Calling In

The jingle of the radio plays out, replaced by a familiar voice.

“Hey hey hey folks. Thanks for tuning into KRUD. It’s your faaavorite host, K Alex! How’s everyone’s night going so far? I know mine’s going great!”

Muffled chatter plays from the radio and out through the open window of the 2002 Dodge Charger idling in the Motel 6 parking lot. The man in the driver seat takes a long drag of a cigarette before dropping it out the window. The smoke lingers inside the car, lit red.

“It’s going to be a bittersweet one tonight; I’ll tell you that folks. We’ve been through so much with him, that lovable bastard, through the highs and the lows. Through some incredible thrills and chills. We’ve all grown so attached to this grumpy motherfucker but it’s looking like his last night.”

On the dashboard is a screen displaying two blood-red marks. Above the marks is the name, C. Deacon, in the same red. These are the only lights in the car.

“The last two! Wow, time really flies. From twenty-two to just two, in just two weeks. I don’t know how Deacon did it! Now, that’s impressive. I’ve never seen anyone make it this far. Make sure that these last few count folks!”

A familiar droning melody plays, punctuated with ticks. A moment later, a robotic voice speaks from the radio, “Calls open in three minutes.”

With a beep, a message appears on the console.

[Remember the fucking deal]

[I know], Deacon types out. He wishes he still had his cigarette.

The melody plays out until it is eventually replaced by a dial-up sound.

“Helloooo Callller! What’s your request for tonight?”

“I want this bitch killed. This cunt ruined my fucking life-”

The new caller speaks with slurred words before he’s cut off. He’s drunk, like so many of these callers. Probably wants his girlfriend dead.

“Whoa whoa whoa pal, slow down buddy. That’s all nice but ya got to remember KRUD’s 3 W’s. Who is this person, where are they, what do they look like?”

There is heavy breathing on the line for a while before the drunk caller speaks again.

“Her name is Harriet Aldy. She lives at 433 Grandview Street, apartment 2D. She’s short with crazy tattoos. She … she doesn’t live alone.”

“Good, good.” Greedy malice drips from the radio as K Alex speaks the last sentence. “You heard it here folks. Target numero uno of the night. Deacon, get to it.”

A map with a red path over streets appears next to the messages on the console. A thirtyish-minute drive to 433 Grandview Street, apartment 2D. A new message appears as well.

[Remember your W’s]

Like the callers, Deacon had his own three W’s to follow. “No witnesses and no wussing out.” That was the first time Deacon heard K Alex’s voice, the gluttonous drawl that had no problem oozing over the words he had spoke. His radio announcer's voice. “If you don’t follow those, then no wife. Call me back if you accept and I'll send you what you need. You might even recognize some of it.” The phone had hung up, leaving Deacon to ponder his offer. Leaving Deacon alone outside the hospital.

11:32

Gritting his teeth, Deacon steps off the gas pedal, peeling out of the offramp and racing down side streets. He wants to get this over with. Speeding over a bump, Deacon curses heavily. On his left side, a wound begins to bleed out. It was from a kid with a handgun a few weeks ago. Deacon faltered when he saw him. He must have been only 9 or 10. It wasn’t a great shot, but fuck, the wound was barely getting better. The kid must have heard the other two shots from the living room, soon running over to see Deacon with a shotgun in his hands, standing over the bodies of his parents. After that call Deacon was down to sixteen from twenty-two. Who wanted to kill a fucking kid? The deal Deacon took was supposed to be absolution, not more of his personal hell.

Deacon couldn’t take it to a doctor, or at least one he could afford to look the other way. His knowledge of treating these types of injuries was better than most but he was hoping that there would be some treatment once the contract was completed. He wasn’t hopeful.

Stopping outside the apartment complex, he begins to light a cigarette before changing his mind. He picked the habit back up again recently. Instead, Deacon opens the trunk and pulls out a glistening black shotgun. It arrived on his doorstep along with the console the day after Deacon agreed. It was an M590, so similar to the one he had used in the service. After what happened in the service, he wasn’t allowed to use firearms anymore.

Deacon scans the apartment complex. It’s a smaller building, just a few stories tall and shaped into a ‘U’, more closely resembling a crumbling motel than an apartment. Lower levels are spray painted into words that Deacon can’t make out. Many of the cars parked nearby are missing some wheels with others missing all. No other cars have driven by except his. No people out, no security cameras. With the shotgun concealed under his jacket, Deacon carefully makes his way up the second floor of the apartment complex, climbing up the bent metal stairs, before looking for the apartment. Stopping in front of door 2D, Deacon checks the lock before pulling out a set of lock-picks. He hopes that there is no alarm system.

