Cartridge

The pistol blast filled the air with a lurid, startling noise.

Tim's muscles contracted and pushed, feeling at once strange and exhilarating. His legs heaved, to and fro, up and down like a marching band. He felt his lungs gasping, the oxygen pouring through his mouth and diffusing across his membranes. The oxygenated blood pumped through his rigorous, corded muscles and he found himself propelling down the lane of the McMahon Stadium track. He couldn't tell where his competitors were, everything else was a blur, feeling at once inconsequential. He continued to run, pushing with everything he could.

The track felt weightless beyond his legs and he was soon slowing, giving some resistance to the track. His body itself felt heavy like a stack of rough stone. His lungs felt like they were about to give out but he fought back against the feeling, bringing his breathing back into a harmonious rhythm.

Tim felt himself continuing to slow down, automatically, as he had trained. His competitors began to catch up with him, with some distance still between them. They began to slow too.

The loudspeaker poured out with a midwestern voice, the announcer, before being countered by an unfamiliar drawl.

Texan, maybe, Tim thought.

The second announcer chimed in, his voice a funny contrast to the midwestern accent. Tim still couldn't place the accent and thought for a few moments as his run became a jog. He continued jogging for a few second waving, before stopping. The other runners had stopped behind him.

He had won.

Tim stood still, feeling his body ache and his lungs quake. The jeer of the crowd grew from a simple applause to a mild outpouring. He felt proud, if not for a moment but for a few seconds. The feeling gradually subsided. It never lasted long for him.

He could feel the sting of envy from his competitors but he pushed the feeling to the back of his mind and kept smiling, waving as he did. The night had been a cool one but his skin felt warm and prickled against the chill air. November would surely be a good month, Tim thought, better than I've had.

He walked off the track, away from the jeering crowd which had now mostly left the stands and headed back to their parked sedans and SUVs. He walked into the dull, drab brown and white locker room, feeling elated but somewhat morose. He had won, why did he feel this way?

Making his way from the locker room, he felt fresh in different clothes, a new man. The world was his oyster, Tim had decided, he just had to figure out how to shuck the pearl. Walking into the parking lot, he made his way past a gaggle of reporters seeking his attention, pushing past their prying eyes and questions.

"Mr. Matthews, one second if you would" A voice pleaded.

"One question please, sir" Another said.

He shrugged off the reporters and continued walking to his rusty, beat-up Toyota Corolla. The car was a wreck but it was enough to get from point A to point C, and so on. He felt he deserved better but the rust bucket was all he could afford at the time.

For now anyway, Tim thought. For now...

Tim pulled out of the parking lot and onto the network of paved roads that made up the modest town's interior road system. While the paved roads extended through most of the 'downtown core', if it could be called that, and through some of the residential neighbourhoods that surrounded it.Tim drove through these areas, making his way to the outskirts. He lived in a dusty run-down housing project that could be considered luxurious, to a vagrant. He found the environment stifling, but he did his best to keep his head above the tide. Just a while longer, he'd think to himself, while running on the beat up treadmill that took up the back corner of his small housing unit bedroom.

On some level he knew that his ticket out of here, this gig, this running thing that he loved with all of his being, was it. He felt alive while running, truly alive, not like he felt here in this dreary slum. But sometimes the dream wasn't enough. He had bills to pay, now, and the distant promise of some recompense was hard to keep in mind. He slowed down on the treadmill before stopping. He'd finished his run for the night.

Getting off the treadmill and cooling down, Tim walked loops around the modest 18'x10' room that was his home. The room was divided partially by a wall with an arched doorway. On one side was the bedroom where his treadmill and bed resided, and on the other side was a small kitchenette and the entrance foyer.

Tim walked into the bedroom and began to unpack his bag. He carefully took out his Puma tracksuit, a sleek all-black that seemed to meld into the night. He bought the suit because of its eigengrau tone and felt proud of the outfit. The suit was the only thing he truly loved, he thought, the only thing besides running that made him feel anything.

