Chapter 50: You’re a Dead Man, Mr SaundersGoddamn ringing. ’t a dying man have a few moments of peace?

  Relut eyes slowly opened. The still form of Agent Fosters y slumped a few feet away. I must have drifted off. Stupid. My efforts at staung the blood loss weren’t enough. I’m no doctor but I’ve been seriously hurt before, and I had a sneaking suspiy wounds were fatal. I’d lost too muyself, absorbed too much pain. Lying there, I started to feel a dangerous detat from my body. Sleeping now meant not waking up.

  Again, with the fug ringing! What the hell was it? I forced tired eyes open again and my head lolled to one side. My battered face made a grotesque red blur reflected in a broken pane of gss. I felt this sudden crazy urge to fix my makeup--damn Scooter and his ditioning. An involuntary giggle rose to my lips and burbled there wetly. Bubbles in the blood at my mouth--the first bullet must have punctured a lung while tearing a k out of my ribcage. God, I was seriously fucked up . . . worse even than when Persephone died.

  Maybe I’d meet her in Hell. I deserved this; I really did. I hadn’t been able to save her and it occurred to me, as I felt my heart weakly pump the rest of my existehrough the gaping hole in my side, that that simple fact had defined my life ever sinbsp; A peaceful acceptany eled over me. I wao apologize to Sephy, to so many people, but this goddamn noise. . . .

  The fact that the noise came from Fosters’ corpse finally peed my exhausted brain. Bemused, I half-rolled, half-colpsed onto his body. Clumsily, I peeled away his blood-soaked jacket. My hand fumbled between the folds of the stained shirt beh in search of the tinuing noise. My hand closed about a vibrating objed emerged with Fosters’ mobile.

  “Hello?” I said. My voice sourao my ears: giddily happy from blood loss, distorted by pain, thied by stiffness; my jaw didn’t seem to be w quite right.

  There was a heavy pause oher end, and then: “Who is this?”

  I’d reize that voiywhere. “Mr Steele, I presume,” I said.

  There was another lengthy pause. “Mr Saunders?”

  “You betcha, you son of a bitch.”

  “And Mr Fosters?”

  I gnced down at Fosters. His rested against his chest and if it wasn’t for the darkening apron of blood spreading across his front you’d almost think he’d just nodded off. “Agent Fosters ’t make it to the phht now,” I said. “On at of being dead. I take a message?” Saying so mu one go sent a sharp stab of pain up the side of my face.

  Jeremiah Steele sounded only very slightly annoyed. “Very impressive, David. It seems I may have uimated you once again.”

  “You think?” I answered. “You got anythio offer?”

  “Same as before,” Steele said. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I said, and sighed.

  Barely restrained ahrummed beh the surface of Steele’s smooth, trolled voibsp; “You’re digging a darker and deeper hole for yourself.” He spoke to me with the restrained frustration of a teacher speaking to a particurly stupid child. “You must know that you’re a dead man, Mr Saunders.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard.” I chuckled, and coughed, and blood spattered across the mobile. “That’s kinda what Fosters said. Let me check.” I roughly nudged Fosters’ body and yelled, “Hey, fuckface!” My voice sounded both hoarse a. “How’s that hole? Dark and deep? Am I dead yet?” The effort flooded my mouth with more blood and I choked.

  “You don’t sound very well, David.”

  “I’ll live,” I said.

  And at that moment I decided that, yeah, I was going to live. I didn’t know how; it was easier said then done. My vision was growing dim and everything seemed to e from very far away. Everything but Steele’s voice; it was the only thing keeping me rooted to the here and now. But as we spoke, I felt my earlier peace burn away to be repced by an all-ing rage. This man had killed me; not Fosters but this bastard sitting in his fortable chair far, far aushing buttons and giving orders. . . this bastard kills me as away with it? No.

  “For how long, David? Wherever you hide--I find. Whoever protects you--I kill.”

  Suddenly, more than anything else I wanted revenge; visceral hate filled me to the brim, with sutensity that I suddenly found myself hissing into the phone: “Yant piece of shit,” I said. “The world’s gonna kly what you are, you sick motherfucker. Send yents. Send them! ‘Cuz you’ve got this the wrong way round. I’m ing for you, Steele. You hear me? And I’m gonna tear out yoddamn throat.”

  But the effort was too much; I colpsed to the ground, slumping across Fosters’ body, the mobile cradled in my hand. Darkness overtook me. From very far away I thought I heard the sound of doors opening, of pounding footsteps approag and my name being called . . . but I barely heard them over the mog sound of Steele’s ughter. And even that faded until all I could hear was the faiing of my weakeni, and even further away, a woman’s voice, calling to me by my real name.

  I yearned for that voibsp; Over it, the beat of my heart: slowing . . . stopping; and then I knew nothing at all.

  The End of Book One.

  Author's Notes:

  I wrote the first "book" of stant in All Other Things way ba 2007-2008 or so. Back then, I called it 'season one' and imagihe whole story pying out more like a television serial. I wrote an interlude bridging the first two seasons, and then a feters and then--stopped writing. There were a few desultory efforts over the years, but the story retty much dead.

  Then, in 2022 I suddenly picked it up again. I've been merrily trundling along sihen, rgely thanks to the support of patrons. The story probably would've remained dead without their encement. (Never doubt the value of giving feedback or posting a ent!) Now, the whole novel is finally approag the clusion I mapped out for it nearly twenty years ago. However, my writing and the way I view the story has ged a lot over those years. Reposting these old chapters/ses, I'm not terribly pleased with them. There's loads of errors tradig ter tent. And I've never really been happy with the end of Book 1.

  I started writing stant as practice - an exercise at gettier at writing. I think more ret chapters show some growth as a writer, though of course it's not really up to me to say. Either way, at some point I'm pnning to e bad revise these earlier chapters: edit them to align with ter tent, bolster characterisation here and there, trim away some of the fat and hopefully shape the whole thing into something resembling a proper novel.

  But for now, I hope you enjoyed Book One! Onwards, to Book Two.

  Support at: patreon./fakeminsk.