Left in Death's Wake

Johnny nudged forward a bucket with the toe of his boot, dumping the head of the mop into the soapy water a little harder than he’d intended. Some of it spilled over the lip of the bucket and onto the marbled floor. Most of it, down his socks. Cold water and ocean breeze made for a nasty combination, but the shattered windows did little to help with the dropping temperature. Nearby seagulls perched on the railing laughed at his misfortune, flying away before the bad luck could become tangible. Johnny missed them already. Their voices were the white noise he needed on the job lest the crashing of ocean waves fry his nerves entirely. 

The air smelled of fish and salt, but the only sound around for miles was the lapping of waves on the sand dunes below the pier, and the occasional outburst of his own voice. The job was a lonely one, a journey that was always following in the footsteps of scarlet pools and smooth, plastic sheets. 

He cursed when he looked down and discovered he was tracking footprints. 

The boss wouldn’t be happy with him if he were to leave an impression of his boot as evidence. Johnny shot a glance at the body covered by the plastic sheet he’d been instructed to bring, before hurriedly diverting his gaze before the details could burn into his brain. He ran his hand along the rough handle of the broom as he pushed and pulled and pushed and swirled the blood until it was lapping up and sticking to the bristles of the mop.

If only his parents could see him now. 

If only he could see his parents at all. 

Being the clean up guy for a hitman wasn’t ever exactly part of a five-year plan of his, but maybe it was never far off either. 

There had been three bodies this time, a small part of a bigger organization that was trying to eliminate double-crossers before a big job. Johnny’s boss had been hired to take care of things, and Johnny trailed behind—always a day later—to eradicate any trace of the aftermath. 

He gripped the flannel material covering his chest, shielding himself from the breeze but also anchoring. His fingers tangled in soft cotton helped the floor shake beneath his feet a little less. He’d been on the job for a little less than a year now, but time never made it an easy one to stomach. 

Most of the bodies had been loaded and the blood wiped clean when he received a text on his burner, the phone feeling as though it was scarring his hands of fresh blood as his boss sent him an encrypted message containing his next assignment. 

The ocean reflected hues of purple and orange hours later when the sun began to trickle over the horizon line. Johnny slammed the trunk of his car, his hand lingering on the cold metal a second too long when he caught sight of his appearance in the filthy back windshield.  

The abandoned storefront he’d been hard at work at all night smelled strongly of ammonia, but it wouldn’t be long before the sea drifted inland and the breeze would carry the scent of saltwater and fish through the windows, covering the last of his tracks.

_

He’d done everything right. He’d done everything right. He’d done everything right. 

Johnny’s leg bounced in anticipation, the table sticky beneath his jittery fingers as he drummed them against the foggy plastic cover of the menu. The diner was slow and the service even slower, his only company a few locals who had regulars written all over their person. They kept eyeing Johnny every now and then, either not realizing that he could see their wandering eyes in the reflection of the windows in the early morning light of day, or simply not caring if they were spotted being nosy. 

He took in a heavy breath, letting it out slowly as he sat slumped over the counter. He let his head fall heavily into his hands, allowing the steam of his drink to drift across his face as he took in another deep breath. To anyone watching, it would appear as though he was just having a slow start to his day. One or two patrons may even nod their head in his direction, acknowledging the cloud over his head and sharing the thunder.

The text had come in early that morning, hours before Johnny’s usual start to the day. The phone had violently buzzed against the mattress by his head, demanding to be read. Only a week had passed since the job down by the pier that, at this point, was three states in the dust. 

He’d done everything right. 

Over and over since receiving the text he’d recounted his steps, his methods of disposing the evidence, the time frame in which he was in and out in a record four hours. He’d done it all, and he was sure of it because as he had gone over the night hundreds of times when he realized he’d felt a sick pride in how well he was beginning to do his job. Just as soon as the thought had crossed Johnny’s mind he’d had to take a sharp right off the main road and unload the contents of his stomach on the unsuspecting patch of grass in the cracks of the asphalt. 

“More coffee, hon?” 

Johnny looked up at the waitress. She had some lipstick on her tooth that no one had bothered pointing out to her. He offered what he hoped was a grin and shook his head, thanking her. 

He’d done everything right. 

No bystanders had kept him company that night at the pier, apart from the seagulls, and the seagulls weren’t responsible for the tailing police lights reflecting in the rearview mirror of any and all red ’98 Civics in a hundred-mile radius of the pier. Seagulls laughed, but they couldn’t rat him out. They weren’t the ones who put a target on the Boss Man’s back, and, subsequently, Johnny’s.  

He thought he’d done everything right. 

The time was ticking no matter how hard Johnny willed it to stop. In his mind he could hear the gravel crunching beneath his boss’ tires and the smell of rubber in the air as he peeled down the backroads towards the diner. Towards Johnny.

You messed up, the text had read, followed by an address and time. The man didn’t have to bother adding a warning, because he knew Johnny would be there right on time no matter how many states away. He’d make it there. 

He’d have to. 

He’d done everything wrong. 

“Johnny.” 

Everything in Johnny felt cold as the figure slid into the opposite booth. He tipped his head forward, eyes boring a hole into the tabletop. “Boss.” 

“Seems like we need to talk about a few things.” 

Air in the diner was proving hard to come by. Johnny pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes never leaving the table. He jumped straight into it, voice becoming more panicked with every syllable. “Sir, you gotta believe me, I thought I did everything right.”

