Breakdown - 10. 09 The Conversation

Cam had spent most of the day walking the city streets and checking the newspaper. Living with Jared was fine for the time being, but he wanted to find his own place. Jared was starting to ask questions about the cell phone. When Cam explained that it was part of his new job, Jared's curiosity only increased. It was awkward; Cam didn't like lying to him about what happened with Aziel, and Jared was pretty good at picking up when Cam wasn't telling the full extent of the truth.

Not because he was afraid of Jared's reaction, however.

He was afraid of Aziel's.

Cam had his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his green coat. He walked with his blonde head down, watching the cracks on the street. He remembered an old children's song:

Don't step on the crack, or you break your mother's back!

Paying this no heed, he broke his mother's back several times before he stopped at the street light. He watched the traffic whiz by, steel and cold. He thought about Aziel's sleek, black BMW. About the sleek, groomed man that waited inside with eyes as cold as ice. He thought about being chained to the bed, a sliver of metal in his veins, and the heat followed.

Aziel had drugged him. Something unknown. It could have been anything, Cam told himself, anything at all. It could have been crack, it could have been black tar heroin, it could have been morphine. A panicked part of Cam's brain was screaming at him that this was a bad situation and it was only ripe to get worse.

Run...

Where? Cam thought. He won't let me.

Why did Cam believe that? What about Aziel made Cam think that he had that much control?

Cam stepped onto the stoop of the little apartment complex that was advertising that it had a room for rent. He knocked on the door, and a little old man with glasses much too big for his shriveled head greeted him.

"Eh?" he said, cupping a hand to his ear.

"I'm Cam," he said, holding out his hand to shake.

The old man's hand snaked out, white as a dead fish, and grasped Cam's hand. It was cold, sharp, and unpleasantly moist. "Eh? Cam? Good day, I'm Ernie."

"Hi Ernie," Cam said, forcing a smile. When the old man turned to wander up the stairs, Cam wiped his hand on his pants. Gross... Essence of... oldness. He shuddered inwardly and followed the little old man up the creaking steps. The entryway was pleasant enough; run down but well-kept. The stairs were uneven, but easily scaled. The hallways were free of clutter.

The door was missing a number, but it was supposed to be room 213. Instead, it read 2_3. Ernie fished through the massive pockets of his high, suspender-held plaid pants. Taking out a ring of keys, he rattled around for several minutes while pulling his bottom lip in and out of his mouth. Cam waited patiently for the other to find the correct key. He looked around at the other doors that seemed to be in better condition.

"Ain't no one been in this place for a month," the old man began. "Ain't no one wanting to live this close to the inner city, with their damn black kids and their damn music. It's loud. Do you listen to that damn black music?"

"Um," Cam said, shifting his hands in his pockets. "No, not at all."

Ernie nodded at him, his eyes wide and large behind his massive spectacles. There were fuzzy edges around the yellowing nose pads. The glasses looked to be a hundred years old, and Ernie looked to be almost the same age. "Damn straight," he said with a nod of his raisin-like head. "Kid like you, you ought to be in the workin' world, not out listening to that damn music."

"Uh, sure," Cam said, feeling uncomfortable. Ernie finally got the door unlocked, and took Cam inside. There was a layer of dust on the floor and no furniture. It was small, and the lino floor was wavy in places. It had a general smell of something dusty and old. Cam was less than impressed with the lights off, and felt almost ill when they came on.

The walls were peeling and there were water stains on the floor. To Cam, it sort of looked like it had been hollowed out and used as a crack house. The floor was covered in a fine layer of dust, and the carpet looked like it was either scratchy or moist, or perhaps both. There were large stains on the carpet, and Cam could all too easily imagine them to be vomit.

"It's not much," Ernie said, putting his gnarled little hands on his hips. "In fact, I'd wager that it's less than not much. But the rent's a good price for what it is."

Cam worked his mouth for a moment. "Can I take a look around?" He didn't really want to, but the presence of the unsettling little old man with his fuzzy glasses and the cloying, dirty atmosphere made him want to escape.

Ernie nodded, folding his arms over his chest. "You betcha, take all the time you want. Wheel of Fortune ain't on for another half an hour."

Cam nodded woodenly, and forced himself to go and explore the place. Sadly, this was almost the best that he had seen. And the man was right... the price was right for what it was. Cam had walked through a couple of apartments that were almost as bad for triple the price. He wandered down the dirty carpet to the bathroom. Peering inside earned him view of a blackened, cracked toilet and a likewise blackened and peeling bathtub.

