So this is a starting point for
this idea that I'll be working on, hopefully done by the time summer vacation's over and I get back to school. This can stand alone as it is. Enjoy.
Cain spotted the helicopter and walked towards it. He looked down at the ground, kicking dirt up with his black sneakers. All of the ground he had been on for the last day had been covered with dust. When the wind blew, clouds of it flew up a few feet. He had seen, a few times, a dust devil – a miniature and ephemeral tornado that was the native creature of this land.
The helicopter was far away. Cain could only see it as a silhouette against the sun that was to set within an hour. There was nothing much to see; it was a matte black that the military painted all clandestine helicopters with. Cain’s ears, however, heard the four-bladed bird very clearly. The Blackhawk sliced the air without ceasing. The dull throbbing noise was the pain throb carried on the wind along with the half-whistling, half-screaming sound of the black machine.
The clear sky and the featureless land were the surface on which Cain projected his thoughts. Back in the town, the town that he dared not face again, there lay a dead man. Back in the town the sidewalks were dusty and you could not see ten houses down. The dead man lay with his revolver ahead of him and his crowbar under him. There was to be no burial by humans for him, but if the wind would cease, the dust would do the undertaker’s job and cover this corpse. The wind never paused; it was the only sign of life now in the town.
Now the Blackhawk’s blades were louder, and Cain’s short hair blew back and forth like grass after the harvest, his leather jacket flapping like a scarecrow’s in a gale before the rain. There was to be no rain, no water for days. Maybe when it did, the corpse would be covered in the mud. The door of the Blackhawk slid open, the sliding noise drowned out by the whirling blades. Cain began to run.
A short man pulled Cain into the passenger compartment. He had cool hands, and a smile that hardly ever wavered. “So you got him?” he asked.
Cain didn’t answer until the short man asked him the third time.
Cain nodded. It was impossible to say anything. He produced the photograph of the dead man. It seemed strange to him that he would have to photograph the man with an old instant camera. He was not to question details, and he had no wish to.
Cain recognized at last the short man as Alberts, the man who had flown in with him. It could be no other than Alberts, he reminded himself, because the helicopter waited at the same spot that it landed: get your thoughts together! He seated himself opposite the short man, and the soles of his feet were aching from the day’s job.
As the pilots chattered, Alberts looked at the photograph, squinting in the half-light. The door was closed, and little light penetrated the darkened windows of the helicopter. This was another unquestionable detail of the job. A man with ragged hair lay face-down on the sidewalk of the town. It was in front of a barbershop, but that was not visible. The crowbar was under the dead man, not visible either. A trickle of blood was on the dead man’s cheek where he had been shot, and it pooled on the dusty cement by his mouth. He wore a suit jacket with large pockets. Alberts put away the photograph in a binder, and a smile alighted again on his face.
“Man, I love these sandwiches,” he said, unwrapping one. “These and flying in this old bird are the reasons I keep this job.”
Cain didn’t say anything.
Alberts was now engrossed by the sandwich, leaning back, defying the crumbs that fell on his shirt. He wore a suit jacket, as the dead man, but with a blank t-shirt underneath. The helicopter lifted off; the pilots ceased their chatter. Crumbs rolled off him like pebbles on the hilly country. He deposited the wrapper in his left pocket.
In the dead man’s left pocket was the book that Cain’s knuckles hit when the two had fought. It was green-covered and the title was on the spine. He felt the book resting against his hip, inside the bag with the dead man’s other things. The book was evidence for the forensics guys to examine, along with some matches, cigarettes and scrap paper. However, it just didn’t fit with the rest of the stuff. It was written by H. G. Wells - “The Time Machine.” Cain had never read it, and didn’t remember ever hearing of it. He struggled to remember what the dead man had written on the inside of the cover.
“Rest, Cain. You had a long day and you know you have to sleep in flights,” said Alberts. Yet another detail. Again, Cain did not reply. Deep in thought, he readily stretched himself on the long helicopter seat.
To Alice – I hope you enjoy this surprise. I miss you more and more. Hoping to see you, your love, T.S.E. The image of the penciled message projected itself on the dark roof of the bird, large, menacing. The dead man was not T.S.E. He had no love in his eyes, not even before he had spotted Cain. A man in love would take his time, a man in love would not be so quick and so restless, and above all, a man in love would care after his appearance more than that. No, he was delivering the book to Alice, or else he stole it. More likely he’d stolen the book, planning to pawn it off somewhere. There were no shops anywhere in the town, and none nearby. Then again, how do I know, thought Cain. I haven’t explored the area and I don’t know where the hell this town really is. That’s why they want me to sleep in the Blackhawk, I don’t need to know the location. Well, poor Alice, you’re never getting that book back. It’s the evidence guys’ property now. Maybe the Sergeant will read it.
The Sergeant was who he was to reply to after the landing. He was the one who told him what to do. “Eliminate this man,” he had said, “and bring back whatever he’s carrying. Don’t worry about weapons, we have plenty. Leave his weapons with him. We just need anything he might carry.” Of course, Sergeant wasn’t his real name. He didn’t wear a name tag, and he looked tough, so that’s what Cain had named him. He had never mentioned this to others – they are all secretive but Alberts, who’s assigned to me. Do they have different names for the Sergeant?
Do they have a name for the dead man? Then again, thought Cain, Dead Man is appropriate. There was no chance of him surviving today. I flew in there to the wasteland in an evil helicopter just to take him out. He sighed.
Said Alberts, “You’re a brave man, Cain. Sleep, now.”
Cain closed his eyes and lay a hand across his face. Not that it matters, since it’s so dark I can’t see my hand. At least I didn’t mutilate the corpse. At least I gave him a good photo. How is that good? He’s still dead. At least it doesn’t show the gory part of his face, just the exit wound. I guess his revolver there is artistic. Artistic. You’re sick, you know that, Cain asked himself. You’re disgusting. You’ll turn into Alberts soon. But sometimes a man has to do his duty no matter how disgusting.
He rolled on his side, his back facing Alberts, who was still eating. Cain tried to sleep. Another thought projected itself, this time on the inside of his closed eyelids. Cain was young, Dad was there. Eliot, the cat, was in Dad’s arms. She twitched her grey tail. Dad said that Eliot had a tick. A tick is a bug that sucks Eliot’s blood. She might get sick. We have to pull the tick off.
Now you have to hold Eliot, alright? Dad let Eliot rest on the ground. She rolled around. Hold her by the scruff, the back of the neck there, hold the skin. She won’t move. Dad got a tissue. He looked through Eliot’s grey fur until he found the offending creature. Cain looked away and whimpered. Listen, son, you have to be brave. Yes, your brother’s not scared of ticks. You have to learn to be brave. Hold Eliot’s scruff. There we go.
Eliot was purring. Dad grabbed the ugly green tick and pulled slowly. Look here. This is how you pull off a tick. Slowly so that the head doesn’t stay on. The tick was removed. You’re a brave kid, son.
The Blackhawk helicopter flew on, a black silhouette against the purple and red of the dusk. From the dusty wasteland it could have been heard whispering, whispering to the gentle wind. There was no life on the ground. A dead man lay face-down by the barbershop.
