Whole Again (34 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Impassive-Digressive (View user info) at 2006-10-09 22:23:29 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
There is something about the forest at night that I have always found magical. The way the half-eaten moon wraps a dappled silver blanket over the forest floor; the almost imperceptible whispers of wind that rustle the canopy. On a night like this, you can almost sense the pixies and their fairytale counterparts frolicking, just beyond your field of vision.
As far as I'm concerned, tonight they can all get fucked.
Gnomes, pixies, bushy-tailed squirrels and this entire fucking forest can burn for all I care. If someone had the foresight to make judicious use of a bulldozer a few years ago, the black tarmac beneath me would be nice and straight, and I would be speeding through the night with my foot to the floor, without having to worry about hairpin bends and sliding sideways off the road into a tangled mess of big fucking trees.
Then again, if eleven years and three months ago I had made more judicious use of my pistol, and put less faith in the security of our prisons, I wouldn't be hurling my Camry around these stupid corners at unsafe speeds at three twenty-seven on this altogether unpleasant Tuesday morning. Hindsight's a bitch.
Corrigan. Walter fucking Corrigan. Killer, kidnapper and Grade A scum. He pulled a knife on me during his apprehension and, regrettably, I only shot his shoulder.
Should've plugged him in the face; no matter how poor the security is you can't break out of prison when you've had a piece of lead rip through your skull.
Instead, I did it by the book. Disarmed him with a non-lethal shot and brought him in. He vowed revenge at the time, and I reminded him that he should be thanking me for sparing his life. I sigh. The moral high ground is worth nothing when you are dealing with immoral people.
Corrigan's gratitude for my mercy was fully expressed this morning when following his prison-break, my eight year old son failed to make it to school.
I got a note - written by my son on a page torn from one of his exercise books. "Please excuse Michael from class, he is spending some time with his Uncle Walter." It was even signed with a (remarkably accurate) forgery of my signature. I made a mental note to discuss that with Mikey at a later date.
I then received a call from a payphone informing me that if I involved anyone else, my son would die. Last time a parent called Corrigan's bluff on that one, he eviscerated a fifteen year old girl. I wasn't going to risk my only child in the same way.
Having a child stolen from you isn't like having your bicycle stolen - or even like having your house broken into and cleaned out. Ultimately material possessions are replaceable, and to a large degree you can live without most of them anyway. Losing a child however is excruciating. Imagine, if you can, having an organ or a limb stolen - a part of you that you can't ever replace. Every moment, you feel the absence. That's what it's like. Right now, there is an empty space within me, and I will not rest until I am whole again.
Despite Mikey's father leaving me for a dental nurse a month into the pregnancy, I resolved to do the right thing. I carried him around for another eight months, spent twenty-two hours and nine agonising minutes in labour and scaled back my work hours so that I could raise him properly.
He truly was a part of me - he was all the family that I had. After everything I've been through, if a bastard like Corrigan thinks he has the right to so much as lay a hand on my boy without spending the best part of a day on his back, legs in stirrups, screaming in pain, he has another thing coming.
Fortunately, I had taken the (some would say paranoid) precaution of sewing a small GPS locator into the lining of my son's schoolbag. I had also taken the liberty of removing a few select items acquired at a recent weapons raid from the evidence locker. I can already imagine the disciplinary shitstorm that will ensue. A price I am willing to pay.
My destination, it seemed, was an industrial estate set on the outskirts of one of those innocuous grey settlements that seem to straddle the line between large town and small city - the kind of place that you would only ever stop if your fuel needle was wilting towards 'Empty' or you really needed to pee.
As the forest thins and the road becomes more manageable, I can see the orange glow of distant lights on the horizon, another twenty minutes of somewhat reckless, but uneventful driving later, I pull to the side of the road two blocks from where the GPS tracker tells me Mikey is being held. The street is completely deserted, save for a pair of stray cats darting between the pools of orange light from the streetlamps above.
Clad entirely in black, with my mousy shoulder-length hair pulled into a tight ponytail, I step from the Camry, check over the small weapons cache concealed on my person and collect the submachine gun from underneath the driver's seat. On loan from our evidence locker, the jet-black AGRAM 2000 instantly reassures me.
I lock the car and pause for a moment to calm my nerves. As unreservedly badass as I look right now, my heart is pounding and the butterflies in my stomach feel like they have been supplanted by miniature velociraptors.
"Okay." I mutter to the cool early morning air "Let's go."
I stay, as much as possible, concealed in the shadows as I steal towards my goal; which presently reveals itself to be a large warehouse of sorts. Judging from the dilapidated state of the building, and half-missing chain link fence, I imagine that it's been abandoned for some time. Black spraypaint on one wall informs me that 'Matt Waz Ere' in '99. Beneath that, red paint reveals that 'Matt eats DICK.'
Ignoring Matt and his purported predilection for penis, I sidle up to a grimy window and attempt to peer in. In the partial moonlight, I can vaguely make out the shapes of boxes and machinery scattered on the warehouse floor. My gaze is caught by a dim light in what I presume was once a supervisor's office, set up on some kind of mezzanine at the far end of the building. All I need is a way in that won't attract too much unwanted attention.
