Midnight Massacre

The Call

The boy was tucked away between the two plastic water tanks, and the four walls of the three-story building supported them from above. With his marijuana joint in his hand, he licked the paper to roll it. He took a long breath as he lit the joint tip and was uncertain whether it was his third joint or not as he looked at the glowing crescent moon illuminating the night sky. Taking a few draws from the joint and slowly exhaling a thick puff of smoke, he felt a sense of calm and contentment.

He leaned back against the water tank and sighed. Sitting cross-legged, he finished his second beer and the last of his joint, exhaling the smoke into the air. His unkempt hair, which was neither too long nor too short, hung down over his eyes. On his left wrist was an old leather watch, and a wooden bracelet with a unique finish. He also wore three other bracelets of different colors around his right wrist.

Despite the darkness that enveloped the sky, it looked vibrant and alive. He felt his eyes burning a dull red like a distant fire and imagined himself flying towards the clouds, feeling the wind ruffle his hair and the sun's warmth on his skin. Reaching for his mobile, he slowly traced his left hand to the ground. When he finally grabbed it, the sudden brightness made his head dance. The icons doubled as he opened Spotify and searched for a song.

Down from this terrace was a dead-end narrow pathway that was only about six feet wide, yet it was full of metal bins crammed with waste on either side, taking up more than half of the space. The building's facade was painted in a combination of pink and indigo, but the walls facing the pathway remained unplastered. It connected two walls from the adjacent apartments and was a dark and dreary passageway.

Rudra felt his heart pounding in his chest as he sprinted down the narrow dark pathway. His white linen shirt was spattered with mud and blood, caused by his own actions as well as his enemies. A stream of sweat rolled from his scalp passing through his gray curly hair, as he squatted between the metal cylinders. He reached into his jeans and pulled out his machete, placing his M16 at his side. The smell of rot from the bins, nor the swarm of flies hovering around them, not even the sound of a goose honking behind him, none of it fazed him. His hands trembled as he frantically searched his shirt pocket for his cell phone, only to realize it wasn't there. Then, he suddenly remembered--he had slid his phone into his jeans pocket when he jumped out of his car, in hopes of keeping it safe.

His thumb moved furiously, trying to locate a contact on his phone. Just as he heard the sounds of footsteps and the mumbling voices of men in panic, he quickly switched off his device. He leaned forward into the darkness and saw the silhouettes of men running desperately for their target. The shadows slowly drew away until there is nothing left and the silence is deafening. He leaned over the wall, inhaling the crisp night air and waited, listening for distant footsteps. When all was quiet, he pulled his phone from his pocket and continued his search.

Altaf was the closest man to him, his main man, his right-hand man. But his calls remained unanswered. So, he tried to reach out to Moorthy, his advisor, his left-hand man. He was the same age as his father, and yet the call remained unanswered. He kept trying, reaching out to all the other men who worked for him, but to no avail. Everyone he had ever known, everyone who worked for him, and even those who killed for him, were all dead. The night sky had become shrouded in darkness, and he could feel the chill of impending death. His fate had arrived, yet it was not the ideal outcome he had once envisioned for himself. He would have accepted his death if it had been seven years ago, when he was still vibrant and full of life. Back then he wore colorful silk shirts and boasted jet black hair. He became intoxicated, yet still hit his targets with precision. The past was a glimpse of hope for him, a moment of joy he desperately needed to keep going.