As a child he had been to various psychologists, specialists, pediatricians, doctors of all manner, you name it. He felt odd growing up, different. He was unnaturally tall at a young age, nothing in the realm of a basketball player, but something more like a runner. No one could quite put their finger on what it was but something was off with Tim. He was unemotional for his age, even as a baby. But he also felt as if pain were some far off memory, something that is there for a second then gone.

As a teen he was lean, agile, quick, and he began to run to belay the taunts of his peers who were quick to eviscerate him for his peculiarities. He also didn't smile, or hated to, as his teeth were somewhat bad but not horrendous. He instead smirked in a sly, cunning sort of way. This made him feel devious in many ways, and by 15 he was getting into fights regularly. He won, most of the ones worth mentioning anyway, and he had good hits on most of the ones he lost. He had stopped counting the fights, after his 10th win, but continued fighting until his parents forced him to stop or they would throw him out. He chose to leave, but he stopped fighting. He felt this was the best thing to do.

He moved out at 17, into the unit that he still lived in. While he regretted his choice in some ways, he felt liberated in others. But the dragging sense of loneliness could be toxic at times, and threatened to torpedo his whole endeavour. He wondered at times if he'd ever survive, if he'd ever prosper, or if this dreary ramshackle hut was all that he would ever amount to.

Tim laid down in bed and began to drift to sleep.

He had a dream where he lay in a field, a meadow. He felt the grass along his body, the individual blades poking every part of him. He felt strange. The grass began to shift and he began to fade into it. Tim fought back, using everything to claw out of the hole that he was rapidly sinking into but it was no use. The ground consumed him.

Tim awoke in a cold sweat. He sat up, wiping his brow and breathing heavily. He felt around his bed, the soft cotton sheets feeling a quick reprieve to the sordid tangle of grass that he was previously in. He relaxed at once, falling asleep again.

The blaring alarm clock awoke Tim and he slapped it with a sense of ferocity, maybe a little too hard. The plastic shell wheezed under his hand and cringed, cracking along the weaker segments. Tim sat up and began to dress, throwing on a T-shirt and a pair of joggers.

He walked from his room to the kitchenette, opening the fridge. Inside were a few things, mostly essentials: milk, eggs, etc. He grabbed the milk and a bowl, and grabbed the cereal from a cupboard above the fridge. Pouring the cereal into the bowl, and then the milk, he sat down to eat. The room felt a little too quiet, and Tim decided to turn on the small TV that was in his room. He searched for and found the remote, pressing the buttons impatiently. The TV chimed to life. He flipped around, finding nothing really too interesting before - Wait. What was that. A news program, hmm, well... A robbery. A string of robberies. He felt a little strange and kept watching. The assailants are still at large, but there was a fatality, one of the robbers. His role, unknown. Tim watched the host continue on, feeling quite drawn into the sensationalism of it all, the very thrill. He wondered how the robberies might end. Would they flee, into the night, or would the police make their arrests?

Tim leaned back in his chair, feeling a little uneasy. All that money, He thought. I'd never see it.. He yawned before finishing his cereal. He got up, and put the bowl in the sink, running the tap onto the ceramic exterior before turning the tap off again. He walked back to his bedroom and got onto the treadmill. He needed to do a run before going out for some errands, just to keep up on his regimen. He trained everyday, for an hour or two in the morning and evening. This was his method, and he stuck by his principles, staying tight to them for years.

His training became a form of mediation after the years, helping him to pull himself out of the funk, the malaise. The benefits were profound. He felt so good after running, so unbelievably good.

Better than good, he felt alive. More alive than he ever had. The meditation was doing its magic and he soon felt better. Although he had won, he was used to feeling like shit after a race. As if he hasn't lived up to his potential. It was a strange way to frame things, the psychologist had once told him, but his mind was used to strange framings. He felt indifferent most of the time, and odd. Not quite dysmorphia, as he was proud of his body, but something like dissociation or potential psychosis. The psychologist who brought up the framing discussion had said as much, and what little Tim understood was compounded by his rough memory of the distant time.

