VENGEANCE

  BY CARLOS RODRIGUEZ

  Copyright © 2014 by Carlos Rodriguez

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art copyright © 2001 by the video game Silent Hill 2 by Konami. The image is considered by the author fair use since it is for non-profit.

  VENGEANCE

  Kevin Johnson inhaled deeply as he sat down across from Mr. Laney in his well-organized office. Mr. Laney smiled as he spoke convincingly, “You’re not in trouble this time, Mr. Johnson.”

  Kevin sighed with relief. He had always been missing article submission deadlines here and there due to constant rewriting. Now, though, he’s been missing more deadlines than a finger can count, and Kevin crossed his feet and tapped his foot fast. Was he fired? Was he going to have to take shit from him again? Boss seemed non-petulant today, but there was that smile. That smile said something, Kevin observed, something mischievous. The boss never smiled unless it was for his own gain. Laney must see the fear in his eyes, because if Kevin lost his job, he wouldn’t be able to make money writing.

  Worse, he thought, I couldn’t afford rent.

  Like it’s my fault, he thought bitterly. Writing about crime was fun, oh yes it was, but writing for the entire section of “Crime News” every single day with the same happenings going around town to make the writer mimic a blender, churning out the same stories for a lame buck? “Why don’t you hire more writers to help me out, Mr. Laney?” he had asked two weeks after starting the job, exasperated with the workload. That had turned the boss’s face into the devil and a loud mouth that had embarrassed him in front of the whole newspaper press. He wondered why Mr. Laney gave him so much work compared to others. Maybe he hates me for no reason. Who knew anymore? His foot slowed the tapping.

  Sometimes he couldn’t sleep at night, he wrote so much. But there was never a spark when he wrote non-fiction. Not ever. There were fun moments, yes, but that was until he discovered the world of fiction.

  Mr. Laney produced a Marlborough from his breast pocket, lit it, and smoked, keeping his eyes on Kevin, like he was a hawk stalking prey. Kevin stared at the desk and swallowed. “In fact, I think you deserve extended deadlines. I mean, with your new novel out”—he inhaled sharply, blatantly—“the folks down at your publishing house sure are keeping your schedule busy.” Waving his cig around in lazy circles, he emphasized, leaning back in his chair, his voice getting edgy, “Book signings, meetings, whatever the hell else they make you do, like working for me isn’t important.” A cloud of smoke traveled to Kevin’s face, and he didn’t wince but instead looked at the man, who was obviously jealous—if not also insane. Kevin wondered why.

  “Actually, I think with all the time you don’t have now, I should make it more easy on yah, don’t you think?”

  “Well—” Kevin began, and then the phone on Mr. Laney’s desk rang and everything was silent and still for a moment, except for the smoke and the ringing.

  The boss let it ring and when it fell silent, he said, “Anyways—”

  The phone screamed again. Mr. Laney snatched it up and averted his voice into soothing pleasure. “Daily Charlotte News.”

  The boss’s wrinkly face grimaced and his eyes closed. “Kevin? Why yes, he’s right across from me, actually. But we’re a little busy right now.”

  Kevin’s heart lit up. Was it my agent? he thought. Why would they not wait until he got home to call? (He didn’t own a cell phone.) Something about his new novel, obviously, but what?

  After listening for a bit, Mr. Laney handed him the telephone. “Make it quick, bitch,” Mr. Laney muttered under his breath, and Kevin’s heart flared with anger. I hate it when you call me that!

  “Hello? Yes, this is Kevin.” It was his agent, Elizabeth. And she sounded breathless, like she had just won the lottery or met the man of her dreams.

  “Oh my God, Kevin!” she hollered. Kevin allowed the phone to leave his ear for a moment; without a doubt Mr. Laney could hear her and that made him grunt and smoke. Kevin’s foot began to speed up the tapping, and Kevin said, “What is it?”

  “It’s your book!” she screamed. “It reached the New York Times Bestseller list!”

  * * *

  The telephone slipped out of Kevin’s hand and at the same time the cigarette hanging from Mr. Laney’s lips dropped to the floor. Kevin caught the phone before it fell, a wide grin on his face.

  I did it! I made it! his mind chanted, and he looked back at Mr. Laney with glee until he saw that are-you-fucking-kidding-me face, with the smoke still going up beside him. Laney picked up the cig and put it out, still staring at him with disbelief and vulgarity. He had obviously overheard her.

  “Kevin? Hello?”

  “Yes, Elizabeth?”

  “Why, don’t you want to know what spot you’re on?”

  “Spot on what?” His heart was reeling from excitement to fear from his boss.

  “The list! The motherfucking New York Times List!”

  “Where am I?” he asked breathlessly, eying away from Laney.

  “Ten!”

  “That’s great.” It was more than great, it was incredible. His bank account would now change, his life would change, and he betted right now that he could survive writing fiction full-time if he so wished. Which meant. . . .

  “Great? Kevin, listen, do you know what this means? It means that—”

  Mr. Laney disconnected the phone cord, cutting off Elizabeth’s excitement. Kevin looked back at his boss like he had just been slapped. “What did you do that for?”