With a click, the lock slips. With a held breath, Deacon turns the handle and enters. In the dim light of near midnight, he pads quietly through the apartment, sweeping the empty rooms with the shotgun barrel. In the living room, a picture shows Harriet smiling, her arms around someone. The rest of the living room and kitchen is well furnished, both cleaner than what he expected from the apartment complex. It looks well lived in, but tidy.

In the small apartment there is one door left. Deacon swallows hard, bracing himself for what he must do. Slowly turning the knob, Deacon opens the door to the bedroom. A small amount of light creeps in from under a door to the side of the room, barely illuminating the room. In the bed, under the soft glow of light is a woman sleeping. She matches the description that was given to him. Harriet Aldy, oblivious to the man standing in front of her. One left. Holding his breath, Deacon levels his barrel and fires. The bang reverberates through the thin walls quickly followed by a scream. The bathroom door swings open, illuminating the grisly scene in harsh yellow light. Standing in the light of the bathroom is a man, his face in a contorted scream that Deacon has seen too many times before. Deacon swings his gun over but hesitates. Unarmed, civilian noncombatant. He wants to lower the gun and leave, to apologize but he knows he can’t.

[No witnesses]

Deacon fires his gun at the screaming man. He crumples instantly, blood pouring out. Deacon has seen enough. He races out of the apartment and into the car, speeding away from the scene.

A few moments later the radio springs to life, this time the console only displays one red mark.

“My my! What a show that was! That’s the cold-blooded nature we expect from our old pal Deacon here.”

Deacon clenches the steering wheel. Just tell me the next fucking target.

“Last caller on the line! Make this one count!”

Once again, the radio is replaced, this time by someone sobbing uncontrollably.

The caller finally spits out one word painfully. “Deacon.” He sounds familiar.

Fuck.

“You bastard, you just killed my girlfriend.” He was sure that he killed Harriet, but her partner... he wasn’t so sure. “Fuck you. Kill the bastard that requested this.” The caller struggles to speak, choking on pain. The man that made Harriets' life hell. His name is Lewis Junge, he lives at 82 Motorcade Way. His is the ugly as sin trailer that smells like shit. I hope you die along the way.”

The caller hung up, leaving uncomfortable emptiness, no announcer, no jingle.

“Folks, there have been some complications. Remember what we said about witnesses? Deacon has made a mistake.” K Alex’s voice was now limp monotone, not at all like his radio cadence. “This is where I would call it here for him. However, I’m feeling generous today.” Another red mark joined the one on the console. “Your tally has been reset. Two more left. Get to work.”

Cursing, Deacon punches the gas, speeding to 82 Motorcade Way, remembering the details of the contract.

“Twenty-two is too many” Deacon whispered into the phone.

“For your wife? For Sarah?” K Alex’s voice was kind over the phone this time, unreasonably kind. “You know there isn’t any amount too much for her. She’s the best thing that's happened to you by far. I know your story. Without her, you’d be dead by now. You’d have blown your own head off years ago. I know you’d do anything to see her wake up.”

Deacon takes a second before responding, finding the right words. “Sarah doesn’t know what I did in the service. I don’t want her knowing what I did.”

“Let's keep it that way then. I know the army was a difficult time for you. It was difficult for me too. Let me help you. Twenty-two jobs and we’ll fix up your wife and she won’t have to know a thing. You’ll still be her little army hero. Do you accept?"

“Yes.”

“Good.”

12:01

Deacon finds the trailer, leaving his car idling and approaching the door with his shotgun already out. Not pausing to wait, Deacon blasts through the lock with a round and kicks open the door. He turns, firing at the disheveled man on the bed turning a leg into paste before firing again, dissolving Lewis’s head into mist.

Breathing heavily, Deacon takes a step to leave but pain spreads through his leg, nearly causing him to collapse. Blood drips out onto the floor, staining his jeans and the crusty carpet underneath. On the corpse amongst the empty beer bottles, cigarette butts and blood is a hunting rifle. Lewis had been prepared.

Limping out of the trailer, Deacon crawls into his car, his head now a woozy mess. Darkness claws at his peripheral, but fear pushes him to step on the gas and get as far away as possible.

“Thats what we like to see! Fast work there Deacon, and this time I'm pretty sure that he’s not going to get back up.” K Alex’s usual cadence had returned. “We have one more request and, as promised, it's going to be a good one. This last one’s from me. Your old friend.”

“Twenty-two noncombatants killed in Kuwait. What an impressive number Corporal Deacon. I even heard that some were kids.”

Deacons' breath stopped. He could kill K Alex, he could find a way and get out of this, find different treatment-

“Now remember your W’s Deacon. No wussing and witnesses gets you a healthy wife. Once you're done with this I'll make sure to tell your wife when she gets better, what a hero to her country her husband was. You wanted absolution, here it is you bastard.”

“For your last hit, I want you to put that gun in your goddamn mouth and pull the fucking trigger.”