Tim finished his run and began to cool down, slowing his pace slightly and coming to less a run and more a jog. He stepped off the treadmill and grabbed a towel from his bedside, brushing off the lingering sweat and grime. He felt at ease, the post-workout endorphins taking their effect.

After toweling himself off he walked into the kitchenette and fixed a small meal. He sat on a stool in a series of stools that ran along the counter. This place was utilitarian but very depressing to him, he wanted more space, more room to move. But there was nowhere else that he could afford. He sat at the counter, resigned.

The phone rang and he picked it up, feeling a little odd. He never received calls.

"Hello?" Tim said meekishly.

"Meet me at the Trove n' Trunk. 930 sharp."

The phone clicked dead.

Tim held the receiver to his ear for a moment before stretching it out further, away from his body, giving the phone a sideways glance as he did. He felt a little strange, but he knew the place. A dumpey little joint off 4th and Main. He wasn't sure if he'd go but what else did he have to do for the night besides train? And he had nothing going on for the weekend...

Tim thought for a moment. The receiver began to beep loudly. He hung it back up.

He looked at the time. It was 8:39 pm. He had little less than an hour to go to the bar. Hmm. He walked back into his bedroom and put on his black tracksuit, feeling proud for a moment, and stopping at the bathroom to see himself in it. This gave him confidence. He walked out the door

There was a light fog outside, and the air felt crisp, if not chilly. Tim pulled the zipper on his jacket a little tighter before walking down the driveway and into the surrounding neighbourhood. He'd walk, to save gas, and the town was small, he reasoned. It took him a little over 20 minutes to get through the residential area that encrusted the core downtown area. He walked slowly, taking in his surroundings. He felt a little uneasy and many questions raced through his mind. Who was he meeting? Why? He knew where and when but the rest evaded him.

He walked and walked and was soon within distance of the Trove n' Trunk. The sign was carved, painted wood, reminiscent of old English pubs. He was in distance when he smelt the faint aroma of something unknown. He found the smell off-putting, it was faint but acrid like vinegar. But he remembered the smell, it was undeniable. He'd been here before, he recalled, on a dreary night not unlike tonight, drinking with friends on a pub crawl.

Tim missed them. The night was a few years previous, before he'd gotten into a fight with one of his friends and was thrown away by the whole group. He'd gone down to Hanks to meet with the group: Charles, Albert, Hank, and Rufus. The night was as normal as ever, and he found himself awash in a sea of memory. He forgot some of the night, as he got progressively drunker, but most of it remained. They were drinking at a few different pubs, minding their own business. Everything seemed fine. Until they got to the Trove n' Trunk. Then things took a strange turn.

"Well that's complete bullshit, both of us know that" Hank said. He was sort of the leader of the group. We'd always meet at his.

"Bullshit huh" Albert spun back around and lightly jabbed Hank, not in an intention to cause violence, but to shock him, like a slap. The punch proved effective. Hank was further enraged.

"You motherfucker" Hank muttered under his breath. A vein started to pulse on his neck, as he was apt to do. He'd later develop hypertension, much to his doctors' chagrin. But there was no calming him down when he got into one of his moods. No Sir, Tim thought. Hank started to breathe heavily, getting a little bit intense and shoving his way over to where Albert was. We continued walking to the next bar as he did.

Hank nestled up to Albert, and Albert became a little uncomfortable. I don't remember exactly what happened next but it went a little like this:

Hank: Hey Fuckwad

Albert: Ye-- Fuck you!

And then the fists started flying. First Hank and then Albert. And the whole time all I could smell was that weird acrid smell from the pub. It was late, pitch black out and I couldn't see shit from the double ryes and coke I was downing but I could still smell and sure as shit was that smell was there. The next few moments are a little strange, and only Rufus, the less reliable of the group, claims this still. But out of the back of the pub, one of the bouncers set a series of suitcases out. A van came by and picked them up, stopping short of each and loading them quickly as they drove by. The van was grey, a muted matte gray, but no plate. Rufus swears he saw it to this day but we've always dismissed it as one of his oddities, of which there were many. Nobody knew why he'd lie about it but we were certain he would. It was too weird.

