An Axis Oblique - Prologue

Been away for awhile. Thought I'd post a bit of my first novel, An Axis Oblique. There were a few translation descrepencies when I brought it over from it's original file. I'll try to clean them up as best I can. Hope you enjoy.




An Axis Oblique - Prologue

December 20, 10:10

Sonny’s asthma took a turn for the worse and strange things started to go through his mind.
Like their laughter; relentless and cruel,
as though mercy hinged mainly on how he’d endure.
The conduciveness of his tall and lanky frame to a lifetime of respiratory difficulty was a medical certainty, corroborated by his own family physician several years back during his substantial growth spurt at the age of fourteen. Nevertheless, out there on the yard, where laugher bullied logic to the brink of respect, he was forced to pretend, and through coughing, and hiccups, and wheezes––they taunted, tormented, and pushed––
too far…swing a left toward the foodcourt…
By the end of the Bluemont’s West Plateau, his hurry had decayed into a slow, awkward lurch. The pressure weighed heavy and he longed for relief. Any such attempt however, would likely lead straight to the one place he could least afford; that dire somewhere between narrow escape…and sure confrontation. Frantic, he ducked down a long, concealed corridor, checking over his shoulder one last time before moving out of range for good.
The man in the burgundy sport coat was lost in the holiday rush, and a sudden sense of obscurity poured over him as he caught glimpse of his blood-soaked pant-leg. Even now, in his oxygen-deprived state, he could not say for certain who the man was or why he’d attacked him so viciously. No matter. Sonny had dealings with all sorts of ‘less-than-legitimate’ contractors in and around Maplewood, and knew most used hired hands to do their dirty work. Old Vladolingo must have rubbed the wrong someone the very wrong way.
A sharp pain, previously masked by pumping adrenaline reached him at last and, making his way past the women’s restroom, he let out a gasp of uneven agony before pushing through the heavy MENROOM door.
It was empty, to his great relief, as he began to breathe unrestrained. Were he of even mildly sounder judgment, he might have recognized this decent into shock but, however incoherent, his thoughts were on his current predicament, (among other subtle intrusions), and instinct was screaming for him to end this incessant sting. So be it.
His blood fell drop by drop to the cold linoleum as he clamored to drench a clump of paper-towel in lukewarm water. Carefully, he rolled up his pant leg to reveal a wound much deeper than believed and dabbed at it with the crude disinfectant. It was no use. The wound flowed with purpose, his entire leg slowly subsiding into a warm, tingling bliss…
Eyes glossing over, he stood, mesmerized by the site of his own spilling blood. There was an odd order to the thin streams and thickening blobs, assembling all kinds of images in his mind as the sun beat down hard against his back. Gazing into the expanding red clouds, he could feel beads of sweat forming along his hairline and down the back of his neck. An incurable beauty consumed him with thoughts of song birds in soaring winds over tall, leafy trees and thick, crashing waves; much like the ones he’d watched for hours as a small boy at his Cousin Marianna’s house in Havana. He wanted nothing more than to sleep now, and allow his tired mind to go there, unimpeded; so warm and so safe inside a memory it so desperately longed to revisit.

Soon, he found himself inside a stall; leg propped against the door, bandaged clumsily by at least three quarters of a role of toilet paper. The pain suddenly returned and he let out a panting wail that lasted long enough for him to consider the room’s stable silence––
Perhaps the man in the burgundy sport coat had missed his sharp detour entirely. Perhaps it was safe to emerge for some much-needed assistance…
Sure beats the alternative…
Everything around him seemed determined not to cooperate, all blurry and unable to stand still. He no longer possessed the strength to stand and a wave of nausea tore through him. The sun beat so bright, it pained to look even in its general direction, but that was impossible, for it seemed everywhere. So tired…
kay, take a minute…but not one second more…
*
“Hello!”
Henry called out––again––and again, got no answer. Never had he seen so much blood in one place. It was all over the floor, across walls and the mirror, leading finally and almost sequentially, to the next to last stall, where a single leg rested off-kilter. For a moment, he thought he was going to be sick.
By the time he got closer, it was so strong he no longer felt the urge to relieve himself; (precisely what drove him in here to begin with). Had he known he’d be greeted by a bloody mess, (which, though by no means an expert, appeared to him rather fresh), he’d most certainly have been able to hold it.
He could see traces of blood from the adjacent stall and up close, the solitary leg. The pants were of a spandex-type material, ideal for cold sweat, (which suited the mood swimmingly). Swallowing hard, he stepped onto the seat and gradually moved up––and over…
A tall, slim young man sat immobilized on the toilet with one leg wedged between his body and the stall’s front door wrapped tightly in blood-soaked toilet paper. His worst fears were soon quelled when the man’s chest rose slightly––then sunk; (though just barely, and possibly not for much longer). So long as there was a chance to save him, however, he had to make every effort. He descended, setting his sights on more competent help––
just as the door was thrust open outside––
*
Krieger saw the bloody mess and at long last, his chance.
At first he damn-near overshot, allowing for that, which he’d waited so patiently to slip through his fingers once and for all. But now that he saw for himself, he knew all would end here. Not the ideal location for a job such as this, but thoroughness mattered more than cleanliness, he decided, following the thoughtful red trail toward the next to last stall.
“Oh thank God…” Some silver-streaked yuppie emerged out of nowhere, cutting him off. “There’s a guy in there who desperately needs a doctor…” Krieger clenched his jaw.
“I just came in for a piss…” he stammered in his best unassuming ‘Joe Yankee.’ The man looked at him, dumbfounded.
“Didn’t you hear what I––just, please…wait here a sec while I go get some help.”
Krieger cut in front of him.
“No––,” backing slowly toward the door… “Listen, I can’t stand the site of blood, pal. How bout you let me go?”
The stunned gentleman looked hesitant. “What? All right, fine. But you have to hurry. For God’s sake, it may already be too late...” The kind stranger backtracked as Krieger acknowledged:
“Won’t be but a jiffy,” he said––and turned down the copper deadbolt.
The jittery bastard must have heard something fishy, swerving around sharp––
“Wait, I thought you said––”
Done.
Krieger assumed the added mess would only confuse investigators––and confusion was usually good. Resuming at last, toward his most-pressing objective, he reached coolly into the velvety inside pocket of his tight-fitting burgundy sport coat…
The young man was unconscious, but breathing. “Friendly fool was right, I suppose,” he said, familiar, quietly slipping on his old, mirrored sunglasses as he turned to the dead man with the bleeding head just a few feet away…then back––to address Sonny’s dead, empty eyes… With a stone face, he raised his pistol, “Damn near caught up to ya too late...” and pulled the trigger.
It was over. At long last, the vessel had been neutralized. Young Sonny Duval was finally dead, and barring the much-too-merciful hand of God Himself…

Perry Finch died with him.