Friday Flash - 13A
Thursday, December 3, 2009 at 08:36PM 
As part of Friday Flash, I've decided to serialize a very cool story that's included in In Search of Monsters called 13A. I'll publish it in parts right here on this blog every Friday in December. If you just can't wait, you can also check out the full version in my Downloads section. Enjoy!
13A
Part 1
At 8:41 on a cloudy Tuesday morning, Gerald Dozier awoke to a piercing headache. It was a pain as harsh and wicked as a Montana winter. No more of that cheap Bowman’s vodka, he thought as he lay there wrapped in pain. At least not for a while. He winced and grabbed the dirty robe that hung from his bedpost to stumble into the kitchen, a trail of stale vodka following him.
He didn’t bother to shower. No reason to, really. He wasn’t going anywhere, hadn’t in the four months since the divorce papers had been signed. Most days he didn’t even change out of his pajamas. His shopping was done on a sluggish laptop, his groceries delivered by the Asian boy in 13F, his trash dropped right down the incinerator shoot at the end of the hall. It was a cumbersome and lonely way to live but for Gerald is was easier than facing a world that seemed to have rejected him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. He had, and failed. Two wives, three jobs, and one foreclosure. Yes, he had tried.
At least now he was well, or at the very least, back home where he belonged. The dark days were past, or at least, he prayed that they were.
The smell of cheap coffee replaced the stench of cheaper booze. He poured himself a cup, slurped, and plopped himself onto the futon. Empty pizza boxes surrounded him, and dozens of candy wrappers covered every empty bit of table. A thin light radiated from two rusty lamps. A television sat on a rickety laminate table covered in dust and old issues of Sports Illustrated.
He flipped on the television. Nothing. Gerald cursed and tried a different channel, then a third. Great. Goddamn cable company. It was the third time this month. He flipped the television off in disgust.
He puttered around the apartment a moment, pacing across the hardwood. What to do? No cable meant no internet. He had no books in the house. He used to love to read, had read voraciously in fact, but after the divorce he’d ditched every book in the place, cramming them down the trash shoot with a broom handle as tears burned his eyes. They’d been her books mostly, and watching them slide into oblivion had been insanely cathartic, at least at the moment. Now because of that emotionally fueled escapade, he read very little aside from the occasional article on MSN.com. God, if he only had a newspaper. At least that would be something.
Now there was an idea. Gerald snapped his fingers as he slithered toward the front door and peered through the peephole across the hall to the doorway of 13A.
Jackpot.
Placed across the welcome mat, dressed in a clear plastic bag, was Mrs. Kratz’s copy of USA Today. It almost felt too perfect. What if I just took it? he thought. Would she miss it? Really?
He slinked into the hallway, mug of coffee still in hand. He glanced left, then right, like a private eye on a stakeout. Confident the coast was clear, he stooped and wrapped his fingers around the plastic sheath as his pulse pounded in his fingertips. It was then that a voice froze him in his tracks.
“Hold it.” It was gravely and weathered but strong.
Gerald looked up to see the door open a crack, pulled against the security chain. The dual gaping hollows of a double barrel shotgun glared back at him like a pair of hungry eyes.
Gerald had never before had a gun in his face. The sight caused his coffee to rise in his throat and tie his stomach in a knot. He swallowed but his mouth remained devastatingly dry. “Oh hello, Mrs. Kratz,” he croaked. “Good to uh, good to see you.” His eyes remained glued to the twin barrels.
The old woman let out a sigh. Was it relief or anger? Both? Then, “What you doing with my paper?”
“Nothing I was just, um…” It was nearly impossible to talk.
“You were stealing my paper, weren’t you? I’ll be damned, you fat little sneak, at a time like this.”
Gerald managed to stand upright. “No, Mrs. Kratz. I mean, I wasn’t steal—“ He stopped as he heard one sharp click, followed by another. Hammers being pulled back on the shotgun, he figured. Must be an antique. A wave of nausea washed over him.
“I said you hold it. I’m still not sure you’re not one of them.”
He froze. The barrels were face-level now, staring back at him. Even if he’d wanted to move, it would have been impossible. The gun had him transfixed. “Mrs. Kratz, please put that down. Please? It makes me a little, uh, uncomfortable. Here, your paper, you can have it. I don’t even want it.” He raised his hand to shove the newspaper through the crack in the door but before he could, it slipped from its plastic coat and tumbled to the floor in a flutter of loose pages. The mug of coffee followed, falling from his other hand and spilling across the carpet with a muffled clang.
“Jesus. Look what you’ve done now,” said Mrs. Kratz.
This is it, he thought, with a sense of relief. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the explosion of lead, waiting for the buckshot to tear through his skull, hoping the end would come quickly.
But it didn’t come. Gerald emptied his lungs from what felt like mountains of breath and opened his eyes. The door was wide open.
A tiny old woman stood in front of him wearing baggy camouflage pants cuffed at the ankle, black combat boots, and an army surplus jacket that hung nearly to her knees. A military style green beret mashed down curls of white hair. She held an old-looking double barrel Browning shotgun.
“Well? Get your ass in here, cowboy,” she said. “We’ve got work to do.”
Read my other Friday Flash entry - A Fleeting Hope
Reader Comments (2)
ok. ya got me hooked. be back next week. nice easy going style that drew me in. want to know where it goes, sign of a good write..
Thanks, Michael. See you next week!