A hand startled him from the daydream. And he snapped back to reality. The smell was as pungent as ever, as pungent as the previous memory, but something about the smell had changed. It had become more coarse, more acrid, as if it had been simmering for some time. Tim walked towards the bar and the smell became ever more pungent as he neared the building.

The doors themselves were of a metal and wood combination, with squares of glass inlaid into a paneled frame. The panels were glass plates in an 8 piece grid and they looked old and grimey. He pushed at the rickety door and walked inside, the air warm and musky. The acrid smell wasn't as strong here, but seemed to still be there, in the background. He looked around the bar, which was fairly empty, save for a few scattered around the various tables, chairs and stools that comprised the bar space. The serving bar was near the doorway and Tim approached it, seating himself near facing the door. He had never felt comfortable with his back to the door, especially now. Who the fuck was I meeting? Tim thought as he seated himself. The barman walked towards him and caught his wandering glance.

"What can I get for you?" The barman said.

"A beer, pilsner." Tim said briskly.

The barman nodded and walked towards the fridge, pulling a bottle from behind the shiny metallic door. The barman popped the top before handing it over to Tim.

"3.50" he said

Tim fished for a few bills before handing them over. The barman counted them and returned a couple coins. The exchange was over as soon as it had begun.

Tim handled the beer cautiously. He hated drinking beer but hard liquor just made him want to rage. He needed a clean head tonight, for whatever this was.

Tim looked around the bar, seeing no one interesting and he began to wonder if he was wasting his time. He'd stay another 20 minutes, but that was it, and then he'd leave back to droll housing unit for another day of training. He had a race in a few days and needed to stay prepared.

He sat around for what felt like an eternity. The minutes slowly passed and what was 5 became 10 and soon 15. He glanced at the clock, only a few more minutes.

A tap on his shoulder caused him to look to the left. He didn't see anyone, until he looked down a little. A squat, fat man was looking back at him, totally unassuming. He had thick horn rim glasses and a burly mustache, the sort like stalin. Tim immediately disliked the man, something about the way he was standing or perhaps it was his gruff demeanour, he couldn't place it.

The man sat down and looked ahead, he looked at the bar man and nodded no before looking ahead again.

"So, you came"

Tim didn't say anything for a moment. The man must've taken this as a tacit agreement, because he continued:

"Don't say anything, you don't need to. Just listen. I have a very important job for you. Only you can do it. What do you think?"

Tim looked ahead as well, before taking a sip.

"What is it?" Tim asked.

"I can't give you details, but you need to make a run for me, with a package of sorts -- a duffel bag."

Tim took another sip of his beer.

"Alright, when do I start?" Tim replied.

The man took a small package out of his coat and handed it to Tim.

"Take this home and open it, but not until you're home."

The man looked at Tim for a second before getting up and leaving. Tim followed him as he passed by his right, but said nothing. There was nothing off about the man. He seemed like a middle aged father, off to drown a few of his sorrows. Even down to his elbow patched, wool professor's coat. Soon the man was gone, the door swinging as he left.

Tim got up and did as the man instructed, putting the package into his tracksuit. He walked home, through the chilly fog and rows of residential units that comprised the bulk of his journey.

The trip back was uneventful, and Tim felt at ease most of the time. The package rested comfortably in the inner pocket of his all black tracksuit, but his attention kept returning to it. It was small, no bigger than a packet, manilla envelope, sealed rather well... So it couldn't be much or so he thought. What could it be?

He walked brisker than his journey before, feeling a slight sense of importance. Staying on the sidewalks, he melded into the night, a tall ghost of a figure barely illuminated by the light, he felt invisible. But he was used to feeling invisible, the psychologists had said as much and he agreed, despite his stature, that he felt invisible. This was strange, as most youth his age were more apt to feel invincible. But not Tim. His sense of mortality was ever present, as present as his heart beat. He could be cold emotionally, but the reactive capacities of his body were as taut as ever, ready to move.

