Life Celebration for Those Threads Cut Short

7:00 p.m., Tuesday

Sothermen Funeral Home

All Are Welcome

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Steve finished wrapping the coal-black tie around his neck, absentmindedly watching Ms. Miller pull a tray of gooey chocolate chip cookies out from the oven. The motions his hands went through were automatic at this point. It was a benefit brought forth by years of office work and supervisors who expected to see a suit and tie every day. Unfold the shirt collar. Drape the tie around the neck. Place the wide end of the tie over the narrow end. Cross the wide end under the narrow end. Repeat, keeping the loop loose, then push the wide end through the loop and tighten. Finally, fold the shirt collar down and shrug on the suit jacket.

Did Cathy follow the same mechanical motions in baking those cookies? She seemed rather used to it. Was it the barest glimpse of a different life? Steve looked down, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. Everyone on the team had a different life somewhere. Steve was no different. Hell, it was why they were all here. Even Mr. Moon, with how calm and almost empty the man appeared, had a reason other than ‘Mr. Sun told him to do it’. Well, to be fair, Mr. Sun’s orders were a pretty damn good reason to do something, but this mission was different.

It was risky. It was one of those tasks you needed extra motivation for. It was why Mr. Sun came to him. He assumed it was the same for Ms. Miller, Dag, and even Mr. Moon. They all had something – no, someone in their lives that required the Nirvana Project to get back on track.

Steve’s fingers unconsciously tightened around his cuffs, but within half a second his appearance was mastered, slipping from serious back to his usual easygoing self.

It was why he hadn’t spared a second thought about that policeman Mr. Moon had to pop. Or those kids at the gas station that got wrapped up in their little shadow war. Or any of it at all. Not a single thought, aside from what those factors could mean to the mission. None of it mattered as long as the Nirvana Project could continue. It was why they were all there. It was why Steve was putting on his black tie best, Cathy was baking cookies, and the van was warming up in the garage.

Everything had a purpose. This ‘life celebration’, or whatever the townsfolk wanted to call it, was just the same. It was a perfect way for them to sink deeper into the fold, to increase their acceptance in the town, thus also increasing their ability to discreetly gather information from those who would think speaking to an FBI agent was too intimidating, but would have few qualms in spilling the beans to a fellow neighbor after a long night of copious drinking.

It would help hide their communication center and ensure there were no questions asked if Steve had to suddenly dip out of town to discreetly pick up a shiny new gun for Mr. Moon. Why would they ask questions, of course? Steve and Cathy were one of them. They were folk of the town.

Steve's hand darted forward, catching one of the still-cooling cookies off the tray Mr. Miller had just placed on the counter. Her hand slapped him away, but it was too late. The cookie was in his grasp and then sliding down his gullet.

“Dang.” Steve roguishly grinned, “Them’s some fine cookies.”

“They’re for the wake.” Ms. Miller replied in irritation. “Don’t take any more. I don’t have time to bake extras and buying some from the store would be an insult. These are the kind of people to notice that detail.”

The woman held Steve’s sheepish eyes for a moment longer before turning away toward her bedroom, muttering something about getting changed. Steve took a step toward the tray of cookies, but regretfully sighed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

“They taste just like Janna’s. Coincidence, or is this the same recipe?” Steve muttered to himself. His voice was low, low enough that it couldn’t be heard more than a few feet away.

Steve sighed. Gooey, super chocolatey, and with enough butter added that he could practically taste it in the final product. It was nostalgic. For the briefest moment, he could almost see a different kitchen in front of his eyes. Copious bright baby blues dotted the walls, breaking up the rest of the paint colors so that no part of the kitchen wall could ever even be slightly considered dull or boring. A beautiful and familiar woman, the apple of his eye, spinning around the kitchen in a cheerful bustle, slid a tray of cookies onto the counter to cool before offering her hand to him for a dance. Jazz music played on the radio and rays of sunlight streamed through the windows. It was… wonderful. Truly.

“Come on, dahling! Let’s dance the day away!”

A grin spread across Steve’s face. And then he blinked, and the illusion was shattered. The kitchen returned to its regular dull white. Janna was gone. There was no music playing. The grin settled from an honest one into more of a mocking expression. Steve let out a chuckle and moved over to the cabinet, grabbing one of the empty plastic containers inside to put the cookies in once they were done cooling.

