Catharsis [Novel]

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

            The house didn't take me long to find once I set out to locate it.  Same type of neighborhood as the previous one (run-down, low-income houses that a century ago used to be upscale but are now mostly abandoned), it’s just in a different part of the city.  Running at night through the empty streets (and avoiding detection from the occasional lone person) was a fun activity that helped take my mind off of what I'm on my way to do.  Once I got into the right part of town, my sense of smell led me the rest of the way (A house packed with hundreds of pounds of drugs gives off a subtle but easily discernible scent.  At least it does to me.).

            On the jog over, I noticed I still had Captain No Face's lighter in my pocket (no idea when I put it in there), and that gave me an idea.  Once I picked up the trail of the house (Can a house leave a trail?), I detoured slightly so that I could track down a container (Is it a jug?  A can?  The red five-gallon thing I picked up was made of plastic, so “can” doesn't seem like the right word.  And “jug” feels more like it should contain some kind of hillbilly rotgut alcohol.  I'll just stick with container.) of gasoline.  I eventually found some after checking a detached garage.  It was next to a lawnmower and what I'm guessing was a broken weed-eater (judging from the pieces of it that were laying all over the place), so I went ahead and dropped one of the bills I’d brought with me on to the cluttered work bench.  That should easily cover the costs of a new canister and offset the inconvenience of not being able to mow for a bit.

            I didn't know if I would have a use for the gasoline once I invaded the den of evil, but it was better to be safe.  The last thing I wanted was a recap of the propane incident.  “Being prepared” is going to have to beat “being lucky” this time.  A fiery explosion was effective in destroying the drugs last time, so I was betting a more subdued version would work again.  

            I leave the gasoline sitting next to a mailbox once I get close enough to the building, and I proceed to climb the backside of another nearby house so that I can safely watch from a distance.  This part of my plan worked wonderfully last time, so there wasn't much point in altering it.

            While watching the house, I can tell something is up.  I'm not sensing the business-as-usual vibe that I got at the other place.  They must suspect that either they are my next target, or all the drug houses have been put on high alert to cover their bases because there are several armed men just milling about the outside of the two houses (If I wasn't sure before what my target houses were to be, the half dozen men with large, dark automatic rifles just standing outside the doors of the two houses across the street would be a dead giveaway.).  There either must not be much police activity down here, or the police have been paid off to ignore this section of the neighborhood.  These guys are brazenly standing around in the open with enough exposed firepower to bring down an army of bulletproof vest-wearing twelve-point bucks (If they were to claim they had the rifles for purely hunting purposes, that is.).  If it wasn't for the fact that I no longer care about dying (If I even can die.), then I'd most definitely be scared.  But as it is, I'm not.

            Cars still pull up to the curb every dozen minutes or so, but now most of them just pull away quickly without anyone getting out.  I watch as a few brave souls do choose to approach the house while doing their best to ignore the burly men standing just a few feet away from the door.  I'm too far away to pick out the conversations very well, but it seems to follow the same pattern as before:  Hand over money.  House one signals house two with a series of flashes from the porch light.  Skeezy-looking man (Who now looks petrified as he goes from one front porch to the other.) walks to second house and waits for package to be shoved through mailbox slot.  Package in hand, man retreats to car and lays rubber on asphalt pulling away.  As far as I can tell, the set-up is the same and these guys are still in business.

            Time for me to put a stop to that.

            "But how do I actually make that happen?"  I ask the small brick chimney I'm huddled against for cover.  "How am I going to get close enough to burn down that house without getting myself shot in the process?"

            After my previous run-in with a man and his gun, I have no desire to get up close to one of those again.  I know I'm fast and right now I'm feeling pretty strong, but I don't want to necessarily pit that against a fully automatic assault rifle if I can avoid it.  I need to find a way to remove them from the equation from a distance.

            "Problem solving time," I tell the chimney and push myself backwards towards the side of the roof that faces away from the two houses.  Shimmying down the brick side of the house, I land in the barren grass yard and begin scanning my surroundings for inspiration.  Moments later I realize I'm standing in a small pile of inspiration:  the rock-strewn yard.  The patchy grass lawn reveals multiple, large stones and fist-sized rocks that would be perfect for me to throw.  If I could hit pillars in the warehouse, I should be able to hit a man holding a gun (At least I'm hoping that's solid logic.).

            Unfortunately, I have no easy way to carry the rocks back up to my perch.  My shirt is too shredded to be of any use as a carrying device, and no one has left a convenient shopping bag lying around.  There's no way I can effectively climb the house while trying to carry handfuls of rocks, so that leaves me with more problem solving. 

            Nothing in my immediate surroundings offer any kind of solution, but a glance out towards the street does provide an idea.  What I see out there may not be a bag, but it will certainly work to hold my supply of granite ammunition.  Jogging out to the road (I choose the direction that still keeps the house between me and the armed men.  No point giving away my presence just yet.), I stop at the battered mailbox on the pole that still reads the house's address.  Grabbing the plastic of the mailbox's shell (I got lucky it wasn't a metal one.  It might not be as strong, but filling it should at least be quieter.) and bracing my other hand on the shaft of wood that goes into the ground, I tug gently and separate the two.  Either my strength is in rare form today, or its ricketiness was ready to give way because it didn't take much effort.

            With the mailbox tucked under my left arm, I casually lope back towards the house stopping to pick up any rocks I see along the way.  By the time I get back to the brick wall, I've filled the plastic bucket of the mailbox over halfway with stones of varying sizes. 

            "Perfect," I say and begin the short climb (Traversing the wall one-handed is challenging, but it just helps me focus on what I need to do.) back up to my shingled crow's nest.  "This should make things fun."

            Once I'm back on top of the house, I wedge the rock-filled mailbox into the “V” created by the chimney and the apex of the roof.  I want to have easy access to them without risking them spilling out and sliding down to the ground below. 

            Digging around among the stones, I select one that is nearly oval-shaped and just slightly smaller than my fist.  It doesn't weigh much, but it should be enough to accomplish the job I have for it.

            "Now who gets to volunteer first?"  I whisper to the frighteningly well-armed men surrounding the two houses across the street.  "One of you will be starting the fun."

            Then I notice one guy standing by himself along the side of the house, and I know who will get my first gift.

            "Congratulations," I hiss through my teeth and pull back my arm to give the throw my full strength.  With the speed of a medieval catapult being released, my arm zips forward and I watch as the missile flies through the air toward my intended target.