This was my assignment for round 1 of the 2017 Flash Fiction Contest through NYC Midnight. Out of a group of 32, this received 7th place. I was assigned an action adventure story, the location needed to be a yacht, and the object was a sledgehammer.
It's one last job. And then I’m free. This is what I remind myself as his knuckles connect with my temple again. I shake my head. I’ve been paying the debt for my life’s mistakes for so long I can barely imagine what freedom will feel like. A life for myself. No more running. My record erased. So long as I can get this done. Stars appear in front of me from the last blow as I rapidly blink my eyes.
When someone hits you hard enough in the face, the ringing in your ears ricochets across the galaxy of your brain. This sensation is quickly replaced by a numbness that eats up the pain and turns off your peripheral vision. I've learned the hard way that trying to fight back without peripheral vision is like trying to punch a shadow in the dark. The best thing to do is to bide time until your senses come back. The only thing better than physical power is patience.
I have been patiently waiting for 26 minutes while the muscle of this crew has pummeled me. If all has gone according to plan, Shane should be done with his half of this assignment. He’s the new retrieval guy, I’m reconnaissance. Really, I’m bait, but I prefer the label I’ve been given over the truth. The smell of pennies set up camp in my nostrils 18 minutes ago, and I find myself wondering between punch 21 and 30 how much blood I've lost.
The floor beneath me is disgustingly dirty. Clearly, I'm not the only person who has been on the receiving end of this guy's fists. I'm briefly concerned with how much of my own blood is mixing with the other bodily fluids stained on the ground, but adding that thought to the constant rock of the yacht on the water is enough to start turning my stomach. I force my thoughts to focus elsewhere.
I've been restrained- hands tied behind my back, thrown haphazardly into a rusty metal chair that's seen better days, but I’m thankful. The jagged pieces will give me leverage when the time is right.
The dim lighting around me laps in and out of my line of vision like waves. His meaty hands are hanging limp at his sides. Great, he’s going to start talking again. His voice is almost worse than his punches. This guy’s accent is hard enough to decipher and somewhere around minute 6, he grew tired of my snarky remarks.
Any conversation so far has been partially coherent at best, and unintelligible at worst. He squats down next to me. Places his stubby fingers under my chin. Makes me look into his eyes.
"I ask you again. I find you on yacht. But you were not invited. So, that makes you trespasser. I need to know why you come here. If you answer, I do not need to use fists."
Is it Russian? It must be. What other accents sound so thick?
He pats my cheek roughly. "You’re pretty girl before I start with the hitting. Answer my questions, and you'll be pretty girl again someday." He squints. "Probably." A laugh erupts from his throat. I do my best not to roll my eyes. My chin is released as he stands back up, sneering at me the whole time.
"I decide you tell me now. I grow bored with you. It's not good. For me to be bored with you." He takes a moment to inspect his fists. "You have realized already why they call me "the Sledgehammer," yes? I assure you that I...how do you say... I’m not made sleepy by my work."
31 minutes. Shane’s an amateur, but he’s had plenty of time. I begin to wriggle the rope on my wrists against one of the rough edges of the chair and start talking to distract Mr. Sledgehammer.
"I'll be honest with you. I'm here on an assignment. It's my last one, actually." I flex my wrists a bit. I'm close to breaking free, but not quite. "Mr. Stetson, your boss, has something that my boss wants. Or needs. I'm not too clear on her motive. I'm here to get said something. Well, really Shane is here to get said something. I'm here," I snap my wrists out of the last threads of rope, "to be a distraction for the uh. The "muscle." "Sledgehammer" in your case, I suppose."
He stares at me. During the next few seconds, I watch what must be the dance of understanding and disbelief unfold on his face. I almost feel sorry for the guy. He sputters a bit.
“Why you tell me this? Little girl thinks she is tough, yes? Thinks maybe I go look for friend and leave her alone?”
A smile tugs at my lips as I lunge off the chair. “No, Sledgehammer,” I say to him as I land my footing and draw back my fist, never taking my eyes off his. “I’m telling you this because by the time you’re conscious, I’ll be long gone.” I propel my fist as hard as I can into his solar-plexus. He staggers back in surprise, then doubles over as his ability to breathe quickly disintegrates. I swing a roundhouse kick that greets his jaw. The guy is knocked out cold. Less than 2 minutes from start to finish. It’s gotta be a record for me. I hightail it up the steps and out of the hull. As I hit the deck, I see Shane with a bag slung over his back. I give him a nod and a wave, our signal. He reciprocates it. Mission accomplished.
It’s not until we’re speeding back to headquarters that I even bother asking him what we were there for. He gives me a look. Shrugs. “It’s in the bag. Said she wanted information from a sledgehammer. I figure there’s a microchip in it or something.”
I slam on the brakes.
Shit.
No comments:
Post a Comment