After a brief inspection of the perimeter, my next move becomes obvious. As much as I would like to blow up the large loading bay doors and storm in with flames billowing around me, like a ferocious fusion of Lara Croft and Beatrix Kiddo, in the interest of stealth, I decide to try my luck with the old fire exit at the rear.
Several minutes later, the lock yields to me and I make my way into the darkened building. I carefully close the door behind me and crouch behind some old boxes while my eyes adjust to the darkness.
As far as I can tell, the office I saw earlier is directly above me, and I can make out a set of stairs off to the left. If Corrigan is watching the stairs, he will be able to pick me off with little difficulty. Knowing him, he would probably prefer not to kill me straight away, but I am not sure that I want to take that gamble. Not with my son involved.
My dilemma is resolved by the cool touch of a gun barrel to the back of my neck.
"Drop the gun, Julie."
The bastard knew I was coming here - he must've found the GPS tracker. I silently curse his name as my machine gun clatters to the floor.
"And the other ones."
I remove my pistol from its holster on my waist, and the spare from right boot. That's all my guns gone. I hope he doesn't notice any of the other small bulges in my clothing.
"Turn around slowly."
I turn to face him, anger burning in my eyes - both at him, and myself for allowing myself to get caught. Corrigan chuckles as he meets my gaze.
Once an athletic man, the decade in prison has reduced him to a tall, wiry figure. His hair has greyed and crept halfway back on his scalp; his menacing eyes still shine though, albeit from sunken sockets. He motions to the stairs with the revolver in his right hand.
"After you, let's go and see your little boy."
"Let me bring you in Walter. I'll make sure that your cooperation is taken into consideration. We might even be able to reduce your sentence." No harm in trying for a civil end to this meeting.
"No way in hell."
"This is your last chance Walter. Do as I say. Surrender and we will go easy on you."
"Who the fuck do you think you are? I'm the one with the gun. I don't have to do what you tell me." He shakes the revolver at me. "Now get your ass up those stairs."
I begin trudging towards the staircase.
"What do you want Walter?"
"Revenge." He snorts "Do you have any idea what I've been through?"
"I've read your file." I begin climbing the stairs. His mother was alcoholic and his father was abusive, possibly sexually. Socially inept, he has a fierce temper - which led to many of his crimes, as well as his ultimate downfall. I can't imagine the last decade in prison was much fun either.
It was just another of those tragic life stories that we all seem to be constantly reading about these days. Still, if he thinks he's getting my sympathy, he's in for disappointment.
"How was prison, Walter?" I ask in my sweetest 'How was school today, dear?' voice.
"Shut up."
"Nice roommates?"
"Shut the fuck up, bitch." A little louder that time.
"Were you popular with the big guys? I bet you were. They probably fucked you so much that you don't need to wipe after taking a shit. Doesn't even touch the sides anymore."
"Goddamnit, shut your fucking mouth!" He's yelling now - I must've hit a nerve.
I glance over my shoulder at him, smiling broadly. "Seen a dentist lately, Walter? How many teeth did you lose in your quest to give the perfect blowjob?"
He transfers the revolver to his left hand and slaps my half-turned face with his right. I fall to the stairs and lash out with my legs, connecting solidly with his knees. Struggling to cock the hammer with his left hand, Walter topples backwards down the stairs. He manages to yell something before landing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
I reach into my jacket and pull out the grenade I had concealed in one of my pockets, pushing the striker in and yanking out the pin in one fluid motion. I lob it towards Corrigan as he staggers to his feet, and dash up the stairs into the office.
Mikey is lying, tied up and gagged in the corner, his eyes light up as he sees me, and I throw myself over him. The instant my arms envelop him, there is a bright flash, accompanied by a thunderous roar as the grenade explodes. The entire mezzanine shudders violently and the window blows in, showering me with glass. As soon as the impact is over, I pull out my knife and cut my son's bonds, brushing glass off me as I go. I notice the GPS tracker lying on the floor nearby.
Freed, I feel Mikey's arms wrap around me, and I am whole again. The void that was fuelling my revenge is gone, and tears of joy stream down my face. I hold him tight, planting kisses all over his face and head. He looks up at me.
"Where's Uncle Walter?"
I walk to the office window and peer to the bottom of the stairs, Mikey follows me before I can ask him not to. In the darkness, we can make out the crater the explosion left behind, as well as the shape of Corrigan's torso. His legs are probably in small pieces scattered all over the warehouse.
"Whoa." Mikey looks on, incredulous. "What happened?"
I crouch in front of Mikey and look him in the eyes.
"He wouldn't do as he was told, so I had to punish him." His beautiful blue eyes widened.
"You wouldn't ever punish me like that, would you?"
"Of course not honey." I hug him tight, wondering how wrong it really is to use situations like this as part of your parenting strategy. "You know to do what you're told."
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Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-06-05 12:31:41 EDT (#)
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