Everyone Dies In Alabama (ReWritten)
(A Collection of Short Stories)
The Method
Brian set out the supplies. The fully loaded magazine, the gleaming black rifle, and the scope with its crosshair sight that he would make sure to attach just before he aimed in. He even had a lunch box set so perfect on his right, while also making sure he could easily roll to his left to retrieve a soda he’d brought along as well. He was nothing if not thorough, and he did have the time.
He lay down on a blanket—got comfortable in a position he knew he could keep for hours—before he picked up the soda. Barely a sound could be heard as he twisted off its top and took a sip.
Looking at a watch on his wrist, he noted the time—five minutes, then four. He loved how he had trained his endurance to withstand almost anything. He could stare at a digital read out of numbers and be lost in the sheer bliss of patience. A more complete joy came in the report—the crack when a trigger was pulled, and the flash of red as his bullet struck its target—but some pleasure could still be found in the waiting. He’d learned that in the Corps. He’d learned that even more in prison. Patience had its virtues.
****
It wasn’t the confined spaces. It wasn’t even the thin blankets. It was Emerson. Brian was sure.
The slight shoves, the spit in his food, and the way Emerson kept banging on his cell door so he would jerk awake and never rest. It was not enough to cause major trouble—even at a prison like Leavenworth, a guard like Emerson had to still act a certain way—but it grated.
Bullies had always been the bane of Brian’s existence. It was part of the reason why he’d been locked up, some General deciding to make an example of him after he’d set right one overbearing Lieutenant. Bullies never left him alone.
Emerson was close. The many cells on this wing were kept tightly sealed, yet Brian could still hear him whistling. He could imagine him too—so proud, and mighty, a smug smile along his thick white face as he strutted up and down the hall.
Brian wanted to wipe that smile away. Emerson was a burly man, not large with layers of fat, just large with muscle. Brian could also imagine that Emerson had to work out daily, hourly, just so he could maintain his size, yet he remained such a pitiful creature. Largeness was nice, yet it could be a crutch too, something only a fool like Emerson would think of as protection.
But Brian had already thought up a dozen ways to kill him. During his daily visits to the yard, when Emerson popped up to jam a knuckle in his kidneys, there could be a filed bit of metal—something like that could nick the femoral artery, it wouldn’t be that hard.
Yet there was the Lieutenant to think about. Brian didn’t regret hitting him—after Iraq, all his orders, that Lieutenant had earned his broken face, his crushed ribs, and his fractured hip, but Brian had still done it wrong. He should have waited, planned, done something worse than just hurt the fellow in front of so many. He should have killed.
But if breaking a few bones had given him a fifteen-year sentence, then Brian didn’t want to think about what a death might do. Probably the firing squad, or maybe a life spent trapped behind even more bars. There were so many ways a murder could bring him grief, yet Brian couldn’t stop entertaining such happy thoughts.
All he had to do was plan. He could even let Emerson be his test run.
****
Brian reached over to push aside a tangle of leaves, a smile never leaving his lips as he did. Maybe Emerson being in his life had been a good thing. What a weird thought to have.
On the hillside where he lay, Brian had a perfect view down onto a small dirt path below. A wild wood swallowed much of it, but what he was looking at now was the one open glade for miles around. To his left, the path came out from behind a large clump of knotted trees, while to his right everything rolled back into overgrown bushes and winding vines. Most of what was around was closed in, but to his front everything was wide open beauty. Anyone entering this glade would be trapped in his sights in an instant.
His watch clicked to the time he was waiting for. He attached the scope to his rifle, shoved the magazine home, and made sure that a round was safely in the chamber. He also gave himself the luxury of getting a quick bite from a sandwich—something from his lunchbox, something wrapped tight in cellophane and still tasting so fresh—before he aimed in. It was what he always did, though, usually, he liked to wait till after it was over. When people were scurrying about, looking here, there, wondering where the shot had come from, that was when he would normally eat. They never found him, and Brian loved to enjoy that. For a while, he’d even thought he was the only one—the single assassin who prepared so much he could relax, take a bite, or enjoy a soda, inside utter chaos.