No, he couldn't live here. He couldn't live somewhere where he had to wear shoes in his own damn house all the time. The feeling of the scratchy carpet against the underside of his sneakers was making him ill.

He came back out to find Ernie standing dutifully at the door, keys clasped in his hands in front of him.

"So what do you think?"

"It's... different."

"A no, huh?"

"Um, yeah, that's a no," Cam said, feeling relieved that the other wasn't angry.

"Honestly, didn't think you'd want it," he said, sniffing. "Last owners were terrible bad to the place. Didn't give 'em back their deposit for damages. Had to kick 'em out, for smoking crack in the back. That smell gets out, and then the place gets a bad reputation, you know? All those black kids come by with their music and it gets loud. Can't hear the damn telly over them, when they come by with their music."

Cam stared at the man, wondering what decade he was living in. "Uh, yeah," he managed.

Ernie locked the room back up, and Cam couldn't help but wonder why he bothered locking the door at all. There was nothing in there anyone could ever want, except perhaps a place to die. He followed the little man back down the well-kept stairway, feeling a little disappointed. Cam avoided another handshake and slipped out the door back onto the street.

"Well, fuck that," Cam whispered to himself.

It was getting late, and it was almost time for class.

Cam wondered for not the first time if it was worth it...

The assassin was crouched outside a mansion on the outskirts of the city. His back was flush against the wall, balanced on the balls of his feet with his hands on his thighs. He was covered head to toe in a tight, form-fitting suit. There was a blue bag at his side.

The orders had been relatively simple. The actions were invariably complex.

This was Aziel's fourth night on the premise. He had memorized the satellite photos of the grounds, memorized the patters that the guards made their rounds. He knew where all the wires, all the cameras, and all the alarms were. Tonight was the final night, the night when he would slip in, reap, and slip out.

Quiet as a shadow, Aziel edged along the side of the mansion. Lithe as a cat, he slipped up the wall towards the second floor balcony. It was 12:54AM, and the head guard would be changing over. He would have three minutes to get from the balcony into the study.

More than enough time.

Aziel slipped out his slender lock pick. It took him 15 seconds to flick the tumbler. He squeezed through the narrow opening and then shut the door and relocked it. The head guard would return here to check the door, and make sure it was still locked. Aziel slipped to the other side of the room, opening one more door and proceeding into the study.

Here, the shadows were long and dark. Aziel picked one beside a towering bookshelf. He held his breath. A small device on his watch vibrated once... twice... three times. Then the door on the other side of the room opened and the head guard came through carrying a rifle. He walked slowly through the room, but didn't turn on any lights. He passed within three inches of Aziel's nose, and exited through the door on the other side.

Aziel let out his breath, and stalked forward.

He moved through the maze of hallways as if he had traveled them a thousand times, instead of just twice. Without raising any alarm, he found the master bedroom.

The assassin stood at the end of the king-sized bed and looked at the sleepers within. A woman, so beautiful as to be intoxicating, was naked by the side of a handsome, older man. Aziel tilted his head, taking in both of their forms, highlighted in the low light of the slim moon. They were peaceful, their breath deep and even. He could see the rise and fall of the woman's ribs, the ample swell of her breasts, and the erect nub of her exposed nipple. Of the man's body, he could see the curl of his chest hair, the limp, dark flesh between his legs, and the beginning of what looked like a receding hairline.

They were perfect together. A rich man with his trophy whore of a wife, with her fake breasts and her perfect, pert nose.

Slowly, watching their sleeping forms, Aziel assembled his handgun. It gave him a slight thrill to stand here, the bringer of death, over an unsuspecting victim. He screwed the silencer onto his pistol.

The glinting chrome of his gun focused to star burst intensity. There was no hesitation in this moment, just the cold beating of a solitary heart with no ounce of remorse or value for the human lives before him. Light filled the room; silent thunder. The first was a neat hole in the temple of the man. The second was a matching, precise hole in the woman's temple. Their bodies barely stirred, just a slight jump as life left them. Aziel stepped forward, to the side of the bed, and placed the gun against the chest of the man. Two more, into his heart. Likewise with the woman.

They would be cool by the time the little digital alarm clock went off at 6:23AM. The evidence would show where they were shot from and what they were shot with. The dark blood would be tacky on the sheets; even now, Aziel was watching it slip like a dark river down their pale faces.

Sleeping together forever.

Aziel waited a full hour in the master bedroom, watching their still bodies in the low light. A full hour with two corpses, and Aziel's heartbeat remained as regular as always. Now it was time for the rear guard to change, and he could slip out the back way.

Just as easily as the assassin had slipped in, the assassin slipped out.