THUMP-THUMP

[violence-gunfire-death]

THUMP-THUMP.

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

“What is that thumping?” Andy said to himself.

Wherever he was, it was dark. He tried to move, but it felt like his arms, legs, and even his eyelids were heavy. Too heavy to move.

THUMP….

“Finally, that thumping stopped. I wonder what it was.”

Andy just lay there in the dark. He heard people talking, but they sounded far away.

“OH GREAT! That high-pitched whine has replaced that incessant thumping. Just what I need when I am trying to get to sleep.”

Andy started to remember the past day; maybe he was even dreaming about it.

At 7 am, he went to meet some friends for breakfast. They were there more than three hours, talking, chatting, laughing. He went home and took a half-hour nap. He felt great when he got up and headed to the farmers’ market. He liked walking around there and talking to everyone. He was there for more than 4 hours and spent $80.

Grabbed some lunch at a Caribbean chef’s booth, talked to Mike the Knife, a local knife sharpener, and a friend. Of course, he had to grab a coffee, a great cup of coffee.

On the way out, he always picks up popcorn, caramel corn to be exact. Caramel Kettle Corn, to be precise. Enough in that package to last him a couple of weeks, snacking in the evenings as he watched TV.

He remembered a guy following him all day. Saw him outside the diner this morning in a car across the street, looking at his phone. He remembered seeing him in the market, always right next to where he was standing, at the closest booth. Lying here now, he realized he was being followed.

He should have seen it, he should have noticed, he should have realized, and he should have hit the panic button on his phone to alert his controller. But, at that moment, he was oblivious. He got comfortable in this artificial life. This fiction he lived in.

He headed to the grocery store and picked up a few things. Eggs, milk, cheese, and of course, beer. It is an essential, after all.

In his dream, Andy stopped and noticed he was sitting in his living room. In his lap was a pistol. His favorite pistol. A Canik TP9SFx, 9mm, 20 rounds, and a Holosun red dot.

Andy said out loud, “There’s that thumping again! But it is different.”

His front door blew in, and someone was shooting up his living room.

Andy fired a few rounds, and the room went silent. He neutralized the issue. He is happy his magazine holds 20 rounds, and really happy he doesn’t live in one of the states that limit magazine size.

He replaced the magazine and noticed he had been hit in the arm. “Flesh wound,” they used to call it. The other guy, not so lucky. He went out the back door and jumped into a car. Different than what he normally drove, hidden under a tarp, in someone else’s name. He drove through the gate, onto a side road, and headed to the control point. It was a four-hour drive into the mountains. As he left the neighborhood, he snapped his phone in two and tossed it out the car window. Perfect toss, right into a storm drain.

Andy reached into the glovebox and pulled out a secure phone. Pressing the dial button connected the phone to the car.

“Control 4”

“Subject 4 compromised. Tagged, left upper arm, superficial. Secure car 3 in use, heading to safe house 8.”

“Understood. ETA three and a half hours. Meet you there.”

The line went dead. He tossed the phone into the cup holder and drove. For the first time, he realized he was also hit on his left side. He was feeling odd, weak, and dizzy.

He grabbed the smelling salts and took a whif. It brought him back, for a time.

He dialed 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

Andy said, “I need to report a murder. Mine.”

“Pardon?”

“Send an ambulance prepared to treat a gunshot wound to the left abdominal area. I am at Goydon Park, back of the parking area. Look for a black car in the lot with its 4-ways flashing. With any luck, I will still be here when they get here.”

“Sir, they are four minutes away. What’s your name? My name is Victoria.”

He paused a moment, “Andy, call me Andy. I love the name Victoria. May I call you Vic?”

“Definitely.”

The 911 operator talked to Andy like a friend. Something he has not had in a while.

Vic said, “The ambulance is there, Andy. They are taking care of you. Be strong.”

“Thanks, Vic, I’ll try, but I cannot see any more. And I can barely feel…. Anything.

A bright light hit his eyes, “Pupils fixed.” Someone said.

Andy yelled, “Oh my God! That high-pitched whine, it’s a monitor, and I am flatlining. The thumping was my heart!” Then he realized he could not move. He lay there, motionless.

He said to himself, “This is it. My end, my demise, the great round up, the wagon train in the sky. It appears I bought the farm and kicked the bucket. I guess I’ll be on the other side of the flowers soon. It ends like this. Me, bleeding out in a parking lot of some park.” He wondered, “What exactly did I do for a living anyway? Something secret I remember. Dangerous, obviously. He almost laughed at that thought.”

His body went tense, painfully tight. “They just shocked me. It won’t be long now. I wonder what the transition will be like? For that matter, I wonder if I’ll be on a nice beach or in a permanent sauna? There’s that beeping noise again.”

His entire life replayed in a moment, and he watched it, scrutinizing, “Well, not terrible. I have taken lives, but in self-defense, that has to be worth something to the universe.

“That damn whining again, it won’t be long now.” Another shock, whining. Another shock.

He heard, “Time of death, 1822.”

Andy heard the conversation. It was distant, barely hearable. A very bright light appeared.

“Thomas? I have been waiting for you.”

“Mom!”