The One Percenters (12 page)

I didn’t know him. I didn’t know he had four children. I didn’t know he was studying to be a doctor.

There was a lot I was unaware of; admittedly I hadn’t done my homework. Hell, I was a rookie. Decisions of this caliber were new to me. All I know is that it’s easy to pull a trigger. People make a fuss about it. They talk about conscience and sweating and fear of the Judgment Day. I felt none of those things.

I saw the man behind the grocery store. I’ll just call him Paul. I think we’re on a first-name basis now.

He was walking out into the dumpster area, carrying a large cardboard box. Apparently he and his family were facing an imminent out-of-state move and he was looking for packing material.

Page 82

It was easy. I fired from the woods, and there was no one to witness what I did. Raise the gun, squeeze the trigger, retreat. I even took a moment to relish it before ducking out. The sound reverberated off of the brick wall. The wall was painted yellow, just like all back walls of all grocery stores across this great nation. I was surprised at how easily the shot came off.

I found out later it had only been beginner’s luck.

One small section of the wall now carried an orange hue. It was a mix of blood and paint, and it shined in the afternoon sun. Ha, ha, that inspired me with a new game of stealth: Paint Paul. O.K., that’s not funny either. Go ahead and laugh at me. It’s easy when you’re over there, away from my gun.

He was my first. It would only get easier.

I heard the shot, enjoyed the moment, and escaped into the foliage. Paul was just practice, really.

The Earth can spare a mulligan, I’m sure. I once saw a graph of human population over time. It looks like any other exponential curve you ever seen. With one exception. There was one genuine decline in the otherwise flat-then-spike-upwards nature of the graph.

It occurred a few centuries ago, and you know it as the plague. Surely the work of the devil in the minds of those alive at the time, today it seems more like God’s own hands in action. If you imagine the numbers on this good Earth had that not happened. .well, Good Missus Nature would have no need for me now. Humans would have been downsized by this time, and maybe the world would be a better place because of it.

I expected to hear about Cristen’s death by now.

There had been no news. Perhaps she hadn’t yet been discovered in all her glory, or perhaps the news was not grand enough to find its way onto the evening report.

After all, she was an unmarried, childless woman who died with no life insurance, no controversial will.

In this society, that’s one step above “Lost Pet” in terms of newsworthiness. Still, I had expected something, especially being that her “murder” occurred on the site of a vacation getaway. The more I considered that fact, the more assured I felt her death remained unknown to the world. I suddenly felt the urge to call my
Page 83

answering machine. I headed out of the woods, facial hair coming in well, and found myself a pay phone—not an easy task in today’s wireless world, I assure you.

There were three messages. Three more than usual. It’s that dreaded, steady, red light that loves to mock the lonely. One of the messages was a wrong number. Some lady named Judith was asking Frank what he wanted for dinner. My guess is that he was disappointed. She didn’t sound like a very good cook, or a very good fuck for that matter.

The two others were from friends of Cristen’s.

They were unaware she and I had left together to camp, but called me knowing that I spent a lot of time with Miss Powers. I was her
boyfriend.
We all need labels, don’t we? They make us feel so secure. Well, you’re an
asshole.
Feel secure in that.

It wouldn’t have bothered me if they had known I was with her at the time of her disappearance or even if they had known I killed her. After all, it was only a matter of time before my cover was blown. A part of me waited this moment impatiently. Once the chance of escaping unscathed was gone, there would be no going back. I would be committed to the task.

At last, the messages.

Tom Chambers:
Hey, Ed, it’s Tommy. I was
hoping you might know where Cristen’s at. She was
supposed to come over Friday. I’m sure she’s fine.

Probably just hangin’ with you. Have her give me a
call, will ya? Thanks, man. Hey, how about racquetball
this weekend? Let me know.

That punk would never play ball with the likes of me. He was just being polite.

Crystal Demora:
Edward, you know where
Crissy’s at? Pick up if you’re there, huh? Let me know.

Hope you’re all okay. Ciao.

I was always Edward, no matter how many times I objected to it.
Only certain people—special people—

may call me Edward.

“
No more messages.
” That cold, monotone voice did its deed, announcing the fact that nobody else loved me. Nobody else loved me. Nobody loved me. I had. .

eliminated the one person who had shown a sincere
Page 84

love for me since Jill. It hurt, I admit it, but I was sure of myself. I was working for the side of good, finally.

So, news of Cristen’s death took a while. Actually, that’s not even quite accurate. I never did hear of her death through my limited media resources. I hadn’t seen a newspaper in a while, and television seemed like a distant dream. I heard murmuring in a town bar one evening, when I traveled in for supplies and foodstuff.

Just the usual, “Can you believe something like this could happen so close to home?” kind of stuff.

Eventually Cristen’s friends caught on, I’m sure, making the connection between her disappearance and my own. No doubt they first figured my body would turn up sooner or later, too, but even more surely, they figured me as the “killer” when it didn’t. Not that they had reason to imagine me bringing harm to Cristen, but any time there’s a man and a woman, the guy has to be doing something wrong, and nobody ever seems to be very surprised when that turns out to be the case.

Bitches.

I have to imagine they were shocked by the realization that I might be involved in foul play. I’m not handsome, but I do possess a good deal of natural charm. I wish now that I could be alone in a room with them for ten minutes or so. I’d like to explain my true motivating force.

Cristen had fine friends, and I must admit I felt a loss when I was no longer able to hang out with them.

Some of my finer memories in this lifetime revolve around board games and barbecues with those very people. Polite but bold, intelligent but humble, these were people I could relate to. Damn fate. Why do I have to be the one to save the world? I write this with only the smallest dose of angst.

