| Stagnate |

| Mike Yost |

My life is slowly seeping through my fingers, thick and warm like maple, and I can’t wipe the grin from my face. What excellent marksmanship. Bien fait, my condescending educated brother would say. The bullet tore cleanly through the shoulder, avoiding any visceral contact with bone. The impact knocked me spinning into the air like a ballerina. Without the graceful landing. The pain followed, pushing its way down my arm like a great stampede of horses, shaking the ground beneath their legs.

Cover the wound. Put pressure over the gap. Stop the bleeding. I should tear the sleeve of my shirt and secure it with my belt. I should stop running down these squalid corridors, stumbling over uncooperative feet. Breath. Slow the heart. Focus these fractured thoughts. But the distant voices of approaching men are bouncing greedily off the walls. They built upon their echoes, massing together as a livid tempest in my head. I continue to land one foot in front of the other, twisting my exhausted body around corners, ignoring its incessant protests. A feeble chill begins to colonize the surface of my skin. Time is now the only bastion. The mystery is, of course, how much of it I own.

A faint yellow glow penetrates the darkness around me and my feet rush towards the end of the hall. It’s then that I trip, my upper torso moving forward in an arch. My free hand doesn’t react in time and the right side of my face hits the concrete with a sickening thud. The shock of the pain paralyzes my muscles and my left eye tracks a growing stream of blood pooling next to the wall. I just lay there, letting the pain saturate my mind. It’s then I hear a whisper right next to me. My head jerks up and I turn onto my back, legs still twisted together. A bloody hand clamped around my right ankle. Someone yells in the distance, “check the next floor!”

I keep staring at what’s left of his cranium, this man using my ankle to cling to life. The hole in his head looks bigger than the skull.

“Hell…helll….me,” The dead body murmurs, little bubbles of blood popping between his lips. I try to kick away but the grip just gets tighter. Fingernails digging into my skin.

“Let go!” I yell. “I’m sorry but you know the rules.” He just keeps mumbling to me, his other hand clamping onto my jeans. Down the hall the voices are building onto one another, falling harder and harder onto my ears. Boots slam hard against the metal steps that lead to this floor. The bolt of a gun slides into position, nestling a bullet into its chamber. I finally pull myself up, nausea scraping its way up my throat. Warm blood moves like a small waterfall down my face. I have no depth perception now that my right eye is swollen shut. With my free leg I start kicking at what’s left of this dead man’s face, his left eye staring blankly back at me. I stomp hard on his wrist and hear the bones break like twigs in the forest snapping under the weight of my body. The dead man opens his mouth and tries to scream but more blood just gurgles up over his lips and down his cheeks, followed by an eerie hiss. I pull away just as the door at the end of the hall kicks open. My body dives into an empty room, bullets sprinting down the hallway behind me, whistling in my ear.

My shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore. Neither does my face. I can feel my heart slamming its ventricles against my ribcage, forcing more blood and endorphins into my veins and out onto the floor. My brain is swimming in adrenaline and pain. I still can’t wipe the smile off my face. Hugging the floor, I crawl to a broken window, the shards of glass cutting my hands and stomach. Inches above my head, a chorus of bullets builds to a loud crescendo, passing through walls and dying somewhere outside the building. The noise from the gunfire is so loud my mind refuses to think. I reach up and try to pull myself out the window. I see my hand explode into a pink mist and I yell more from the surprise than the pain.

“Stop!”

My body cradles the mangled flesh that just a second ago was my hand and I turn my body to face the men. My heroines. I’m crying I feel so good. I rest my back against the wall, my head dizzy from the endorphin high and lack of blood. My boots are slick, sliding out from under me as I try to stand.

“Mr. Singleton.”

A tall man dressed in fatigues moves slowly towards me, seven others hold their positions behind him. With his hands behind his back, this leader of the men surveys the room then looks down at me. His blue eyes, surrounded by cavernous lines that run across his face, examine my wounds.

