The Futility of 14

Her neck was sore from the constant motion of switching her gaze from the window to her brother and back again. Her brother was a giant in her eyes, but a pale, fragile 8 year old to the rest of the world. His gaze was fixed on the darkened street, more precisely, on the sidewalk their mom should have walked down two hours before. His mind replayed the words his mom whispered to him 6 months ago, right before she went off for her first day on the job.

“Trevor,” she said, using the name reserved for the more somber moments, “I need you to take care of Becks.” Becks had fallen asleep, the result of an overload of cake, ice cream and pizza from her 5^th birthday party. She stirred and cooed a bit at the sound of her mother’s voice.

“She’s counting on you, son. So am I. Be my big boy and take care of her, OK? It’s just for a few days. Then we’ll move to a much better place.”

“With chickens?” He had wanted to raise chickens ever since he learned what one was.

She chuckled.

“Yes, with chickens! Gotta go, see you later.”

With a kiss on the forehead, mom bounded out the door, braced against the December wind.  She shivered, more so from living in one place for too long than from the cold, but this job was too good to pass up. Moving her kids around just to stay one step ahead of her dead husband’s former associates had worn her down.

Besides, she said to herself, they MUST have stopped looking for us by now.

She knew better even as the words fell from her lips. Destroying a meth lab was not acceptable for some, even if to protect one’s family. Dad’s intentions were good; make tons of cash, enough to take the kids to Disney World as often as they liked. Then, leave this world behind and its promise of life behind bars. He tried to run and hide, but they found him. His last moment on earth was spent begging 14 for the life of his wife and kids.

From time to time their mom allowed herself a brief flash of hope that she would see her husband in Heaven. She could not know for sure.

Now, they waited. The clock said 2:36 AM. Then 3:00, then 3:32. A black van with no lights on eased up the driveway as silent as a cat. Trevor motioned for Becks to get away from the window but she lay still- sleeping and dreaming.

“Becks!” His urgent call woke her, but she sat up, now in full view of anyone looking in the window from outside. Trevor dropped himself and Becks in a heap as the bullets flew silently through the glass and into the far wall.

“Mommy!” Becks screamed.

 “Come on!” Trevor shouted. He dragged his fully awake but stunned little sister into the kitchen, the room farthest from the street. The pantry door closed easily from the inside as the front door was kicked in.

Trevor peeked through the tiny slit between the louvers of the pantry door and saw someone walk past two kneeling figures, each scanning the house with their laser targeting rifles. He had “14” stenciled across the forehead of his bullet-proof helmet, the only part of his darkened outfit that was not made from Kevlar. The boots were lace-free, melting into the pants which melted into the vest which melted into the helmet which peaked in a geodesic pattern not unlike the eye of an insect. To the casual observer, there was no way to get in and out of this suit. It looked as if one must be born in it, and the suit grows as the child grows. The others wore suits that were similar, but leaned more towards the pajama/Ninja style.

14 used his night vision to hunt for the children. He meant to keep his word that anyone not in compliance would die, as would their families. There was no anger when he killed- joy, actually. His inspiration came from "Fahrenheit 451" and he had wanted to change his name to "Montag" when he began reading the novel. He changed his mind as the story wore on.

Heat signatures told him the exact path the children had taken. He had the option of pumping several rounds into the pantry and going home early, but such was not his way. He enjoyed seeing their faces too much. There was something satisfying about looking into the eyes of another human who knew they were going to die. It was even better with children.

            With a wave of his hand the 2 underlings flanked the pantry door to prevent escape. That same hand eased onto the knob. He took a full minute to open it, relishing the incessant squeal of a rusted hinge. The children were not there.

            An accidental burst of automatic fire betrayed his intense frustration. A bullet glanced off a canned ham and came back his way, lodging itself in his right calf. This was the danger inherent in using ammunition capable of piercing any protective apparatus. After a minute to allow his subordinate to wrap a field dressing around the wound, 14 continued his search.

            His ignoring the pain of his leg was hampered by the catastrophic failure of the heat sensing software. It seems that now everything was heated by the tiny footprints of his prey!

"Switch off," he said. The room went dark. He was not used to even one piece of his night-hunting arsenal failing, much less all of it. Now, it was time for old school technology. The visor on his helmet cleared. The earpieces sent a heightened signal to his brain; the children had moved to the master bedroom. 14 followed the ever-rising beat of their frightened hearts straight to the normally monster-free area beneath the bed.

            Trevor could see boots moving their way. His mind pleaded No. 14, No, but the boots kept coming and his fear kept mounting. Disorientation as well, since he had no idea how he and Becks came to be under the bed.

            14 felt his night coming to a close. It was too early to go home. He had an idea. He would stroll over to the closet as if he thought the kids were in there. This might give them courage enough to try and run. He waved his underlings away, not wanting anything to keep them under the bed.

            Standing in front of the closet door, 14 spoke words of comfort, words that might convince them he had no plans to harm them.

            "Trevor and Becks," he said, "momma’s waiting for you at the office. Come on, let’s go." His body faced the closet but his eyes were on the floor next to the bed.

            Trevor started to believe. He turned his head and told his sister to follow him. The 2 crawled out from under the bed on the side opposite the closet and 14. Trevor stood up, helped Becks do the same, and both turned their eyes to their murderer.

            14 saw that look that he loved so much. He brought his weapon to bear on them, placing the laser target on Becks forehead first. The trigger was squeezed. The bullet sped on its way.

            Blood sprayed as the hardened point tore into flesh. Bone shattered. Pain rushed in and overcame him as he fell to the floor. 14 laughed, not realizing that it was he who had been shot. Nearly eye-level with his proposed victim, the highly trained operative became blinded by a flame that suddenly appeared. It took the shape of a sword.

            A sword made of fire? What is this?

It turned and spun every which way, hovering in front of Trevor and Becks, attached to a fixed point in mid-air. The flames fed on its movement, ranging in size from large to larger and in color from yellow to red to white and back again. The sword itself became as highly polished chromium steel, reflecting every nuance of the fire that rose from every feature. It stopped 14 cold, but was unseen by the children.

Trevor suddenly knew the evil that stood before him, but was not afraid; comforted by the words his mom had spoken to them during a horrible storm:

"No one can harm you," his mom had promised. You have been bought with a price. Blood was spilled so that you can live."

14 no longer saw fear. Yet, he was not ready to quit. He timed his bursts of gunfire with the rotating sword, trying to hit the children. Each bullet came back at him. He fired until his body was too riddled to hold the trigger, until his weapon fell to the floor as dead as he was.

The underlings came in and carried him out, not once laying an eye or a finger on Trevor or Becks.

Mom came home a few minutes later. She listened intently to every word of the story her children told her. In spite of the lack of any evidence–no blood or bullet holes anywhere–she believed them.

Six months later and she finished unpacking their things. The new house was small, but beautiful. It sat just a half-block from a wonderful church that had opened its arms to the single mom and her timid children.  

14 was granted a glimpse of his intended targets. Then, complete and utter darkness, silence, and eternal death. So cold. So very cold.