The nature of people is in constant flux. Often we are hit with conflicting or even ironic emotions.

This has no real surprise value when we strip away our theological ideals and realize that we are chemically powered beings caught up in a power struggle that doesn’t care about the individual.

Biology is at first glance a communist state, with each of us receiving essentially the same tools
Page 85

to work with at birth: a brain, reproductive organs and opposable thumbs. Beyond that, though, the comparison is lacking. Perhaps it can only be thought of as carefully outlined anarchy. One bad gene and you pay the morgue an early visit.

It’s this factor of the unknown that worries us all and leads to the kazillion-dollar antidepressant drug industry. And just as a society is always conflicted, so is the individual soul. Should I or shouldn’t I? Does he or doesn’t he? Our entire life is one big decision, hopefully under our own control but probably not.

It was because of this indecision and fear that it took me a while to get into the swing of things. I felt guilt at times, though I hate to admit that. What if I was wrong? What if I was wrong either in fact or in method? In the end, though, I figured I had started and I might as well finish at this point. The gun had sounded, and the horses were out of the gate. I might as well see if I could reach the winner’s circle.

My second act in the name of God was even easier than the first, at least from a mental standpoint.

Well, that’s a lie, but I feel right saying it. Anyway, I feel compelled to make a clarification at this point. I use the word “God” because that is the word we are taught in this society. It is an acceptable way to express the greatest power in the Universe. Also, being only three letters in length, it makes for very efficient writing.

Chances are, though, that you and I envision a very different God. My God doesn’t hear my prayers. My God doesn’t appear in doughnut frosting. My God is an energy, not a being. I use the term only because it is all to which you can relate. You limit me. Truly.

Actually, to speak the truth, you limit me in a number of ways. The English language—my archenemy—

is one particularly nasty nemesis. There sometimes are not enough words. I might be able to express myself to one person one way, while someone else would have no idea what I’m talking about. Humans are stupid folk. When you hear someone speak a language that is foreign to you, you realize the truth in this. Suddenly we’re just creatures who grunt to communicate, no better off than sea lions. Perhaps that’s why we’re all
Page 86

so defensive about our own language. A new, common language would be sobering and robotic, and this scares us. Otherwise, a lingua franca would have been established long, long ago.

Page 87

(diecinueve, dix-neuf, diciannove) I did take a lesson from my second act. Actually, come to think of it, I took two. It happened in the parking lot of a mall. Malls, the Serengeti of modern life, where people show off their money like sharpened claws and large, shiny fangs. We crowd to them, as we do to bars and beaches. These places exist for the show-biz atmosphere, which is reason one why you’re not likely to meet your undying love there. I recommend stationery stores myself.

Tanned, muscular bodies and a legion of credit cards are our urine, which we expose to the world to mark our territory. Money is the modern piss. It grants us an advantage over the competition. If you can’t outrun the horse, shoot it. And curse while you’re doing it. People respect volume and vulgarity in this world, whether they admit it or not. “That guy’s a moron” just doesn’t work as well as “That guy’s a fucking moron.” Makes no sense, but it’s true. We’re well-trained.

It was now a half-hour before close. I took refuge behind an old, red sedan with worn seats and a bumper riddled with stickers displaying the logos of all the big rock-and-roll bands. A woman came out of the rear exit. The door was unmarked and was located beside a dumpster. I can only imagine that it was for employee use only. I stood in the fading sun for two hours, watching and waiting eagerly for the right person to walk out—the right feeling to hit me.

At last an elderly woman exited the building.

She was wearing faux fur coat, which might actually be worse than the real thing. If you’re going to make a statement, make a fucking statement. All this said was,

“I can’t afford the real thing.” Her hair was white at the edges, and even from a distance, I could make out the deep lines on her face, which are a telltale sign of a rough-and-tumble life. She might have been sixty-five.

Page 88

I wondered if someone would come by to pick her up.

If she had left the area quickly, I might never have the chance to do my duty. But she didn’t.

Instead she waited and smoked a lot of cigarettes.

It grew dark, and dozens of other people happened by, exchanging hellos and good-byes. It seemed like fate. If I hadn’t taken action at last, she might still be standing there, wasting virgin air and valuable real estate. I cocked my gun at 9:45 pm. I lifted my weapon to my shoulder and took aim.

I’m not a good shot. I would have made a terrible hit man. I had never shot a gun prior to my rendezvous with Paul, and I hadn’t practiced since that time. I suppose I assumed it would come natural to a predator.

After all, a shark isn’t taught how to act in a frenzy; it goes on instinct. A protective layer glides over its eyeballs, and its jaws open indiscriminately to feed on anything that gets in its way, even if that should be a fellow shark, or its own tail.

I was wrong.

The bullet went astray and struck the woman in the shoulder. She went down, screaming. This time people
did
respond. I had to shoot again; I knew it. I couldn’t let her survive. Not because I feared capture, but because I feared failure. I squeezed the trigger slowly with my index finger. This time my aim was true, and the bullet struck her squarely in the temple. It was a messy sight. A group of horrified onlookers turned in my direction and stared directly into my eyes before taking shelter themselves. I was sure the woman would die, if she hadn’t already, but I was even more sure my anonymity was a thing of the past. Now it was
serious.

I ran down an embankment into the wooded area across the street and began to strip. I’m not sure why I did this. I can only figure, in retrospect, that I subconsciously believed I would shed both my guilt and my chance at capture along with my wears. In the end, I wore only a T-shirt, jeans, and my boots. My boots were sturdy, rugged and old. I had now owned them for two years, wearing them most of those days. I would not have traded them for two bricks of solid gold.