“Call me Sam,” I say with a smile, fighting the urge to laugh.

The leader pulls a pistol from his holster. He holds the barrel to the side of my head. It’s still warm.

“Your services have been rendered Mr. Singleton.”

The flash blinds me, knocking my head to the floor. The last thing I hear is an empty shell casing bouncing in the darkness.

-2-

“It’s all rather quite simple.” The voice is and quiet, almost a whisper “Contentment, or the opposite you might say, is concealed just beneath the obvious.”

“Yea, that makes a lot of sense old man,” Mark replies, his head tilted, checking the restraints. Mark then steps back and examines the aged man. A single light that hangs ominously above the derelict room illuminates his white hair, making it look translucent. His shoulders are pulled back from the rope, stretching his naked skin. The old man’s dark eyes are sunk into a wrinkled face, so distorted and cavernous it looked as if a paper sack had been crumbled into a ball and forced to speak. A range of hills and valleys filled with sweat run parallel down his face and neck. His breath is heavy and inert, as if the words push and struggle up his throat only to fall flat on the floor. The old man pulls against the restrains, making the chair groan. Mark sits in a chair facing him. “Murder is never simple, so let’s start with your name.”

The old man smiles. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking your in control here, but you can call me John.”

Mark leans back in his chair, resting against the wall, his eyes straining to remain calm and fixed. After setting the gun on the floor Mark clinches his fists, then opens his hands and runs his palms along his legs. “Ok then John, what is this place?”

The old man turns his head, examining the room. “I apologize Mr. Singleton, but even if I explained it, you wouldn’t understand.”

Mark’s chair falls forward.

“Oh don’t feign surprise. It’s unbecoming.” The old man leans forward. “I know a great deal more about you then just your name. Comprenez-vous? How about you loosen these and-” The old man’s eyes focus on the barrel as it sinks into his chest.

Mark speaks slowly through clamped teeth. “For the last time, what is this place?”

“Very well,” replies the old man. Mark steps back, pieces of glass breaking under his feet.

“May I inquire, Mr. Singleton, do you think often of your own mortality?”

Mark sits back in his chair. “That’s something you should be worried about right now.”

“Granted. But if you’ll entertain my banter for just a few minutes I’ll be happy to enlighten you concerning your own brother’s mortality.”

Mark lowers the gun.

“Thank you. Now I’m not speaking of death in the simplistic sense as cowards who fear it, but as something that exists as, sort of a catalyst.”

Mark stands up and begins to pace, kicking debris across the floor with his feet. “For what old man?”

“For so many, many things Mr. Singleton.” The John leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, pushing out a lengthy pungent sigh. “There was once this client I recall whose disposition and appearance was, shall I say, quite intriguing. Just her presence would compromise the breath of every juvenile man who foolishly engaged in her flirtations. Damn, how that woman made me envious of youth.”

The old man coughs hard, phlegm and drool kicking at the back of his teeth.

Mark stops again in front of the old man’s chair.

“Your point?”

The old man spits to his side and continues. “She spoke of her husband only once. Philip. A proud and handsome man, but an incorrigible religious individual. He cultivated his own small business from nothing. They met at a sales seminar in the belly of some overgrown downtown hotel ballroom. She served him grilled mahi-mahi with caribe salsa. A year later they were married. Another year passed and there was a white, two story house enclosed by a cedar fence. An Irish Terrier that would fetch drinks from the refrigerator. An overpriced BMW parked in an oversized two car garage. A boat. And of course, eventually a son.” The old man opens his eyes, his brow pushing inward creating even deeper caverns in his forehead. “She thought it was a solid foundation for her future. She said: ‘I was ready to drown in an endless flood of happiness.’ That’s how she put it.”

Mark begins to pace again, the gun swinging aimlessly at his side. “Yea, well happiness is short lived.” Mark turns on his heal. “So is that what you’re telling me? You’re a doc for nut jobs and this is your office?”

“Not at all. You see Mr. Singleton, my clients must elucidate every detail, and the first stage is family history. It helps identify precursors.”

