I've devolved into fiction.
‘Just be aware that they’re on to your approximate position.’
The sound of struggle ebbed away as the man went limp in Hedgerow’s arms, first finding a fascination in the upper corner of the room, before receding completely.
‘I’m almost willing to bet they’ve burrowed out the competition,’ Hedgerow idly mused.
‘We know she's been gagged somewhere within the northwestern corner of the building.’
‘Looking for a utility closet.’
‘You’re actually looking for a crowbar.’
Hedgerow skulked low as his padded insteps danced quietly around the corners. From outside the warehouse, the familiar insectoid buzzing droned out distant traffic. The shuffling of cards could be heard far off near the rear of the building, beyond the hanging omen of incandescent lighting and a concrete floor.
‘About that grenade…,’ Hedgerow frowned outwardly at his train of thought, lighting brushing his fingers on the pin of a fragmentation grenade at his hip.
‘Literally recommended you put it down,’ something reminded sideways. Hedgerow sensed the shuffling of a paper cup somewhere in his mind.
‘How do I explain myself out of explosives?’
‘I’ve never actually been here to pet your ego.’
Hedgerow drew his 9mm to eye level, gently sweeping the length of the room. He covered the corners of every crate and stack of pallets he could, then cut across toward the exit door. Hedgerow frowned as the cards stopped being slapped on the table.
“I thought I heard someone grumbling earlier,” a voice let out; latino.
“It is not the same…”
“They have been all on his ass, all day,” Hedgerow heard the books being stacked accordingly as the table circled, each player throwing down something that came less to sheer calculation and more to mezcal and whitewall. He eyed his safety uncomfortably as the players counted their books.
“Bags. Bags, more bags.”
“At least you play with bags…”
“Why would I ever pick you as my partner; I swear.”
“Shit, fuck you two…,” the latino man slurred sleepily. Hedgerow heard the legs of the chair clatter against the floor. He straightened his finger by the trigger and held it closer than a filipino lover on sabbath. “How about it? Am I eyeing the bottle wrong or have we finished playing?”
“Of course we’ve finished playing,” the man to his right sighed, gripping the table and leaning into it, defeated. “Not that I don’t mind playing.”
“Don’t do that shit with me,” the latino man muttered, walking for the doorway. Hedgerow lowered his stance against the corner; he drew the gun barrel slightly upwards.
‘I hate this part.’
A moment passed from behind the door, chair legs leaden to the ground and footsteps puzzling their way toward the door. Hedgerow scratched his finger on the trigger as the man stopped short. He coughed into his sleeve.
“Can you believe this white boy?”
Shots rang out as Hedgerow retreated behind the pallets several yards away. Several voices began shouting from outside, muted and partly portuguese.
‘Is there anything I need to worry about Snips?’
‘If there was, I wouldn’t mention it.’
Hedgerow emptied the rest of his clip into the open door frame, never taking his eyes off the shadows and their play against the illuminated parking lot.
“Punta,” someone cursed from behind the wall. Hedgerow eyed the melding shadows carefully as they twitched.
‘The first rule is to never talk to them,’ Snips quipped.
“Who the hell plays without the two of diamonds?” Hedgerow goaded exasperated.
“Fuckin’ crazy chico,” a man mumbled quietly as the shadows jerked back and forth like a veil of serpents.
A pause settled as the gentle ringing of tinnitus played at the air. Gravel and sand gritted against shoe rubber and pavement as a party of two crowded the doorway. Hedgerow waited all of seven seconds before he began walking backwards, letting the shots go as he could. Whatever grunting he heard behind him was drowned by the reverberating pressures on his eardrums and the clatter of a lobbed grenade.
Three seconds passed before another voice exclaimed ‘Punta!’, and Hedgerow closed his eyes as the grenade went off. Hedgerow felt the grenade going off through his feet as Snippy started chewing her wire.
‘Dumbass,’ she punctuated.
‘Where’s the other one?’
Hedgerow raced to the doorway as he gently put two rounds apiece into the men. Groans and breathing turned to twitching as he cut into both their hemispheral sinuses. He barely glanced at them before looking at the table.
‘I heard three.’
‘Maybe you should check on Abigail.’
Hedgerow opened the corner office slowly, and the idle lenting of his gun barrel drooped lower as the frightened eyes of a young woman poked through the unlit room. She rolled awkwardly on her side and looked up at him. He holstered his gun and pushed the door open, crouching as she waited expectedly.
