Atticus strolled through the empty streets with his rifle
firmly in both hands. At a moments
notice he could bring it up to his shoulder, and aim down the sights to mark
his target. He was prepared for such a
moment, in fact he had been prepared from the moment he set foot in the
streets. There was a quiet air about
the neighborhood, and the sound of a calling black bird was all that was heard
revirbirating down the barrenness.
Aimless newspapers twirled through the gusts of vacant air, the whistling
brush against the iron rain gutters. A
soda can rolled and clanked against the ledge of the sidewalk as it dipped in
the storm drain. Atticus’ steps were
precise and purposeful, gentle and deliberate.
His ears took in all the nothingness, every spot of irregularity were
dinner bells in his ears.
A screeching howl from the throat of a cat twisted him to
his left to stare down an a dank and uninviting alleyway which of course he
ventured in to. The owner of the howl
rushed from behind a overstuffed tin trashed can and brushed passively passed
his feet and into the empty streets behind him.
Atticus took no interest in this startled animal, his ears open, and his
eyes locked on the forward progression his feet were carrying him.
Then in an instant the rifle was readied and the owner took
a knee. Atticus looked forward toward a alcove
between dumpsters and the towering brick walls. A shaking shadow was eminent on the cement,
a product of a hidden light from a
window just above.
“Step out.” Atticus
spoke with controlled command. His arms
were steady and he pressed the stock a bit more into his shoulder. The shadow on the earth grew slightly as if
it’s owner was now standing at its true height and not at its hiding
posture. Atticus searched slightly,
lining up a headshot with his rifle in accordance with the distance of the
shadow. “Step out, or I’ll shoot you
dead.” Atticus commanded.
There was no response.
The shadow remained, its owner exposed but not cooperative. The rifle shook slightly, but not enough to
falter the sight line. The muscles in
his arm were weak, it had been two days without sleep. His weakening arm a side effect of his
determination. If this was his target
he couldn’t let it go. He needed this
done, he needed to rest. Slowly Atticus
rose to his feet, his bent knee straightening his rifle prepped, and loaded.
He only took a step when the figure emerged arms raised, and
fingers pointed to the stars. “I couldn’t
stop him.” The woman said, she was
clothed in a harlequin dolls outfit. The
red santa hat like points slung in opposite direction up on her head with
dangling bells ringing out as they swayed and tapped against the side of her
head. Her face was painted a pure
white, her lips the color of pitch.
“Where is he Harley?”
Atticus said in the same tone he had held when he first arrived here.
“Where’s who?” Harley
played back. She stilled walked arms
raised up with gloves powder white on the palms, and red atop. The same red that matched her skin tight
costume, the color red that was similar to the spots that were not black or
white. Her feet were in heels that
clanked upon the cement ground, and she stopped in place. She cocked her hips to the side and brought
her fingers to hang on the side of her waist, while her other hand brought her
index finger to her lips and she attempted to think of an answer to Atticus’
question. “You must be speakin of Mr. J.”
There was not a moment that Harley moved that Atticus’ didn’t
have his sites trained on her head. A
location between her eyes closer to the left than to the right. “No more games.”
“No games Mr. Finch.”
Cackled a voice from behind him, “Just jokes.” Atticus’ twisted around with a unbelievable
velocity but there was nothing except a set of three cackling teeth with legs
shimming across the entrance to his trap.
Atticus returned to Harley as he heard the sound of her heels beneath
her steps. She made to cross to an
intersecting alley when he let his finger find the trigger. The round entered and exited through her
calf and she stumbled down with her face planting against the pavement, but she
was tenacious and back to her feet.
With the wound through her leg Atticus knew she wouldn’t get
far, and as if in the same instant his gaze went back to the teeth. He pulled the bolt up and back on his rifle
and expelled the empty shell and slammed it forward and back down readying his
next round. He fired at one of the
teeth, and then repeated his steps till all three were gone. He had to sure they contained no traps, for
he knew his target too well to fall for any again. His memories rushed to the scar down the length
of his right arm, he remembered it fresh and red, oozing with immeasurable
blood. The jack-in-the-box had launched
a volley of shurikens, it had been cleverly hidden amongst the other toys in
the store. That was nearly two months
ago.
Two months since of tracking, of scarce meals, of limited
sleep. Two months since he had had him
cornered and restrained.
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