The survivor

Four

Damp wind blustered through the bullet-smashed windows of the Honda Civic, its wails as loud as those of the murdered schoolkids. Red Mask drove on, his attention focused on the road ahead. Blood saturated the black cotton of his kangaroo jacket; it bled from the open wound in his left shoulder and ran down his arm, across the black leather glove. He angled his body, trying to leave no blood on the seat.

When he reached the south lane of Ninth Avenue, he found what he was searching for — a narrow alley crammed with cars and garbage cans. The backyards lining it were padded with green sweeping trees.

Red Mask cranked the wheel hard, his left shoulder tearing, and felt the Civic shudder when its rear-end collided with a row of garbage bins. Despite the coldness of late fall, perspiration dampened his brow. Not far away, sirens wailed.

They would be here.

Soon.

Red Mask drove on down the lane. Halfway along it, he found a wider stretch of road that sat beneath the high overhang of a willow tree. He glanced at the tree. Backed by an ice-blue sky, the bark looked black.

The tree was dying.

Red Mask killed the thought. He forced his eyes away from the horrible tree, and backed the Honda up until the rear bumper banged into the tree trunk. His mind felt hot, overcooked, and a low hum buzzed in his ears — the leftover echoes of the shotgun blasts. Even his heartbeat sounded too loud, pulsing through his temples like a hammer on steel. He tried to think, but a mechanical grinding noise tore him from his thoughts.

At the next yard, a garage door was rising.

With his right hand, Red Mask snatched his Glock off the passenger seat. Pistol ready, he fought open the driver’s door and rolled awkwardly out of the Civic. He slipped in behind the willow tree.

Watched.

Waited.

An engine started inside the garage, then a black Lexus backed out. An expensive model. Golden chrome, shaded rear windows, glistening black paint. The driver, a small old man, seemed oblivious of Red Mask’s presence. He was fidgeting with his mirrors as he reversed.

Red Mask stepped into the centre of the road, shouting, ‘Do not move!’

The old man looked up. Confusion filled his eyes.

Red Mask gave him no chance to think; he moved forward and pointed the pistol. In response, the old man raised his hands, slowly, cautiously, keeping his trembling palms facing forward. The bright gold of his wristwatch shimmered against his tanned and wrinkly skin.

‘Now just be easy there, son-’

‘Remove yourself from vehicle!’

The old man bit his lip, then the sternness in his face crumpled away and he did as ordered. Once outside the Lexus, in the middle of the lane, the smallness of his frame became apparent. Dressed in a dark green tailored suit, his body was thin and frail. His breath came in fast and shallow gasps.

‘Now just… just be calm there, son, don’t go-’

‘Discussion is not permitted.’ Red Mask ordered him into the Honda Civic, then made him park the car inside the garage. Once done, Red Mask flicked the gun. ‘Turn off engine.’

The old man obeyed.

‘Give me keys.’

The old man did as ordered, with shaky hands, and Red Mask grabbed the keys. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket — Player’s Filter Lights — and leaned into the car, tucking them between the seat and console. Then he stepped back and raised his pistol.

The old man gave him a pleading look, and when he finally managed to speak, his voice sounded very soft and very far away.

‘I’ve got money, son, I’ve got lots and lots of money…’

Red Mask shot him once in the face.

‘Not about money,’ he said.