Yet one day he’d been taught a lesson. He wasn’t unique; he wasn’t even the best in his field. The best was someone who’d taken preparation to a whole new level.
But that would end soon. The number one killer in the entire world, his mentor—someone known only as “The Method”—was about to be retired, and it was going to be he who would do the deed.
Brian looked through his scope. He was still early, by a good three minutes, but he’d been taught that this was merely the wisest thing to do. No more bringing up his gun right when he was about to fire. No more chance encounters where he stumbled upon some poor target and bashed at them until they went silent. He’d learned that to arrive ahead of time—let the target come to you—was the best avenue to take. It fit with his love of patience so much he wished he’d thought of it himself.
****
Three years before, he’d been asleep, as deep into it as his training would allow. A few dreams—how Emerson had looked when he’d kicked in his front door—were all that had been running through his mind. Brian had even just gotten to the best part—he was about to put three bullets into Emerson’s chest—when suddenly he was awake. A woman was sitting on the one chair he usually kept propped up against his bedroom door.
“You’re good,” she said. She was all shadow and form—no clear substance, only the vague outline of slender black legs, and tight black arms.
“How did you get in here,” Brian asked.
Yet he was also inching his way to the corner of his mattress. If he could just get to the nightstand at his right.
“Interesting,” the woman said.
She moved forward, jumping from the chair to enter into a vague halo of moonlight making its way through an open window. Such illumination quickly lit up her angular face, the gleam of her silky black hair, and the silver barrel of a revolver she was holding. Brian froze. Going for the nightstand was pointless now.
“So interesting,” the woman sighed. “Usually when I surprise someone, but especially when I surprise them so well I have no problem taking away the one and only gun they’re sleeping right next to, most just ask, “who are you,” but you’re not concerned about that. You simply want to know how I got past your feeble little alarm system. Did you really think that a chair jammed against a door, and motion sensors in the hall, would stop anyone?”
“It’s not just my only gun,” Brian said. His eyes never left the weapon. “It’s my favorite gun. What do you want?”
“To retire,” the woman said.
She returned to the chair and sat down. But just as she leaned back, getting rather comfortable with a sly smile starting to form at her lips, she quickly unloaded the revolver—a cascade of shiny brass falling all around her feet—before she threw everything at Brian.
He caught the weapon easily, thinking only for a second about once more going for that nightstand. A nice box of ammunition should still be lying in wait there too, yet, for some strange reason, Brian never moved. He only looked at that sly smile as he began to smile as well.
“Who are you,” he finally asked. Honestly, he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“The question I was waiting for,” the woman sighed, her smile growing all the larger, “but one I don’t need to answer. You already know my name.”
****
As soon as The Method entered the glade, Brian could tell he’d picked the right day. She was wearing her favorite outdoor attire—worn blue jeans, rugged hiking boots, and an un-tucked red checkered flannel shirt that Brian had seen on many occasions. In the city, whenever they were after some poor fool, it was always pressed suits and high heels. But out in the woods, in The Method’s own backyard, Brian had gotten accustomed to more casual apparel. On this day, he merely had the luck of choosing the moment when his target was wearing the right outfit. What better way to kill someone then when they were at ease. At least that was what The Method always said.
That thought caused Brian to pause. He had his moment, the target was lined up perfect, but something was off. Could she know he was there?
Brian moved his scope. He took in the slow gait of the Method’s walk, and another sly smile that had suddenly appeared on her face. For the past few weeks, he’d been so careful, telling The Method he was going to stay in bed, but she could get up, get dressed, go on her walks alone if she liked he didn’t care. Yet as soon as she went, he had always followed just to get to know her that much better. He’d been a silent breeze—his own version of a wraith—and there was no way she could have noticed.
The Method came to a stop. In the middle of the glade, her face a warm ray of contentment, she turned towards the hill Brian was on. There was still that smile, a grin he had only ever seen during the night of their first meeting, and Brian adjusted his sights because he really needed to focus just a little bit more.
Was this her trap or his?
****
“Not yet,” The Method said as she grabbed hold of Brian’s arm.