Slobber spilled out as he removed her gag, it having already leaked from the corners of her lips to her shirt collar and her sleeve. She slouched and moved as if sore, looking to the ground and taking tentative swallows and breaths.
“You heard the grenade.”
“Did you kill them?” she asked quietly.
“I did, yeah…,” he exhaled through his nose as he regarded her gravely, letting himself ellipse gently as she eyed the floor with hollowed eyes. After a moment, she snatched the pin out of his teeth, and his gaze snapped to her shoulder.
“Seriously?”
“You’re welcome.”
Okay
‘We recommended you lose the grenade.’
‘I loosed the grenade.’
‘You are no longer allowed to loose grenades,’ Snippy corrected. Hedgerow inhaled impatiently as he shuffled through the paper: School District Rezoning; Funds for a New Playground; For Sale: Burial Space.
Hedgerow sipped his coffee cup silently as the regular attendants made their passes by the breakfast bar. Pajama bottoms were a common sight as the drowsy and rested shuffled in for their morning meal. He eyed the blueberry item on his saucer solemnly as he scrubbed his incisor with his tongue.
‘Where do you think she is?’
‘She’s probably nervous.’
‘Remember that time she wanted to score my guts out in Tazmania?’
‘How do I explain to you the meaning of the word, ‘asshole’?’
Hedgerow pulled a ballpoint pen from his shirt as he bit off the cap, focusing on a sudoku puzzle to the point of visible strain. He scribbled numbers so lightly that they barely showed, and eventually began crosshatching the entire puzzle in an attempt to salvage refrigerator art.
‘Hedgerow.’
‘There she is.’ Hedgerow fidgeted once more with his coffee mug as he tipped back its contents. He glanced sideways toward the lobby. Abigail crossed the room with her eyes locked, clutching her purse strap with one hand and carrying the other by her side. For a moment, Hedgerow thought on The Manchurian Candidate.
‘You look like I would look like if I were a sleeper agent.’
‘I’m not a sleeper agent.’
She approached in relative silence, pulling one chair opposite him out with her free arm and sitting in it demurely.
“Coffee…” Hedgerow pushed an empty mug towards her arm. “Cream…” he lofted the cream with his finger and placed it by her cup. He pushed the sugar towards her with his finger as he crafted her alive with his eyes; she just looked down at the puzzle in front of him.
“You still know how to waste time.”
“You should not be half so bitter,” he retorted plainly, closing the book and pushing it to the side.
She sat silent as she struggled for more words. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be too upset.”
“Yeah,” Hedgerow nodded his head as if hearing bad news. “It’s not something I would get too upset about.”
The two picked at the muffin like vultures as they began going back and forth, one addled by the fact she wasn’t bled or sold, one merely taking the time to appreciate her lack of acuity.
“You know, the first time your roommate did this shit, I nearly had an aneurysm.”
“She never fucking liked you.”
“Well, this wasn’t really something I saw myself doing two or three weeks ago, but here we are!” He cocked a smile at her amiably as he stole an unfair portion of crumbed muffin from the saucer.
“You really came for me.”
Hedgerow retreated into his throat for a moment as she made herself vulnerable, and he found himself thinking about her room upstairs. She shifted perceptively and pulled the saucer away.
“Ah,” he raised his finger as she stared at him openly. “Don’t do that to me again.” He rose from his seat and circled the table before she said too much, and then bent down to peck her cheek.
“I’m four rooms down.”
She fingered muffin into her mouth as she faced the empty seat in front of her.
Hedgerow cradled Abigail’s buttock as she nestled tightly into his chest, the pillows and comforters putting them into a position so articulating that he couldn’t quite call themselves two different people.
‘Are you going to be okay?’
Hedgerow let the fragrance of her shampoo fill his nostrils as he idly thought on it.
‘I hate hotel soap too,’ he stilled quietly, nuzzling her hair.
‘I’ll be here.’
The dark room stayed dead quiet as the air conditioning blew silently, nothing more than the flush air against the vent. The television remained unpowered as the orange lights of the street lost to the upstairs window and its nighttime hues.
‘You’re going to stay here,’ he thought affectionately, as she tightened around his body and his hand secured her waist.
