Carbonic Dreams

Chapter One: Blood is Non-Refundable

Simple pleasure, some say that such a thrill does not exist—but, they have never felt the rush. What rush, you ask? Certainly not the joy of winning the lottery or the near sighted bliss of a marital engagement, something far more macabre and visceral. The euphoria of strangling a man, feeling his nails wrap around my neck, his breath speeding up—only to eventually die out forever. The kicking of his feet soon stops, the same feet on which he took his first steps, and walked down the aisle towards the bride of veiled purity.

I never thought that I could take a life until the act had been committed. In a single moment, I had become a killer. Innocence is impermanent and furthermore, impossible to regain. After the deed was finished, I collapsed over top of the body—not out of rage or regret, out of anger. In death, even further, I hated the man. Slung over his hardening body, the blood from his previous wounds dripped down my face, dripping down upon my hands.

To kill, is to be stained, there is no penance with which I could equivocate for the foul deed; although, I did not particularly even seek redemption. I rose, none the less, from the corpse and viewed the face of my corruptor. I closed his eye lids, hiding the piercing blue eyes behind. Although dead men dream not and feel not—he did. The corpse wept blood and had prepared himself to rise and join me in my venture. In a blind rage and with the foresight of self-protection, I unsheathed my five-seven and fired three bullets into the corpse’s head. He absorbed the bullets—as if he was arming himself with the ammunition, only to later attack me. Perhaps he would later rise up behind my back and take me with him—what if there was no more room in Hell for his shredded soul?

Upon the final contact of the third bullet, his head shook, and his eyelids were forced open. This revealed they eye of the Underworld. His retinas were vortexes to the deeps of the lack of conscience. I wanted not to venture, I therefore removed my side, protective knife and gorged the blade into his stomach. His heart had been pierced by my knife in one thrust. Blood oozed, and only now could I sigh out of relief—the beast was dead. So dead, in fact, he died twice. I removed the knife from the corpse and returned it to my side.

“What are you doing?” A gentle voice from behind rang, each calming tone as suggestive and brutal as a hidden blade.

“Don’t look! It’s clear, let’s head out”. My reply lacked feeling. From the eruption of pain within me—not even a single ounce of passion oozed! Am I so dead, so foreign, that even the misplacement of a sacred life is merely incidental to my existence? Perhaps, there was no need for me to cry. His friends and relatives would cry sufficiently to his honour—the conquering of my apathy could not yet be wasted on the slovenly casualty. I walked away, grabbing the arm of my female companion, sweeping her after myself.

She attempted to look behind her, at the decomposing statue of life that lay behind; I grasped her face, begging her to focus ahead. I had been instructed to protect her and I had failed. Although present and secure in the biology, she had become far gone in the psychology. Living in constant fear of death, in isolation, and now being exposed to that which she had so long feared. She now knew that death was about, perhaps not upon her, but inching ever closer, learning her tactics and her name. Death whispers in her ear among the silence; once she receives an iota of hope, the sounding of the skeletal head will once again rear.

“How did they find us this time?” She continued to walk briskly beside me, not hesitating to match my pace. Almost calmly, as it was a relief, she asked the question. Her voice held no surprise, but instead, it held distain and a sense of cyclical depression.

“Don’t know. Damn Russians seem to know every Jack, John and Molly in this damn country. A car wash, a sleazy diner and now a gas station attendant—the Kremlin roots may be deeper than we previously thought”.

“How many do you think there are?”

“One less now.” Upon uttering the phrase, shrugging off my guilt; I wiped the remnants of the creaton’s blood from my face.

We had reached the end of the hallway, the vomit-stained, red-hued carpet had come to an end and a clear exit to the motel rested before us. I opened the creaking door, pushing her behind, under the protection of the hallway.

“One SUV: black, unmarked, to my left. One driver, one passenger in the front—God knows, how many in the back.” The secure car that we had taken here was surely being tracked already, I couldn’t risk taking it. But also, we needed to move swiftly, there was no telling how long it would take for the remaining vermin from the van to discover that their friend had permanently retired. There could even have been several others of the armed men in the hotel with us.

I refused to waste any more time. I slammed the door of the motel shut. With the aid of my female accomplice, we found a nearby vending machine and propped it in front of the door, preventing further entry from the exterior. There were only two entrances to the motel, with one now blocked; I would have total control over the traffic flow.

I heard a door creak a fair ways down the hall, only slight footsteps were heard. I put my finger to my lips to indicate to the lady, the necessity of stealth. I crept over to see the adjoining hallway, but I couldn’t get a visual. I unsheathed my pistol and charged down the corridor.

I shot once to the floor as a warning to the unknown intruder—damnit, it was only a civilian—a middle aged woman. No terrorist, no Russian: no threat. Although, she did cuss me out as if she had been a soldier or such. With the hallway clear of civilians, I brought the femme and advanced closer to the main lobby.

I glanced into the lobby where I had registered only twelve hours previously, not under a legitimate name, of course. The lobby consisted of a front desk, a dying plant, an oscillating fan as well as a Garfield poster which explained the concierge’s distaste towards ‘Mondays’. Upon hearing the gasp from the woman who is being guarded under my care, I began to reinvestigate. The concierge was solemnly seated at the desk’s chair—tucked in tightly with a bullet through his head.

''Did not see that coming…'' I exclaimed, as I grabbed hold of her for support. I grabbed her not only to comfort her but also to regain the reality of myself.

“What the Hell do you mean, ‘didn't see it coming' you are supposed to be the damn agent! What good are you then?  Step your game up: we're in the middle of a circus of corpses and armed freaks—you told me that you'd done this before!” Her voice not only challenged my credentials, but also my manhood, decency and professional competence. She, despite working with me, was as much a rival as the vodka-sucking Russians that surrounded us.