He didn’t bother to pull away. He could have, but he already knew any rejection of her would only lead to her vanishing and that wouldn’t be good. Yes, he was physically stronger, and always would be, but The Method had also already proven how she would always be the quicker, and so much better at blending in. Honestly, she liked to say she’d perfected the way of the wraith and she was oh so right. Brian really didn’t want to get free of her only to find out she’d disappeared—when he’d blinked, or just after he’d taken a breath—and then he’d have to spend the rest of his life wondering when she would reappear, most likely behind some snipers’ rifle, to end him for good.
“But she’s getting away,” he moaned, letting her hand stay right where it was yet deciding to add in a touch of frustration. That couldn’t be too bad.
“No,” The Method said, “she isn’t. What have I been teaching you?”
She finally let go, Brian only staring at the disappearing form of some new lady as she did. He wasn’t quite sure what their target had done, dumped the wrong man, stumbled onto the wrong information, but that new lady had been his next paycheck, and he’d just let her walk out of a nice side alley where a quick shot to her head would have been the end of it.
“You’ve been telling me that in order to kill you first have to get to know your target,” Brian said.
“Yes, my way of completing a contract,” The Method sighed. “When you know, when you have the target come to like you, maybe even to love you, then and only then is it safe to judge them, to discover why, and how, they need to die. Any other way is messy.”
“You’re insane,”
“Never said I wasn’t, but you’re insane as well. It makes us more alike.”
This was new. Over the past few months, and no matter how intimate they ever got, The Method just wouldn’t stop keeping stuff to herself—her name, where she lived, all of that was tucked away with no hope of ever being found. The only thing Brian had ever learned was that she could instantly vanish if that was necessary, that she wanted out of the business, and that she’d also decided he would be her protégé before she left. Yet now there was more. He and The Method were alike; Brian had no clue how that could be.
“We’re alike in how we entered into the trade,” The Method explained, picking up on his thoughts without him even having to speak them aloud. It was another weird little talent she had, something he wasn’t quite sure he adored or loathed. “I, too,” The Method continued, “was an impassioned youth who found success in death while serving my country. I would kill quick, with your level of patience, but, still, quick because I was good at it. Yet I had no discipline and I, like you, also made mistakes.”
“I never…”
“Emerson,” The Method said. “Breaking down his door wasn’t neat.”
Brian smiled. “That was my first, and it wasn’t a mistake. It was fun.”
“Anders then,”
Brian’s smile faded. “He didn’t testify.”
“You were an animal,” The Method said. “It wasn’t your first kill, or your second, you were enough of a professional to do better, but you didn’t know him—you never found out why, or how, he should be killed—and so you rushed and botched the job. Did you really have to murder that young girl just so you could leave him in a coma?”
“How do you—”
“I know you,” The Method sighed. “I know you have the skill yet, right now, you’re the same monster I used to be and if I’m to leave I want to help someone as I once was helped. I want to give you all the discipline I was given.”
“Someone trained you,” Brian asked. He couldn’t believe it. This day was overflowing with valuable information.
“Yes,” The Method said, “I was trained by a man quite like me, another member of our trade who took a wild child with a gift for murder and made her into something graceful.”
“But you still kill.”
“Of course,” The Method said, rolling her eyes as she did. “I’m a killer, I kill, but, as I’m trying to show you, even killing can be done proper. Get to know your target, enter their lives, and when you finally understand their faults, why they need to die, then and only then do you lead them to a spot without getting any innocent bystanders hurt in the process. Sometimes the target is even grateful, almost relieved, that you will be the person to end them.”
“So,” Brian asked, “I have to make sure they’re worthy of the contract? You’re saying I need to see why I should take someone’s life?”
“It’s a judgment about the trigger,” The Method said. “You need to find out why you should even pull it.”
Brian laughed. “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about not pulling it,” he said. But the Method’s sudden reaction—no more eye rolling, now there was only an absence all along her face—made Brian’s hilarity catch in his throat. “You’re joking,” he choked. “You mean there’s a moment when I shouldn’t shoot?”