Tim walked into his small housing unit, a sense of dull excitement bubbling. He looked behind himself and closed the door to the housing unit. He hadn't been followed or anything. Not that he ever would be. He shook the feeling from his mind and returned to the package in his hands. It felt a little heavy. He began to open the envelope, carefully prying the packing tape that was over the seal. The paper pulled off the surface some, but he was able to open it enough to pop the envelope open. He carefully shook the contents out onto the kitchenette counter.

Inside was a black full face mask, like a ski mask without the breathing bits, made of some nylon material or other synthetic. The mask was wrapped around something, and Tim carefully unwound the mask. A small 'saturday night' special type pistol clattered onto the counter. It had an engraving, T.M. along the slide, and a smooth polished wood handle. It was pretty nice, for what little Tim had seen of firearms. A note was taped to the gun:

JUST IN CASE

He felt a little spooked by the weapon, and backed away.

Somewhere in the background an alarm blared loudly. Tim ran as fast as he could, his muscles heaving, blood pumping, breath racing. Wearing his all black tracksuit and the mask, he quickly hurdled over a dumpster, knocking it to the ground. A swarm of police appear from around the corner, all of them huffing. They keep running after Tim for some distance, before giving up the chase.

Tim continued to run through the cool night, his breath at an even pace, as he had trained to do. He didn't stop, didn't think to look behind him, and didn't care. He just needed to deliver this package to an unmarked postage box. The box was on the north edge of town, a little ways from the downtown core that he was rapidly moving away from.

He took off the mask at some point, and slowed to a brisk walk. He looked around himself before doing so, making sure no one was around. His skin beneath was layered with sweat and his dark hair was matted. The air felt cool on his skin, and he felt a little unnerved. He always felt off when he had a package, no matter what.

A few months had passed since Tim started, and he was always on time. His employer was pleased. A packet of money would be slipped under his door after every successful job, and he was almost out of the dingy housing unit that had been his home for so long. He just needed a bit more money. The jobs paid well enough, but he also started to live a little larger. Fixing up his car. Eating out more. That sort of thing. But he deserved it, after grinding for what felt like an eternity.

Tim approached the mailbox, pulling a duffel bag off his back. He looked around before opening the large receptacle and placing the package inside. Then he closed the lid and the bag made a dull thud as it dropped inside. He walked away from the mailbox, before breaking into a jog.

The night was cool, and he felt like sprinting back home, ready to collect his payment. He moved as fast as he could from the north end to his dreary unit on the edge of town, without directly running. He wanted to run, but he reasoned that it would be too suspicious. Most people jogged. And thus he would jog.

Tim was soon home. He stepped inside, and then sat down at the kitchenette counter, waiting. Some time passed before an envelope slipped under the door. He walked over to the packet, similar to the one that he was initially given, and picked it up. It felt somewhat stiff and thick, like a stack of paper. He opened the envelope and shuffled the contents into his other hand. A stack of assorted bills was inside, roughly a thousand dollars. It came in a variety of conditions, some neat, some rough and tattered, others worse. He wondered where this money came from, what its life was like, before returning his attention to the money. He walked over to his fridge, and fished through the above cabinet. Inside was a metal box with a key. He pulled the key out of his pocket and put it into the lock. Inside were more bills of similar type. He placed the wad inside, next to the other rows of bills. He had close to enough to move out, just a few more jobs and he would be free. Truly free.

The air was cool, perhaps too cool, but Tim didn't notice, he was too involved in his usual method. Retrieval, Escape, Deposition. That was all he knew. But this time was different. Tonight would be different. He didn't remember how it all went down, but he thought he should start at the beginning, or as close to it as possible.