Mark points the gun toward the old man. “Enough of your cryptic bullshit!”

“Trevor. That kid of hers she spoke of constantly. And just like every other mother’s child, he was intelligent, thoughtful, sensitive, tenacious. Then one afternoon Philip comes home early and discovers his teenage son in bed with another teenager. The other kid’s name was Kevin.” The old man looks away, leaning his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. “A week later a contractor surveying the land behind the neighborhood found both of the bodies. They had been beaten and left for dead. The father claimed his son was unnatural.”

Mark turns his back. “Merde. So the kid had a bad father. He wouldn’t be the first.”

The old man shakes his head quickly and lifts it towards Mark. “Trust is such a precious thing Mr. Singleton. Fragile. With trepidation we place it in the hands of another. A wonderful thing it is when handled with adoration, and such a wretched thing to see it compromised.”

A siren in the distance breaks the silence. Marks walks to the door, making sure it’s still secure. “Well hope sometimes causes more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Exactly. My client’s world came to an end. Her son dead. Her husband a murderer. She confided in the inevitable. As did your brother.” The old man lifts his head. “Death is not always physical you know. Neither is being alive. It’s something your brother knew and understood better than you.”

“Hey fuck you!” Mark walks forward and clamps his free hand around a wrinkled neck. “I get it all right! My brother was a client of yours, I get it!” The old man opens and closes his mouth, his throat straining for air. “I suppose he told you everything huh? About our father? About what he did? Is that why you hunted him down?” The old man’s eyes begin to roll back, tears streaming between the lines in his face. The chair groans as muscles pull violently against the ropes. “Mortality, the catalyst for life right?” Mark shoves the old man and the chair breaks apart as it hits the floor.

“I….I asked for your-“ The old man coughs hard, his body collapsing into the fetal position as his lungs strain for air. “I asked…for…your patience Mr. Singleton.” The old man pushes his naked body against the wall, his legs and arms bleeding from broken glass. “But the….the time for explanation….has now ended.”

It’s then that Mark hears a door kick open in the distance. Heavy boots slamming hard against concrete. Distant voices begin creeping into the room, mingled with the heavy breathing of the old man.

“There are three hunters, a tracker and a team leader,” the old man drones, his voice now flat and rehearsed. “This particular exercise is timed for exactly thirty minutes starting now.” The man spits to his side. “If you survive, the following exercises will be extended for fifteen minutes and so on and so forth until the client either terminates his contract, which can only be done between exercises, or fails to make payment.”

Mark moves quickly to door, unlocking the bolt and peering down the dark hallway. His hand grips the gun, turning his knuckles white. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“But you need not worry Mr. Singleton.” The old man is now sitting against the wall, removing the rope from his ankles. “Your brother has already paid your fees for the first exercise. He was confident that if you survived, the experience would undoubtedly convince you to become a permanent client.”

Mark turns and points the gun at the old man. “I’m not your client.” The trigger is pulled and a hollow click echoes in the room.

“As I said before Mr. Singleton. Never make the mistake of thinking you’re in control.”

The gun falls listlessly at Marks feet. A deafening collision of metal against metal booms down the empty hallway. Mark leans against the wall and slides to the floor, his hands wrapped around his head.

“You have about a minute before they get through that door.” The old man examines Mark, a small trace of a smile appears on his cavernous face. “You know, it’s not death that’s significant, it’s the method. I’ve observed the demise of countless clients Mr. Singleton. I’ve witnessed death’s varied unremarkable indignities. It’s nothing more to me then a faded painting.” Another collision briefly fills the room. “It is how those colors once flourished that never fails to fascinate me.”

A distant door breaks away from its frame. The bolt of a gun slides into position, nestling a bullet into its chamber.

“So I suggest you quickly begin your flight from here Mr. Singleton," the old man says, standing next to Mark and gently placing his hand on Mark’s shoulder, "so that you may endure life in all its splendor and terror.”