Ashes

Where are the tracers?

He blinked and they weren't there. He blinked again and the sky lit up, as line after fatal line streaked red against the night sky. The roar of artillery accompanied the flashes. An all-too-familiar noise to Darren. A symphony of nightmarish victory.

He closed his eyes. The cannon fire – boom boom boom boom boom - stopped. This time he kept them shut for a few seconds, longer than necessary. When he opened them, the sounds of battle had ceased, the lights were nowhere to be found. Not even the stars shone, as the fog had rolled in to drape the rooftop and obscure the night sky.

Darren took another drag. With his free hand he clenched his fist. This is ridiculous. What am I? Some grunt?

He tossed his cigarette over the edge. He threw open the door behind him, its rusty hinges creaking as if to announce his departure. Flight after flight of stairs clapped against his feet as he took them two at a time, effortlessly and with perfect balance. Let's see a recruit do that.

Inch-thick carpet and the warm glow of sconces met him next. As did Mrs. Leary, with her beagle and plush leather purse. She nodded and smiled in her typical fashion. Darren replied as he usually did, with a stare and brusque nod. On rare occasions, he might stop to pet her dog or offer a word. This was not one of those.

He turned the corner. More sconces. Burgundy doors. Muffled voices from tenants within. Laughing. Talking. Living. Nothing out of the ordinary. As usual.

Another corner. More doors. And tenants behind them. Just as it had been in the hall before. Only this time, there was an unwelcome sight.

A legal-sized envelope resting against the outside of his door.

Darren nearly paused. He exhaled more than needed.

Again. The thought rang through his mind. Another one.

He bent to pick it up. Weighing it briefly, he recalled that the others that had been left in its stead had the same feel and distribution. He opened it, to verify the contents within.

Darren stared down at the gray powder inside. Same color as before. Not quite sand. Or dirt. A little like cremation ashes. Like Esum's ashes. Or Hollande's. Or McDaniel's. But not exactly.

Darren put his thumb to the door panel. It opened without so much as a creak. He went in to be greeted by the sterility of his apartment. He made a straight line for the trash compactor, not caring if there was enough refuse to justify a cycle. He threw in the envelope.

His belt buzzed. Damn, I hate how he times that. Darren drew a black plastic card from its sheath. The display lit up, alerting him to a new message.

11pm. That's all the subject heading said. The message itself proved nothing more than a photo of a diner, McClaren's. Darren knew it. On 86th and B Street. Just as he had known of Central Grub. And Forks & Sticks. And Burn's Coffee.

Darren opened the trash compactor. He grabbed the envelope.

Downstairs, traffic had begun to slow. Some drivers, already sensing their progress coming to a halt, honked. Darren weaved through the now familiar sight, onto the sidewalk of the next block. The street over presented the same condition.

Uptown, the source of the jam made itself heard and seen. Line after line, column after column. The signs and posters. The megaphones. The shouts. And perhaps the most catching: the costumes. A grim reaper wearing a gas mask. A woman in white makeup sporting a hangman's noose. Then there were those who formed the bulk of the processions, the protestors who wore fatigues while carrying cutouts of headstones.