Dead

            She was already dead when I got there, that’s what I told her. She didn’t listen though, just kept screaming and screaming. But it wouldn’t do no good. That’s what I told her. She was dead when I got there.

 

My job’s a simple one. Really simple. I’m not a thinker, they told me that straight. The first thing they said to me. They said, “Bob, you’re not to think.” Exactly what they said. And I don’t. I sure as hell don’t think about it.

            A couple years back, I was contacted. You see, I was a special candidate, because of what I do, you see. I was contacted, a letter, came by mail. Well, it was in my box at least. No return address or anything. It said that someone had some jobs for me, said they’d pay good cash. Said there’d be no questions, no questions so long’s I did what I was told to. Said if I was interested to call a number. The number was written by hand at the bottom, the rest was typed. I called it, got a machine. I left a message, said I was interested.

            A few days later there was a package outside my door. In the box was a cell phone. On the phone was a little sticky note. It said, “We’ll call you.” And that’s what they do. That’s how it works.

 

First, I get a call. Always the same guy, same voice. It’s raspy, you know? Like he’s got a bad cough, but it never goes away or something. I don’t know. He’s quiet. Keeps to the point. Tells me a time and a place. Hangs up real fast. I keep a pen and paper next to the phone. I write down what the guy says. Then he hangs up and I hang up.

When it’s time, I show. Usually a park, or a bench, or a bus- somewhere public. But there always has to be a place to hide the envelope. There’s always an envelope. I have to find it, but it’s never hard. Always someplace obvious. I always wonder why no one ever finds it before me, but then I suppose I shouldn’t ask. No questions, you know? So I grab the envelope and go back home.

At home I tear it open and hold it upside down. The information falls out. A picture, a schedule, a map, an address, and the brief. The picture is the target. The schedule tells me the where and the when. The map tells me how to get there. The address tells me where to get the gun. And the brief tells me everything else. The brief and the picture are probably the most important two.

            The brief tells me who the person is, who they tend to be, and why. I like to know what they’re going to do, you know, just in case I have to improvise a little. It’s just like hunting, hunting a fox say. You know that fox ain’t going to just give himself up if he senses you close by. No, he’s going to make you work for it. If these people sense me, I know I’m going to have to work for it. So I do the work ahead of time. The brief tells me where to stand, where to hide. The brief tells me where to stash the gun and where to pick up the money. It tells me everything I need and want to know.

            The picture tells me what to shoot at. That’s important too.

            I pick up the gun the day of. Always a different model. Snipers. Not my favorite, but they do fine. Always a different place. I never have to pay nothing, just walk in, tell them who I am and they hand it on over. Then I walk out.

            I go to where I’m supposed to stand. I never bring nothing with me, not the map or the picture or anything. I memorize all that before hand. If it goes bad, don’t want to be linked. I go and I do what I’m supposed to do. Then I leave, drop the gun off. The next day I pick up my money and go on home. That’s it. That’s what I do.

 

            I like to think of myself as an honest man. I make a living. I work hard at what I do. I’m a killer, right. But I’d like to think that they have it coming. There’s a reason they hire me to do this shit. And it ain’t because they’re bored. They spend good money on me, money that could be going toward something worthwhile. So I’d like to think this is that worthwhile thing. They wouldn’t do it if it weren’t.

            No, I’m not ashamed. I’m not here because I’m ashamed. No. Complicated though. I ain’t a thinking man, don’t do it much. Not the thinking type I suppose. But, more recently, I got to thinking some. Because, well, you see, something, something went different.

 

            I got to the place, the place I was supposed to be. And, you know, I got the file before hand. It was a girl. Just a little girl. No more’n eight years old. You s

ee, she was the target. This eight year old girl. Cute little thing. Her favorite color was blue. She had a cat named Lacey. Her name was Elizabeth Rebecca Hamilton. I was contracted to kill this little girl.

            Didn’t want to do it, no way. I didn’t want to do it so much that I called back the number on the cell phone. I did. No one answered, so I called again. And then again. When I hung up the third time, the phone rang. The voice said, “Again and you die.” Then it hung up.

            So I got to the place, right? I got my gun and I got to the place. It was a rooftop. From there I could see the schoolyard, you know? The playground. Got the whole thing in my view. She was going out to recess. That’s where I was supposed to do it. Recess. Playing on the swings or some shit. So I look on in the scope and I see her. Not playing rope or tag or nothing. She’s lying there. She’s lying there dead.

            No one else was around her, recess hadn’t even started yet. She was just laying there, blood all around. I stood just staring through the scope at her, right up until the kids all came out and started screaming. People crying and everything. I felt something, something kind of sad. Then someone pointed. Pointed right up at me. I hadn’t done it though. It wasn’t me. Didn’t matter. They were coming.

            So I ran. Minute I started though, they shot at me. Part of my contract I suppose. Something goes wrong, they know. Hit me right in the leg and then one in the shoulder. I fell down. Must’ve thought I was dead, because they didn’t shoot me any more after that. I lay there, thought I was dying.

            This woman got to me first, before the cops and everyone else. This woman, crying. She started screaming at me. Asking why I did it. Told her the girl was dead when I got there. Told her it wasn’t me. But she kept screaming and screaming. Why, she kept asking, why? I stopped babbling. Wouldn’t do no good. She was dead, dead when I got there. She was going to die. She was going to die. I just kept saying it in my head. Thinking it I guess. The woman cried and she cried. Didn’t do no good of course. The girl was dead.

 

            Just a job I’d say. Just a job. People don’t think about it much. Everyone’s going to die, you know? They all will. I helped out a bit. You’re not going to like it, you’re not going to like me probably, but most people are as good as dead anyway. With or without me. They may as well be dead before they even die. It’s like that girl. The woman crying for her. Didn’t change a damn thing. No, dead, girl’s dead. No crying’ll make a difference. The girl’s dead. They killed her and she’s dead. Just look. I’m no thinking man. But I know. I know. Dead. Ain’t nothing changing that.

A guy