Johnny wondered if he was just imagining the prod of a gun’s nozzle that came to rest against his kneecap, juxtaposing the laid-back tone of his boss’ voice as he said, “Typically you do. What do you think happened?” 

Johnny’s voice was meek when he answered. “I messed up.” 

The boss’ smile turned cruel. “Wrong answer.” 

Johnny hadn’t been imagining the gun after all. He’d only misjudged where the gun was aiming. 

_

Johnny knew little about his boss. 

After all, his job wasn’t exactly orthodox, and his recruitment hadn’t exactly been by the book. 

But of what little he did know was this: his boss was a damn good shot. 

So why had he missed? 

The answer came in the form of a slow smile that pulled back the split, chapped lips that had previously seemed anchored towards the ground. The action dimpled the whiskered chin of the weathered man before him. 

Chaos ensued around the pair as patrons scrambled over the backs of booths to ensure the quickest route to the door. Behind the counter, the waitress was sobbing something incoherent into the phone, presumably to the cops. Somewhere, Johnny wondered if she’d ever been told about the lipstick on her tooth. The color of it flashed in his mind—wine red. Blood red. 

In the center of it all Johnny sat still, frozen in his booth. In his pocket, the wallet that safeguarded the picture of his fiancée—ex-fiancée—burned red hot. 

Johnny had been on the job for two years. Two grueling years with little to show for other than the barest form of financial stability and a severed conscience. 

It’d been two long years and he still was coming up short. The reason he’d taken the job at all, had sought out the boss at all, was for her. For answers. But instead, he just kept finding more questions. Johnny felt like a failure. Two years on the job couldn’t even tell him the answer to his biggest question, his only true question: was she still alive? 

Across from him, his boss began to laugh, but the chords sounded rusty. It was obvious to Johnny that the man must not laugh a lot. It sounded too rehearsed, fake. Mean. 

“Have you ever been shot at, Johnny?” His voice was grizzly, the grin not quite reaching the steely gaze. “I mean properly shot at, of course. I’ll let you in on a little secret.” The man leaned forward, ignoring the distant sound of sirens approaching that made Johnny’s ears pique. “You still haven’t, son. Mess up again and I can fix that real quick.” 

As if reading his mind, the boss continued, “Two years isn’t shit in this business, son. You wanna find out what happened to your girl, yeah? Then don’t screw up again, or else that bullet will make a hole in more than just that booth you’ve soiled.” 

The man pushed himself out of the booth in one graceful effort, sliding his hands into the pockets of his cargo overcoat as he righted himself. His lips had found their home once more, anchored in the direction of the floor. 

“Lay low for the next week or two. We’ll let the cops tire themselves out.” 

Johnny spared a glance at the now empty roadside restaurant. Tables had been overturned, dished broken in shards on the ground. One had skidded to a halt right by the boss’ boots. Johnny imagined picking one up. He’d learned enough in the business to know where the kill shot would be. 

_

The ceramic shard bit into his hand. It created a steady stream of blood that dribbled onto the floor, mixing with the overturned syrup to create a murky hue. Johnny stood on shaky legs. The lack of sleep and prolonged stress stemming over the last several days was beginning to take its toll. 

His boss’ back was to him as he walked towards the doors that would take him away. He’d be in the wind once more, and once again Johnny’s only communication with him would be through the damn burner phone. Johnny debated letting him walk. He debated letting himself live. What he had planned in his head was sure to be a suicide mission. Johnny shifted his weight, grimacing at the way his damp jeans were beginning to chafe his inner thighs. Boss had soiled the only picture left of his fiancé. In Johnny’s mind, that settled it. 

Two years on the job had taught him everything he needed to know about moving stealthily. After all, he’d learned from the best. 

Though, syrup had never been part of the equation. 

Weapon in hand, he rushed forward, but the sticky pull of molasses on his boots alerted his boss the second that Johnny’s weight had shifted forward. His boss sidestepped him, throwing his arm out and catching the younger man in the throat. 

“Idiot.” His boss’ eyes were blazing as he sneered down at him, completely unapologetic as Johnny flailed to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him. Boss placed his steel-toed boot on Johnny’s chest, resting it heavily on the flat part of his sternum. He kneeled down, adding even more weight. Tears prodded Johnny’s eyes though he refused to let them fall. 

With what little breath he could muster, he wheezed, “I want out.” The action burned his chest all the more. He needed air. 

His boss scoffed. “No shit.” He stood up to his full height and removed his foot from Johnny’s chest. 

Johnny pulled in a deep lungful of air, completely oblivious to the fact his boss had raised his knee high into the air. If he had seen it, maybe he would’ve had time to drop the ceramic shard. Prevent the worst from happening. But he didn’t, so when his boss stomped hard on the hand that had threatened him, the effect was gut-wrenching. 

Johnny hadn’t realized the waitress was still in the restaurant until she started to scream. 

“Send an ambulance!” she sobbed to the 911 operator, shouting demands into the rotary phone. The sirens outside began to grow louder as the cops approached. 

Johnny’s boss reached toward the counter, causing the waitress to duck and wail all the more. He wasn’t reaching for her, Johnny realized. His boss picked up a napkin dispenser and dropped it only a few inches from Johnny’s mangled hand. 

“Clean yourself up,” he said gruffly. He prodded Johnny’s leg with that steel-toed boot. Looking through the windows that ran along the wall of the diner, he cocked his gun at the sound of approaching sirens. “Do what you know how to do.”