. Car accident?

Perry got up and walked over to the television. He wasn’t wearing any pants, no doubt to better enjoy the porno.

Cursing again, Nate ducked out of view, back against the wall. What the hell was this?

Another crash, this one closer but the noise going on for several long seconds. Crunch-crunch-crunch. A car rolling over and over.

Far away a woman screamed.

Okay, this was messed up. He needed to go. Now.

But he couldn’t leave. You don’t kill two people and not go through with the real job.

He looked out the window, again.

Half-naked, Perry now stood facing toward the window, but he was frowning down at a smartphone in his hand.

Good enough, Nate thought. He aimed, this time at the center body mass.

Perry shook his head as if totally confused by the phone. Then he must have sensed something and looked up.

His eyes locked with Nate’s, then to the pistol in his hands. His eyes widened.

Another crash, just on the street outside like someone drove into the garbage truck.

Nate fired. Two loud coughs and Perry’s window cracked with the double slugs.

Perry fell backward with a muffled cry and vanished from view.

Without wasting another second, Nate moved from the window, scooped up the two spent cartridges and left the bedroom. At the bottom of the stairs he paused. There was shouting from close by, but none from the apartment building. Not yet.

At the back door he looked outside. Satisfied it was all clear, he slipped his pistol into the deep pocket of his long coat, and stepped onto the porch.

Despite the hammering of his heart, he had the presence of mind to close the door quietly behind him. Less of an invitation for other drug-addled backpackers. He calmly crossed the backyard. His growing anxiety made it feel like the tall grass was trying to slow him down, force him back to the scene of his crimes.

He gently pushed through the bushes at the back of the property line and out into the back alley. More of a gravel road, it went north and south.

Slipping off his nylon mask, he turned south and sauntered along, gravel crunching underfoot. To a casual observer he would appear to be an average joe out for a walk, and not a paid hitman with three fresh bodies in his wake.

As he emerged from the gravel lane, and onto a paved cross street, movement in the sky made him stop in his tracks.

To the south, the landscape dipped downward, giving him a relatively clear view of the downtown core in the distance, with its clusters of skyscrapers and office buildings.

A large passenger plane was gliding earthward, heading toward downtown at a fatal angle.

“Huh,” Nate said. “Ain’t that a sight.” Then he turned away and walked to his car.

Wyatt

“What kind of money do you think we can get for a dead body?”

Wyatt Reeves, who was busy arranging bags of cans in his cart, paused and looked up at his friend, Ethan. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

Ethan was perched on the edge of a dumpster, legs swung over inside, ready to drop in and start hunting for recyclables. “It’s a legitimate question considering I’m looking right at one.”

“No, you’re not,” Wyatt said and looked both ways down the alley. The garbage truck was late which suited him fine. He and Ethan weren’t done with their rounds, yet. “There is no dead body. You just don’t want to work. It’s your turn. We switch at the next alley over.”

Ethan stared into the dumpster and frowned. With his long white beard the expression made him look like a depressed Santa Claus. “I’m not looking to skip my turn. I’m just curious if maybe we could profit from this fella’s misfortune.”

Annoyed, Wyatt dropped a shopping bag of cans into the cart with a loud clatter, and moved to the dumpster to peer over its edge.

Sure enough, the body of a man was nestled in amongst full garbage bags as if he were sleeping. But the wide vacant eyes and ashen skin made this sleep eternal.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Wyatt whispered, shocked.

“Told you,” Ethan said. “What should we do with him?”

Wyatt tore his gaze away from the body to look at Ethan. “Do with him? Why, nothing at all. That’s what we do with him. What makes you think we should do anything other than get the hell out of here?”

“Well, he’s in our dumpster, so technically he’s ours.”

“This is not our dumpster. It’s the apartment building’s. Just because we dive into it every morning doesn’t make the thing ours.” Wyatt pointed a finger at the dead man. “And that makes this guy the apartment manager’s problem.”

Ethan shook his head. “Wyatt, buddy. You’re such a negative-Nancy. But you’re right, this is not our problem.”

“Damn right it’s not!”

“It’s our opportunity!” Ethan said and dropped inside the dumpster.

“What the hell are you doing?” Wyatt said, glancing toward the apartment building. He hoped the no one came out right now, or they’d be screwed. “Get out of there!”

Ethan shifted some bags around to get a better look. He seemed absolutely fascinated with this find.

The dead man appeared to be quite young, maybe in his early twenties. He wore a dark blue jacket over a black dress shirt and black jeans. There was a tattoo on the back of one curled hand. Wyatt recognized its symbol.

“He’s a Feral Kid,” Wyatt said with disgust. Maybe it was good this guy was dead. The Feral Kids were a notorious homeless gang that roamed the city, terrorizing and extorting the other homeless. Wyatt had many encounters with them over the years, none of which were pleasant.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Ethan said, leaning closer.

“Can you tell how he died?” Wyatt asked, curious despite himself.

“Being a Feral Kid is how he died, I’d guess. Not the most work safe occupations you can choose.” Ethan delicately lifted open the man’s jacket. “I don’t see any blood, but there’s too much crap in here to tell.”

“I don’t think you should be touching him, Ethan.”

“Why not? He won’t mind.” Ethan reached into the man’s shirt pockets and felt around.

“God damnit! What are you doing? You’re gonna get your DNA all over him. What about forensics?”

Ethan shifted to jam his fingers into the man’s jean pockets. “DNA. Forensics. What’s that all mean to someone like us? No one cares. This guy will be scooped up by the truck and ferried off to the dump. He’ll end up under tons of shit and will rot away to nothing with the rest of the garbage.”

Wyatt stepped away from the dumpster to check the alleyway, again. Other than a dozen dumpsters full of their morning trash there was no one around. He tried listening for the garbage truck but couldn’t make out its distinctive sound.

“This isn’t good, Ethan. I don’t like it. Come on, get out of there. Will skip this row and go to the next alley over.”

Ethan didn’t find anything and scratched at his chin, disappointed. “They picked him clean, whoever did this. There isn’t even lint in his pockets.” He spotted the man’s shoes. “Oh, hey! Check these kicks out!”