Ahoy! I've only posted once before here, a short story called 'Descent', but I found this community to be incredibly helpful. Anyway, this is the beginning of a story I just wrote.. I'd love any feedback you could provide. I haven't decided the method yet, but the idea is that the hero can predict crimes. A bit cliched, I know, but it sounded fun to write. Anyway, the method of his prediction is still up in the air. So far I'm leaning towards seeing them in dreams, but I'm open to suggestions. Well, here's what I have.
Oh yeah, a bit of a language warning, just in case.
***
Jeremy Dillon was waiting. The tall man with black hair leaned casually against the wall of a gas station and took a drag on his cigarette. Casually, he glanced at his watch. 10: 21. Not quite time yet. He fingered the .38 caliber pistol he kept in his jacket. Long ago, he had asked the authorities to help. They never did. He learned, hard and fast, that he would have to take matters into his own hands if he was to get anything done… and if he did nothing at all.. well, he couldn’t live with that. Unconsciously, his hand wiped his chin, which was covered with thick stubble.
“Knowledge is power… heh.” Dillon snorted and spat out his cigarette, looked at his watch again, and moved inside of the store. He knew what was to come.. murder. Yes, the pretty little asian woman behind the counter was going to be brutally shot. All that stood in the way of her death was him. Police didn’t care, they never believed him. He had never been wrong.. and he would never forget the one time he didn’t act.
The man feigned interest in the motor oil, all the while waiting for his mark to show. Yes, he knew who was coming. The man en route was a desperate crack addict needing his next fix. His name was Matthew Cathrim. Dillon wondered about Matt, wondered what could drive a man to go from a straight A student to a dog willing to do anything for his next fix. Matt would come here, flash a gun, and demand that the pretty little cashier, a single mother named Anne Humphrey, open the till. Anne would try to comply, she would. Anne was a hard worker, devoted to her family. The till would stick, and jolly old Matt would blow her head off. Well, he would if Dillon didn’t interfere.
10:47. That was the time he would be here.
Dillon passed the time by scoping out the store. It was the best conditions he could have hoped for. The entire place was empty. Only the three of them.
Suddenly, the door opened with a buzz. A young man with a gaunt face and haunted eyes walked into the store, and beelined for the register.
You can’t act yet. Wait for it. You can’t be wrong.
The man slammed a fist down on the register and halfway asleep Anne jumped. Matt’s face was a snapshot of rage. He was doing what crack addicts do, personifying all of his pain and his hopeless addiction on this innocent woman. His hatred for himself was projected onto Anne. She didn’t have a chance. Cathrim began to bark out his orders, Dillon could recite them from memory.
“Cash! Give me the fucking cash right now or I will blow your fucking head off.” Anne was working the register furiously, shock and fear apparent on her face.
He’s calm now. A few more moments, and he’ll be really upset. Dillon began to move towards the register.
“Do you think I’m fucking around?! Now! Open that fucking register now!” Cathrim slapped the woman, who cried and began to pound futilely on the till. Cathrims face grew bright red. Suddenly, Matt’s features went slack. He felt the cold barrel of a pistol grinding into his kidney. Dillon’s face was devoid of any emotion. He had grown accustomed to dealing with scum like this years ago.
“Hey there, cowboy. You and I are going to have a little chat. Drop the weapon. Now.” Dillon whispered into his ear, a voice as silent and merciless as death itself. “Come on now, Matto. You and I both know that this woman has nothing to do with your pain. Put the gun down, or I’m going to have to get mean.”
The gun was driven a bit more forcefully into his side. Still, Cathrim held his pistol at the crying woman. It was the only power he knew, in a life that had long ago given itself over to addictions.
A noise filled the air. The noise of a hammer being pulled back on a .38 pistol.
“All right, Cathrim, you have exactly ten seconds to put the gun down before I end your pitiful life. Hell, who knows, you might survive. I hear that a person really only uses one kidney.”
The young man began to quiver, and the hand with the gun lowered slowly. Cathrims face was white, and he managed to stutter out a sentence. “H-h-how do you know my name?” The gun was laid down flat on the table.
Still holding the pistol to Cathrims side, Dillon whispered again. “It doesn't matter.” CRACK. The pistol came down hard on Cathrims head, and the man crumpled to the floor. A weird silence took a hold of the room, as Dillon looked at Anne, and then down to the unconscious Cathrim. Dillon was the first to speak.
“Call the police. And give me a pack of smokes.” With a kick, the room was cleared to the register.
Knowledge is power… yeah right.