  “Now, back to business.” His voice wasn’t edgy anymore. In fact, he was leaning his elbows on his desk; hands intertwined tightly, a pleading expression and a casual voice on his mouth. He spoke fast. “What I was also going to give you was a raise. A big one. I was thinking around—”

  So that was it, Kevin thought. You’re going to try to bribe me with a small raise so I won’t quit my job because now I’m a successful author. Is that it?

  Kevin uncrossed his feet and stood. “Stop. Just stop.” Kevin no longer lived in fear of Laney, or his financial situation, or his future, or even his life, if fear ever stood in that position. He believed he had wasted enough time sitting in his office. He grabbed his coat on the hanger and walked out, that smile growing on his face again.

  He thought Laney would try to stop him, or yell at him, because he heard his big form shift in his chair and heard him curse, but otherwise he held his breath. Good.

  Outside, the air never felt so good.

  ***

  Sleepwalking was the title of his novel. It was a story about unforgettable characters surviving through a zombie apocalypse. An overdone plot, Kevin thought, and he still couldn’t believe it had earned him so much success. He had talked on the phone with his agent and they had exchanged a lot of information; meetings, a new contract to put out more books, Kevin quitting his job, all said in excitement and wonder. There had even been talk of a TV interview. All was getting better with Kevin Johnson.

  ***

  A few minutes after their conversation ended, Kevin’s OCD and hatred for his previous job took over. He brought the kitchen trash can to sit beside his desk—his writing desk—and he began shoving all the articles, projects, deadline newsletters, and everything else related to his job at the Charlotte Daily News in the trash. Trash full, he took it out to the dumpster and returned to take a tired yet dreamy shower before heading off to bed, content.

  Two days later

  Kevin rounded the corner on his way home from his late-afternoon jog. A lightning bolt tore the sky in half on the horizon. The night was darkening and the rain abruptly started heavy. Running the mile home, water splashed under his feet and silhouettes of water trailed down the drain before the sidewalk. Some of the rain got in his thick, curly blonde hair and traveled down his face, but he didn’t care. He had made it. He didn’t know how, or why, but he had made it. He started running faster, feeling the endorphins from the adrenaline rush kick in. You made it you made it! That chant, like a million fans who had bought his new novel were saying in his head. You made it—

  His foot slipped out in front of him and he went sprawling on the sidewalk, taking a large dumpster can down with him. The sound of the large can hitting the ground was loud, and then he landed on his side, which erupted a vibrating song of pain from his bones and he screamed.

  He lay there for a moment, letting the sound of rain on his coat sooth his anger, and then he smiled again, the pain receding fast, confident that all was well, he had just fallen like a clumsy bastard. And plus, the street was deserted.

  He got up, righted the trash can, and began to pick up and place the trash back in the can. Hey, he caused the mess, he fixed the mess, was his mindset. There wasn’t a lot of trash anyway.

  Upon cleaning up he stumbled upon a big black thing, and, interested, he picked it up and examined the object.

  Kevin gasped and the brand-new-looking Royal typewriter—which was quite heavy—slipped from his hands and landed on his foot. He cursed and bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, and then he pitied himself for being so clumsy, dropping the phone and now this beautiful piece of machinery which no one really used anymore.

  The pain a low throb in the back of his head, he picked up the typewriter more carefully and examined i t. Royal. All keys there and functional. Heavy as hell. Pretty as hell.

  Why would someone throw this out? he thought with wonder, and placed it in the crook of his arm almost instinctively, taking it home with him, the pain in his body almost gone, the smile on his face reappearing like the sun coming back up to a new day. A fresh start.

  ***

  It was ten in the morning when he woke up. He had over slept a few hours, but that was okay.

  Kevin went to the kitchen to get some coffee, then he went to his room and sat down at his writing desk, placing his mug beside the typewriter. He was planning to write on his new typewriter as soon as possible, except . . . no ink and no paper.

  Kevin cursed, slammed the mug down, and looked at the typewriter and it had paper in it. Kevin’s eyes lit up a little and he pushed it back and pushed the letter A. CLICK! He pressed all of the buttons to see if they worked. CLICK CLICK CLICK! Ink was on paper, Kevin couldn’t believe it.

  Then he stopped. “Wait a second,” he said. He could have sworn that there was no paper or ink in the machine when he stumbled upon it last night. Could have sworn on it. Yet here it was, all happening without a trace.

  “Hmph.” He leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on his hand. Then a crazy but not impossible scenario came to him: What if Mr. Laney—or some of his coworkers—broke into his apartment while he was asleep to fill this machine up so he could write?

  “Why would anyone do that?” he accused aloud, and drank more coffee. Perhaps there had already been paper in it when he had found it. Perhaps he had just overlooked it. Ah, who cares, he thought. At least my new typewriter is ready to go!

  So he began to write a new story. When he had written for a good three hours, he stopped and went to fetch the newspaper outside. There were always interesting things going on in this town, he thought, and a new story idea could manifest itself from one of these articles, because ideas came from everywhere.