The Method shook her head. “For every moment,” she began, “I have found a reason to pull the trigger. Each target was judged and was rather quickly, even with training and more patience it was always so quickly, found wanting. Except for one. I paused when I had him in my sights.”
“Who,”
“It took me a while to understand,” The Method said, “to see the beauty of how he put order into what we do. But once I had it, I used it on him.”
“Who,”
“My mentor,” The Method said. “In the end, he needed to be judged as he’d judged others.”
“And what happened?”
“When I had him in my sights?”
“Yeah, you paused but did you pull the trigger?”
The Method sighed. “We need to go.”
****
Brian played the scope over and over The Method’s face. That smile was still there but, in an instant, it disappeared.
There was movement on her lips, and Brian adjusted his sights down towards her mouth. She was whispering something. It looked like “I fooled,” but Brian wasn’t sure.
He twisted the scope of his rifle until its sights were at their limits. The words were almost identified, and he kept looking down as hard as he could. Whatever the Method was saying it had to be important.
*****
For two long months, he’d followed Anders. He knew the exact route that man took to work. He’d even memorized the entire layout of Anders’s house until each hidden corner was deeply etched into his mind. It was the most preparation he’d ever done.
Of course, he knew about the small security detail. The cops, and the prosecuting attorney, had mistakenly thought the case so inconsequential nothing more would be needed, and Brian had had no trouble putting two quick bullets into each officer’s head. The mess was minimal. It had been such a great start.
But he hadn’t rechecked the back door to Anders’s house. It had been a foolish error, one he could have let go of as a rookie maneuver, but The Method had been right. When he’d been after Anders, he’d already been quite the professional.
That back door had never really been used since it had only led out onto a narrow, dirty, alleyway when he’d inspected it before, and Brian had naturally made his own assumption. No one would ever go out of it, and no one would ever enter through it. On the night he’d rushed into Anders’s house, he truly had let that door slip right out of his mind.
But if he’d taken a moment to get involved in Anders’s life, had come to really know the man, he would have seen his error immediately. That back door had been how Anders’s one and only daughter had gotten in and out of that house when her parents had still been married. It had been her special entrance into a place she now hardly ever saw enough of, and if Brian had known that it really wouldn’t have been such a surprise to find that daughter—so happy and at home, sitting so serene on one quaint couch—right after he’d burst into Anders’s living room.
Yet he had been surprised, the sight of that girl causing him to pause for way too long. Her hair had partially been to blame for that, the cascade of blond that had fallen like silk along her shoulders had accentuated her face when she’d turned, Brian stunned by the beauty he’d caught right at that moment. Even the slightly bemused expression upon her lips, something that had melted into pure horror when she’d spotted his gun, had taken his breath away.
However, and most of all, in her eyes Brian had spotted a level of purity he hadn’t known could exist, and he’d suddenly been so sure this girl had no clue that her father had witnessed something that was going to lead to his death. She’d just been this amazing angel, this surprise that had kept his feet rooted in place, his hesitation only allowing her father an opportunity to attack.
But honestly, Anders had never had a chance. There had been that hesitation, and, somehow, Anders hadn’t just attacked he’d also managed to knock Brian back outside before tearing the gun right out of Brian’s hand, but after that Brian had regained his senses. He had easily thrown Anders off him; the first object he’d seen next simply his new weapon of choice.
It had been a brick, a loose one, and Brian had grabbed it, had used it, and had only made one more mistake after he’d been done. He’d been so sure Anders had to be dead that he’d left him behind, never checking to see if he’d even still been breathing as he’d returned to the house.
****
He had it. Suddenly, Brian knew exactly what it was the Method was saying.
He moved his scope to the top of the Method’s head. Whether he was being trapped here, or she was, this was the ending he wanted. It wasn’t the killing he’d done that was wrong; it was merely how he’d once carried it out that was the problem. It was a judgment about the trigger, getting to know a target until you understood exactly why, and how, they had to die.
The Method kept up her whisper. She kept saying, “I pulled the trigger too,” as Brian let one more minute of patience elapse. He needed to savor a final few seconds and when they were gone, his gun fired and red sprayed over the ground.
His training was complete.