The Dropoff, by ASP1984

The truck turned left up ahead, at a T-junction. Zeke's was to the right, though. Mac, following, now figured that the deal was to happen at the old Irons cemetery. It was perfect, now that he thought about it. It was secluded, fairly open, and, most importantly: no one had been buried there in nearly a century. The last people to fill that site fought in the Great War, the one that was to serve as a lesson for all of humanity and end all conflict. The irony made Mac smirk.

As Mac approached the T-junction, he had to stop; there was an old man crossing the street. It's three a.m., Mac thought to himself in surprise. The old man had a grey, short, bowler type of hat, and a long jacket that resembled a pea coat. His pace was slow, and his cane seemed to weigh heavily in his hand, as with each step he made an audible tap. The old man looked sickly pale, as if these were his last breaths; he breathed misty air into the night. Mac looked at the old man's free hand, but there was no cigarette in it; Mac checked his car's thermometer: 20 degrees Celsius. He looked back up and the old man had already finished crossing. At that pace?

Mac made his left turn, and realized he had lost the truck; no problem. He'd speed up and swing by the cemetery; there really wasn't a whole lot of other locations going this way that Derrick could have gone to.

After about two minutes of speeding down the road, there was no sign still of the truck. But the cemetery was coming up on his left. As he approached in his car, Mac saw the land gently resting beneath the night mist. Mac pulled over to the side of the road and turned off his engine. No noise. Not even the din of insects. Derrick, this is not cool! He looked up and down the road but there was no sign of anything. In the distance, he saw what could have been a possum... or a really skinny raccoon. But there was no sign that seemed to show activity. Except...

The gate to the cemetery was open. This is stupid, thought Mac, I am going home. He started up his car and began to make a U-Turn, when suddenly from behind him, he saw lights flashing at him. He pulled over again, facing the other direction, and turn his car off again. Three more flashes. And then, his phone went off.

Mac jumped, as the phone broke the silence with the cacophony of a stock ringtone. Derrick Calling... "Yo, where the fuck have you been?" Mac yelled into the phone, frustrated, angry... jolted.

"Hey, come to the seventh row as you walk in; seventh stone on your left," came Derrick's voice, a calm drawl, ignoring Mac's outburst.

"Fine...Should I bring..." but the line had already been disconnected.

Mac heard three loud tones, and a recording "Your call cannot be completed as dialed; please hang up and try again later," click! Mac hung up. He would take the briefcase, and the gun, with him. From his trunk, he grabbed a small LED flashlight.

As he got out of the car, he looked up and down the road, and proceeded to walk toward the cemetery. It was humid down by the cemetery, Mac noticed, as his hands began to clam up. His gut gave him a queasy disturbance. None of this felt good. He had noticed it was much darker now, too, as the sliver of moon was now hidden behind clouds. He looked up, not a single star in the sky, though he noticed the orange tinged Mars above the south line of trees. Mac wiped his brow and began walking to the gate. The uneven, unkempt soil beneath his feet caused him to stumble a little. The misty grass clung to his pants, and he felt the wetness through the cloth; the still, humid air did the same to his skin. He felt trapped in dense atmosphere, and wanted to escape it. He began to take in deep, heavy breaths, sensing that he was being choked. He walked through the gate; it was such a stereotypical gate-rusted thing iron columns, pointed like spears at their top tips wrought together by horizontal bars, hugging the plot of land, as if keeping its family of corpses in a tight, eternal embrace.