  Almost without thinking, he flipped to the Crime News section, where he had once been writing in that spot for a few years. His last articles were printed in this newspaper (and he had already submitted articles for tomorrow’s paper), and after tomorrow Mr. Laney would have to find a replacement. Oh well, Kevin thought, boo hoo. Sucks to be you, boss!

  Kevin found himself smiling at the thought. Just to think, Mr. Laney would be on his heels trying to find a replacement. No one was as good as me, he thought. Especially when it came to multitasking and writing multiple articles in a day.

  He went back to his typewriter and wrote some more, and then, the next day, something in the newspaper sparked Kevin’s attention:

  . . . As of 7:00 PM last night Jennifer Rose hung herself . . . no one knows why . . . family distressed and are in tears . . . used to write fantasy novels . . . seemed to be in the middle of writing a sequel to her new book series . . .

  Kevin’s nose blared with inhalation. At the center of the page was a beautiful smiling Jennifer, her brown hair straightened and her eyes telling the world that she was in love with literature. He put the paper down and contemplated. He asked himself all the unanswered questions like how did this happen? Why did it happen?

  He picked up the newspaper again. He had skimmed through most of it, so he read slower instead, seeing if there were any answers:

  . . . “She always wrote on that darn typewriter,” Jennifer’s sister, Penny, said through tears. “I bet someone stole it . . . and I don’t understand why she would—” Sobs broke her off and she refused to answer any other questions . . . An autopsy will be performed soon . . . So far nothing . . .

  Goose bumps arose on his flesh and there was a slight tremor in his hands. He sat back and thought, Oh my God, I stole a dead woman’s passion away.

  But none of it made any sense. The typewriter Kevin was staring at had been in the trashcan, hadn’t it? Yes, yes it had. So he didn’t steal anything. Yet there was a strong pang of guilt clutching at his heart like a noose. He felt hopeless. Responsible in some way, somehow. Involved.

  But he didn’t do anything. All he did was take a fall and stumble upon garbage.

  Unless, Kevin thought, there is more than one typewriter. Maybe someone had stolen Jennifer’s, and maybe someone else had thrown out their machine, and he had just happened to have found it.

  Or maybe she had trashed her own typewriter before killing herself.

  Ah who knew, he thought, still confused.

  Don’t worry about it; let’s just wait a few days to see what the autopsy report says.

  Kevin found little comfort in that thought but saw no other option.

  So he waited.

  ***

  Staring at the typewriter, his feet tapping the floor, he tried to rest his hands over the keys. He stopped his hands in midair and instead rested them in his lap. The room was eerily silent and the window to his left showed nothing of interest except for gray skies and bland buildings. He was working on a sequel to his first novel, Sleepwalking, and he took the page out of the machine to look it over. It was just a first draft, he thought, looking at the words, and put a blank page in the machine. He was about to continue writing, but his fingers wouldn’t touch the keys. His heartbeat was normal, but there was certain heaviness there, and a light sweat broke out on his forehead. Why can’t I write? he thought. Writer’s block? He knew how the story would continue, even had an outline for it (which he’d created this morning), but still, his fingers wouldn’t go near the keys. Also another problem: he was scared.

  Why? he thought.

  That was what got most writers into writer’s block: the fear of failure. But Kevin knew he wasn’t one of those types of writers. At least, not anymore. So why did the fingers tremble every time he tried to touch the keys? Was it writer’s block? Or something else?

  ***

  Frustrated with himself, he went out back on the porch and gazed at the sun hanging halfway above the horizon. He leaned on the back porch rails with his forearms, and he closed his eyes to try and relax.

  But no relaxation came forth.

  Instead, images of Jennifer and thoughts of her suicide enthralled his mind. Did she really commit suicide? A happy and content writer of such popular novels wouldn’t commit suicide. Maybe it was drugs, he thought stupidly, but when did you ever hear a successful writer overdosing? And he still couldn’t comprehend the reason behind the typewriter. Did she really throw it out, or did someone else do it? Fake the suicide as a cover up for murder?

  Kevin went to his desk and sat. He drummed his fingers against the desk while deep in thought. He stared at the typewriter, and it stared back.

  “Why?” he asked the typewriter. “Why did she kill herself?”

  The typewriter sat stupidly.

  He should call the police. Tell them that he had found her typewriter—

  No. He couldn’t. If he got himself involved, the police would think he was a suspect. So that meant the only option was to wait for the autopsy report. Should be any day now. . . .

  ***

  Two days later, while watching TV, the six o’ clock news came on and the first thing Kevin saw as he sat on the couch was a picture of Jennifer—in color this time—and Kevin shot up from his sleazy posture and turned the volume up.

  A woman with long wavy blond hair stood isolated in front of a blue background with Jennifer’s picture now at the left corner of the screen. She said, “It appears as if the author of the popular fantasy novels, Jennifer Rose, killed herself a few days ago due to unknown reasons. The family, who had wanted an autopsy to make sure no one had tried to poison her, are still confused as well as everyone else around town as to why she committed suicide. The autopsy report shows that there was nothing wrong with her inside or outside of her body, which can only justify the sad tale, of her suicide. John, what do you think of this?”

 

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