Eleven Days In Hell #2

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. Normally, he didn‘t read text messages, and if he received one with a threat, there was protocol that he followed. Never before had he gotten a message with immediate repercussions. The situation turned eerie fast, and 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 this: being told exactly when his time was up. 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, something about being aware of his surroundings and how he could have gotten himself killed. 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, Kevin tossed the phone back to Arnold. “You don’t actually believe this shit, do you?”

Arnold looked at his phone. “I guess not. I mean, I’ve had much more creative threats than this. I mean, eleven days? If this person isn’t going to be creative in their threats, who’s to say they won’t be creative in their attack?”

“Exactly. Now, since we have another body to process, we better get started.”

At 9:16 PM, 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, 21 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 last girl—how hard could it be to chalk up another victim?

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. I should remember to buy flowers for his funeral.

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. The virus was perfect; it’s only commands were to start a countdown timer, implant a homing bug, and provide one-way communication. If he had tried this even two years ago, it would have been impossible. But luckily, technology today rendered the term “impossible” obsolete.

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 a mess. Arnold had no family and very few friends. On the rare occasions that he did leave the house, he usually left the door unlocked, as there was nothing of value in the house. Books on the bookshelf were arranged in a sloppy alphabetical order, and various papers and notebooks were strewn all over the tables and floor. It was a typical set-up of a life-long bachelor, a set-up that Arnold was damn proud of. He knew where everything he needed was, and right now, he needed a drink.

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 identified. He 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, he passed out 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.