The night began as all others had, he left his flat and made his way to the pick up site. He had to be there early, ready for pickup from the team. He never knew who they were, they all wore masks too, and he hesitated to ask. They were quick to sting, like wasps, and didn't appreciate questions. Nor did they seem like the talking type, with their automatics and heavy pistols. Tim knew what to expect, but never knew what to expect of them.

He kept walking as those thoughts drifted in his mind and more: the team, his role in this all, his dreary housing unit, how he'd soon be free. It's all that mattered. All that ever mattered anyway to Tim anyway, all that he seemed to care about. Freedom was his driving cause. His reason for being. He knew this, and nothing else mattered. Freedom was everything.

As he walked he became aware of a presence, as if he were being tailed or something. He didn't see exactly who, but Tim felt a paranoid feeling of being watched. Tim looked around but saw nothing, and felt a little strange. He kept walking, and was soon at the pick up point. He looked at his watch. He was early by 10 minutes.

A few minutes before he was finished waiting, he put on the mask and looked around, still feeling watched. He didn't like this. Not one bit. He kept looking at his watch. A minute passed, and another and the team was soon late. He wondered where they were. They were never late.

A van screeched around a distant corner and cruised down the street to the alleyway where Tim way. He could here a sense of desperation in the tires and felt off. The van was covered in bullet holes, and one of the tires was flat. The team pulled up, and the door opened; but this time the team climbed out. They threw him a large duffel bag that was heavy. He put the bag on his back quickly. The team this time was only two people, and one of them was nursing a gunshot wound to the abdomen. A torn bit of cloth was seeped in blood, as one of them grabbed a gauze pad and handed it to the wounded one. The unwounded team member put his arm around the wounded guy, and the wounded team member motioned for Tim. Tim hesitated.

"Come on, hurry the fuck up." The wounded man said, in a gruff thick voice.

"Well?" Another higher voice kicked in.

Tim took the mans arm and helped him. The three of them hobbled for some distance before one of them said.

"This is is no use - you gotta leave me." The wounded man said

"Are you serious? Right now?" Shrill voice lauded.

They stopped for a moment. Sirens could be heard in the distance. The wounded man looked pretty rough, and was quite pale.

"Listen I'll re-apply a bandage and then firemens carry you the rest of the way, alright?" The shrill voice said before motioning to Tim. "If anything happens you proceed directly to drop off and then split."

A light could be seen in the distance, fairly close. The powerful beam cut through swathes of darkness, illuminating the rundown part of the downcore that they were in.

"Shit" The gruff voiced man said.

The shrill voiced man finished applying the bandage, and then picked up the gruff voiced man rather quickly, but carefully, and started to move towards drop off. Tim looked at the light in the distance for a while longer before it turned away from them.

"You coming?"

Tim began to follow the shrill voiced man. This is the part that Tim forgets, that's hazy. He isn't exactly sure how it happened but who ever knows in those split second moments.

They were close to the drop off point, so close, within sight almost. Just over through the next block and they'd see the rusty mailbox that was the dropoff point. They were jogging, when the gruff man wanted to rest for a moment. The shrill voiced man slowed down but didn't give in. They argued for a few moments, somewhat quietly, and Tim doesn't remember what was said but it was heated.

Now instead of resting, as they should have done, they kept going. Tim was certain that if they'd stopped they'd never have run into that car. The night was pretty dead for the most part, with an occasional vehicle passing. But at some point someone began to follow them, a grey sedan, probably not police or they would've made a move. But Tim and the shrill voiced man didn't notice, at least not at first. Not until the vehicle was bearing down on them. Tim had only a second to move until the car ran down the two team members, sending both into the air. They hit the pavement with a dull thud and Tim watched in horror, the image forever burned into his mind.

Tim fumbled for the pistol he'd been given as the car cranked into reverse and spun around. The vehicle positioned itself to strike him next. Getting the pistol out, he pulled back the slide and aimed at the driver. The car rapidly approached. Tim doesn't remember the next few moments but suffice to say it didn't end well for either of them.

Next thing Tim knew he was in a hospital bed, handcuffed to the gurney.

THE END