The splattered blood on the wall slowly dripped downward, and the corpse of the fallen officer continued to spill blood on the ground. Officers and civilians ran for cover, but Arnold continued to stand dumbstruck in the middle of the parking lot, eyes flitting from his cell phone to the body lying in front of him. He barely noticed when Kevin grabbed his arm and dragged him behind a squad car.
“What the hell are you doing?” screamed Kevin. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”
Arnold was too petrified to talk; all he could do was stare at the message on his cell phone and think of the consequences. He was not going to die—not for eleven days—but he knew that these eleven days were going to be the worst eleven days of his life. He thought back to when he was thirteen, getting the news that his father was killed in a car accident. The nights he spent crying himself to sleep had done nothing to prepare him for knowing the exact date of his death. There were so many things he wanted to do, so many places he wanted to go, so many things he wanted to see—and now, he would never see them.
Arnold was receiving a lecture from Kevin similar to a lecture his mother would give to him about being aware of his surroundings and how he could have gotten himself killed, and for a moment, he regressed back to his childhood, agreeing with everything he said without really listening to what it was he was saying. Suddenly, the sharp sting of flesh smacking flesh snapped him back to reality, and Kevin’s glowering face was tight on his.
“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” he yelled.
“Kevin,” said Arnold as somberly as he could, “I’m going to die in eleven days.”
Kevin wasn’t sure if he should be angry or worried. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.
Arnold held up his cell phone so Kevin could read the message. Kevin’s expression went from anger to confusion, and eventually to bewilderment. “When did you get this?” he asked.
“Just before the shot,” said Arnold.
Tension hung thick in the air; neither of the two wanted to talk, for fear of what would happen. Finally, Arnold stood up and said, “I better be going home. I need to rest for a while.”
“Yeah,” Kevin agreed. “I don’t blame you. And I’ll understand if you don’t show up tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
Arnold climbed into his vehicle, and turned the ignition. The public radio channel had just gotten the news about the sniper attack where he was now idling. He always found it amazing how quickly news travels about occurrences like this, and how quickly people forget about it. He smiled at his sudden burst of philosophy, and stuck his cell phone in his cup holder. Before he put the car in gear, he did a double take—something wasn’t right about his phone. He picked it up, and examined the screen. A dingy green slime had replaced the wallpaper he set up, and a counter was proudly displayed on top of it.
Time left in Arnold’s life: 10 days, 23 hours, and roughly 44 minutes.
I have to be dreaming, he thought to himself. There is no way this is happening.
He turned up the radio and drove as fast as he could to his home just outside of Lorendo. He was going to need a lot of brandy to clear his mind.
Just ten miles away, on a grassy hill next to a quarry, a lone figure dressed in black was watching Detective Arnold Baxter as he drove away. The headset he was wearing was broadcasting faint snippets of conversation from the radio, as well as the occasional muttering and groaning from Arnold himself. The figure was pleased; his plan thus far was going well. It would be eleven days of torture before he could finally be killed. It worked so well for the first girl—how hard could it be to amass two victims?
The figure packed up his rifle and scope, and ran off toward his rusty Chevrolet truck. My programmer did such a good job coding this virus, he thought to himself. It’s a shame I killed him—now who will I call for tech support?
The Chevrolet’s engine strained and whined before finally turning over. He switched the viewer to the GPS option, and was able to follow the detective home without having to worry about losing him in traffic. Yes, the programmer had thought of everything—GPS to see where the victim was at any moment, one-way radio to listen in on conversations, a host server to view what they were doing with their phone—and he had coded it so well that there was virtually no way they could trace it back to a single number. He would be the first to commit the perfect crime, and if they ever got on his trail, he would simply move and wreak havoc somewhere else. It all seemed so beautifully perfect.
Arnold pulled into the long driveway of the acreage he lived on. He liked it out in the country; it was quiet, peaceful, and no one could bother him about his job. He pulled into the garage, closed the door, and walked into his house.
The house was well-organized, despite Arnold being a perpetual bachelor. Things were mostly put away in their proper places, and the carpet wasn’t as dirty as it could have been; the bookshelf was lined with crime novels and books on the philosophies and religions of the world. A smattering of pictures were placed haphazardly around the room—not completely hidden, but if one wasn’t looking for them, one wouldn’t find them. The room seemed to imply organized chaos, which reflected on the lifestyle he led.
Arnold perused through the cupboard, looking for a tall glass and his bottle of Cognac. After finding both, he carried them to the couch, and turned on the television. The CNN report talked about the discovery of Kristen Marquez, as well as the sudden shooting of a police officer yet to be disclosed.
Arnold tossed back a glass of Cognac, and flipped through the channels trying to find something interesting to watch. As he tossed back more and more Cognac, the television became less and less interesting, until finally, Arnold fell asleep on the couch, the glass slowly slipping from his fingers; his cell phone, still sitting on the counter where he left it, counting down his time left on this Earth.
Outside his window, a lone, dark figure spied on him. But no one would ever know
