The Dropoff [Strong Language used occasionally]
The car park was quiet. There was only the silent chirring of crickets beyond in the dark fields. The moon lay low, a sliver above the horizon of pine needles. Mac stood there silently for Derrick to show up. It wasn't like him to be late--not half an hour late. Mac had been Derrick's go-between for the money; Mac was Derrick's old high school friend, and the two had been caught in a whirlwind of unfortunate circumstances. Mac, a talented young engineer, had lost 6 of the past jobs, as either the contracts had finished or the companies were cutting back due to the economic downfall the country was caught in. Derrick, always the support, but never employed-in the legal sense of the word-offered Mac opportunities for small jobs here and there. This night he was an in-between for a group of men with thick South American accents; he had met them earlier that evening at a Moxies, and was then told, by Derrick to show them around town (though there was not much to show). A job's a job... That was Mac's motto. Money was what paid the bills; not morals. He had now been with the money case for approximately three hours. One of which he was waiting around for Derrick in this parking lot.
Mac tried to call his cellphone a fourth time in the last fifteen minutes. "'Sup, you know the routine,' BEEP."
"Hey man, I don't know where you're at, but you got two minutes and then I'm bailing," Mac blurted. Suddenly, two headlights caught him by surprise, then the humming of a distant engine. The lights flashed again. Mac looked at a rusted old Ford pickup truck. It flashed him three more times, and slowly began to turn around.
Mac knew that it must have been Derrick's contact. He got into his car, a four year old Mustang GT, and began to follow. The truck pulled left out of the lot, and drove down the industrial side road, which led to factories, farms, and finally, forests, the crescent leading the way.
The rushing night air soothed Mac's seething temper as he was still irked by Derrick's lateness. The sooner this deal went down, the better he would feel. The smell of manure and grain drifted through the driver's side window, distant lights of a farmhouse twinkling between the high log fences and wheat.
Though Mac enjoyed dealing with Derrick, he was not very trusting of Derrick's people. They had wildly fluctuating temperaments, ranging from the calm one, Zeke the Monk-so-named because of his newfound faith and supposed humility--to a pack of ravenous wolverines, the Jet Pack they were called. Derrick was called Chief; everyone called Mac Sinister, because he was left-handed.
They would often change cars, living spaces, and, if necessary area codes, just to avoid detection. For the Jet Pack, in particular, as rambunctious as they could be, it was an art form that was continuously perfected, modified, evolving. It wasn't, therefore, unusual that Derrick (or at least one of his contacts) had shown up in an unrecognized vehicle. Even Mac had just acquired his ride.
They were now passing into the forest lined road, leaving the farms behind, and setting the moon, as they passed into the natural towers of pine and occasional cliff sides. The manure scent drifted off into the distance, and the earthy forest and tree oils now filled the car. Mac had a flood of memories return to him of summer cottages, and early August camping as a kid. The tangled underground roots of the forest mirrored the tangled synapses of memory he had of a childhood long ago.
Passing Walker's Bridge Mac began to feel a little uneasy. "I guess we're going to Zeke's Bunker," figured Mac, driving along trying to piece together his mysterious journey. He reached over to his passenger seat, sliding his hands over the briefcase. And he patted it twice. Then he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small magazine pistol. The weight of the gun rested comfortably in his hand. He placed the gun back into his pocket, and in a moment of panic, swerved his car around a large female deer, his tires squealing under the torsion of the swivelling vehicle. He noticed that the truck had disappeared. Looking back in his rear view mirror, the glowing eyes of the deer floated, slowly drifting further and further away, as Mac went up a particularly high and sharp hill. At the apex, he saw the truck below him. He continued to follow.
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.
Not hugging... choking, thought Mac, as he continued to gasp for breath, his heart pounding through his chest. He felt now a sense of dread. He did not understand where it came from. Perhaps it was all a result of the unusual circumstances behind him ending up here.
There was a crunching noise beneath his feet. Mac looked down to see he had just crushed a snail; he wiped his shoe on the dew and continued walking. He reached the first row of headstones, and began to count the rows: one, two, three, four, five, six... the seventh row was marked by a seven foot tall female angel, its wings gently folded along its back. Its face had a somber expression, and the mist and shadows had given it an eerie ethereal quality; lifelike, yet awful. For a moment, Mac felt as though the ground was going to give way underneath him, and the misty clouds were going to carry him with this creature to his ultimate judgment.
Mac uneasily turned left, right behind the angel. He did not want to turn his back to it; feeling as though it was going to come alive. It looked alive. In his periphery, it looked as if the wings were breathing. But he continued on his way. Looking ahead toward the seventh stone, he saw no one. He quickly called Derrick again.
"'Sup you know the routine, BEEP" Voicemail again.
"Dude, I don't see you! Where are--," said Mac, inching uneasily forward, but was cut off once again by three tones.
