The survivor

Thirty-Three

The morning sun broke through the dirty yellow drapes and formed a thin gold line across Red Mask’s eyes. He lay flat on a small wooden mat. The pain told him he was still alive. It moved through his shoulder like a worm eating his tissue.

From somewhere down below, he could hear the angry words of a couple arguing. Someone had stolen something from someone, and someone was gonna pay. Through violence or sex or maybe both. The argument was nothing unusual for this place. After all, this was the Aster, one of the worst slums in Strathcona. Anyone living here was a junkie, a whore, or one of the endless crazies littering the Skids.

And anyone that mattered never set foot in this place.

Red Mask was unconcerned. The police would never locate him. His only known living quarters was his mailing address, and that was 533 Raymur Street. In the projects underneath the overpass. Down by the train tracks.

Where Father lives.

The thought came from nowhere. Left him empty.

He could not see Father again. Not after all that had happened. How could he ever tell him about Tran? He couldn’t. It was but one of the many sacrifices required to reach the Perfect Harmony.

A sad smile broke his lips. Harmony. It now seemed such an empty word.

He rolled off the mat and felt the jagged shrapnel of the bullet tear through his shoulder. He vomited, bringing up nothing but transparent fluid. When the spasms stopped, he forced himself to stand in the tilting, shifting room. With his good arm, he reached behind his back and felt the rubberised grip of the Glock.

He was armed. He was prepared.

Pain or no pain, infection or no infection, living or dying, he had to go. It was time to complete his orders. It was time to finish the mission.