Spitballs

The Mission

Juan was falling, falling fast. The wind ripped at his face, flurrying his clothes and threatening to tear the goggles from his face.

He could see the ground below, the calm neighborhood of drab houses.

Why'd did it have to be in a populated area? It was always so much harder when there were people around. Why couldn't it be in a rural place, some little shack surrounded by desolation and emptiness. Like Nevada. Nevada was a good state. Juan thought he might be the only person on earth who like the endless emptiness of the flat desert.

He was very close to the ground now, and he searched for his target. Then he spotted it.

On almost on the end of the street, the black house looked almost uninhabited. Juan, using the flaps of fabric attached to his clothes, maneuvered toward the house. The street became clearer and Juan could see the details of the block, the cars parked in the driveways, the toy bike left out a few houses down. It looked like a nice neighborhood. Juan closed his eyes.

Then he hit it. The roof of the house shattered a milling debris, splinters of woodland shards of shingles flying in all directions.

Another perfect landing. Juan mumbled to himself, standing up in the wreckage. He brushed the debris from his body.

The boy was there, next to him, staring open-mouthed at the scene. A cloud of dust floated in the air, the little particles visible in the sun that now streamed through the gaping hole in the roof.

Juan took a step towards the boy. "Mark, you're going to have to come with me."