"The number you have dialed is not in service, please hang up..." Mac hung up. Taking in a deep breath, he moved forward, passing each gravestone, quicker than the previous, till he fell.
He hit his head hard on the sixth headstone. He felt even more moisture than before. Touching the sore spot, he flinched at the sharp pain. As his hand recoiled from his head he saw blood all over his palm. His right side of the face was now lightly trickling scarlet droplets. Seeing more stars than before, he pushed himself back up to his feet and looked down to see a shovel stuck into the ground. Looking over to the seventh gravestone, he saw that a hole had been dug. "The fuck?" He peered carefully over the edge, still dizzy from the fall. He couldn't make out anything significant. Was this the drop off point? Were they not even going to see him tonight? Were they on the run? That might explain the wonky connection. Looking around, he decided to risk turning on the flashlight and shining it around the gravesite for any notes or clues that Derrick may have left behind. His right eye was now hurting due to the bump on the head he had suffered. He tiptoed around the grave, trying desperately to see any sign of either Derrick or his former presence.
Nothing... peering back over the grave, he shined the light down the hole, and saw a closed casket. "Okay, this is just sick," Mac yelled around him, blood dripping steadily still, holding onto the headstone for support, "I'm leaving!" And then he saw the inscription upon the stone. "Sinister" Mackenzie Thomas; 1985-2013, Dropped Off. Shivers ran down Mac's spine, and he spun to run.
The hit was lightning quick. A blinding flash and it was dark again. He awoke with a kick to the ribs. Blood spurt up from his mouth. Looking up, he saw an old man peering down at him. He was wearing a grey bowler type hat, and a pea coat. Mac tried to make out his face but the mist from his breath was clouding it. It was the old man from the T- junction. In his hand, there was a shovel. As the old man slowly breathed in, there was a mocking look on his face. He knelt down, so that his left knee was over Mac's left shoulder, directly above his now racing heart.
There was a deep, long stare. Mac noticed that the old man's eyes were completely black, and there was a cold, satisfied grin on his face.
"Who...who the hell are you? Why are you doing this?" Mac struggled, as he gurgled more blood up.
"I am your undertaker, son; today is your day. I am going to bury you in this grave. So you can finally rest," the man said matter-of-factly.
"I don't get it... where is Derrick... are you his contact?"
"Son, I am nobody's contact. I am the decider. I am the judger. And it is my conviction that you are going today. As for your friend, yes, he did call you. He has already been put to sleep. Now it's your turn."
Tears began to trickle down Mac's cheeks. He was incredulous at what was going on. "You can't just kill people! What the hell is the matter with you?" Mac struggled to sit up, but the pain from his ribs brought up more blood and he fell back to the dirt. What stung even more was the choice of his own words. The stuff Derrick had done, with Mac often being an accomplice to survive...the irony was not lost on him.
"I don't kill people, I decide to put them to rest. You have been busy. You seem tired. Much like your friend, Derrick. It's quick, and painless. Terrifying, yes. But I rarely meet anyone who isn't terrified. Derrick went much more willingly than you are. Poor soul. He was in a lot of pain. You are, too. You just don't know it."
Mac cried out as his sides throbbed. He was in a lot of pain.
"Look to your right side," the old man said gently.
Mac rolled over and then saw the headstone on which he had hit his head. Derrick "Chief" Castella; 1986-2013; Here lies the King of kings. The inscription chilled him. Strangely, the grave looked as if it had been undisturbed for years; grass and weeds had grown all over it, and the stone itself was covered in mosses.
"Son, it's time. You have worked hard enough. It is time now to rest," the old man stood up, wielding his shovel high in the air as if to give the final, grim blow.
Mac then remembered the gun. He painfully rolled out of the way, screaming and grunting. He stumbled as he stood up, in great agony from the fractures. The old man lowered his shovel, and smiled, shaking his head slightly. "Why are you making this so difficult?" he asked. His stance was deceptive, as he looked like a cross between a benevolent grandfather and the grim reaper, shovel by his side.
Mac pulled out his gun, and held it high toward the old man. Not skipping a beat, the old man gently paced toward Mac, smiling. The mist which obscured much of his face cleared away completely, and Mac saw the piercing black eyes, glinting back his own reflection to him, with the barrel of the gun in a convex distortion.
They stood for a few seconds, but a seeming eternity to Mac. And the old man stuck his shovel into a large mound of dirt beside him. And Mac closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, the rich, moist, heavy night air. The smells of pine, and cedar came rushing into his nostrils, and across oceans of memories, he saw himself running through the woods of his cottage. He saw himself jumping and plunging deep into the lake, and the warm, wet summers of so long ago surrounded him now; And as tears trickled down his cheeks, he walked to the edge of the grave. Looking at the old man, he mouthed silently "Thank you," and lifting the gun to his head, pulled the trigger.