He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes until the wake, or the life celebration, or whatever they wanted to call it. They would probably make it in time.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The first car passing by gave her a nugget of hope. Was it him? It rolled on past the driveway. No. It wasn’t Mr. Moon. Nor was the second or the third. The fourth car passed the bush Cass was crouching behind. It wasn't his car either. The white-picket fence behind her dug into her back, and the branches of the bush dug into her sides. The bushes were thick, a whole row of them resting against the fence that separated her yard from the neighbor’s yard. Enough to easily obscure Cass’s slim form. They were originally meant as another way to increase privacy, with the denseness of the bushes and the fence itself combining to make it rather difficult to see through.

Cass waited for hours. Hours that bled into the entire freaking day. There wasn't much room behind the bush. When the time came, she would need to settle into an awkward angle lying down on her side to be able to see down the scope of her hunting rifle. It was… extremely inconvenient and may even have an effect on her accuracy, but given the distance between the bush and the front door was around fifty feet, hopefully that wouldn’t matter. Her options were slim otherwise. Maybe she could try and rest the barrel a bit higher, on one of the thicker branches of the bushes? That way she could shoot while crouching.

Her car was safely tucked out of sight in Bill’s garage. It hadn’t taken her much to convince him – simply stating bluntly that she intended to seek revenge for her father’s death, and needed her car out of sight for a bit did the trick. The old man seemed almost… impressed, perhaps respecting that she was following this path, instead of trying to talk her out of it like most of the other adults in the town probably would have.

Mark’s bulky frame made the next bush over shudder lightly as he shifted his position yet again. Cass shot an annoyed glare over to him. Words weren’t needed to communicate that he really needed to stop doing that. A glare did just fine.

“I’m… I think they’re gonna be a while. Probably out on patrol with the rest of the cops.” Mark eventually said in hushed tones. “Bill mentioned a wake today, why don’t we go and get some more info there? Plus, one of them at the gas station was the kid brother of an old friend of mine. I should… go. Make sure he has a friend to talk to.”

Her hands tightened around the stock of her rifle. They tightened to the point that the smoothly polished wood creaked in protest. Bill had mentioned the massacre earlier, but she hadn’t paid much attention. Her focus had been on Mr. Moon. It still was. But then Mark found the flier for the wake stapled to a telephone pole down the street. He didn’t need long to bring Cass up to speed on the whole event.

Cass didn’t intend to go. She had work to do and if it wasn’t done, she wasn’t sure if she could keep going.

That didn’t change how she felt when she saw the developed photos that went along with the flier. Some of them were kids she’d known. Kids she’d babysat for in the past when they were much younger. Now they were dead, the same as her father. The only difference was her father was shot in the back by a man he trusted, while those kids were butchered by some mad assailant when they were fooling around late at night, just like kids their age usually did. Kids she knew. People she knew. She’d watched them grow up.

Now they were gone. Just like that. It was nice to have company, but Mark had a point. At this rate she was looking at spending the full night in the bush. Cass wasn’t even sure if the night would be enough. It could be days before the scumbags came back.

“Yeah.” Cass sighed. “I’ll stay here. Give their parents my love and tell them I’m sorry I can’t make it. Brian’s that friend of yours, right? His little brother was a good kid.”

Mark stood, his body creaking in protest over the movement after crouching behind a bush for so long. “He was.” He looked around and sighed, just as Cass had earlier. “He was.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The flier for the ‘Life Celebration’ was gripped in meaty hands almost the size of trash can lids. Hands that flexed in, and out, and in again. Crinkle the paper. Smooth it out. Crinkle it. Smooth it.

Jack smoothed it out one last time and placed it flat on the roof. His bloodstained hands dipped into his pockets, pulling out a plastic bag full of white powder. He opened it and shook a liberal amount out onto the smoothed-out flier, before pressing his nose against the small mound and inhaling it all. The rest of the powder in the bag went into his mouth, as did the plastic bag itself as a nice little chaser. With a few crunches, his teeth shredded through it all and it disappeared down his throat. Jack let out a satisfied sigh. Somehow, he felt even sharper than before.

Lying flat, he inched his body out to the very edge of the roof of the Sothermen Funeral Home. Below him the open windows let rays of warm light and heavy conversation escape from the building. He hung his head off the side of the roof to get his ears closer to the open windows while still keeping his head out of sight. He wasn’t sure why he’d decided to attend (if hanging out on top of the roof equaled attending, of course. Who could say? That was in the realm of the Greek philosophers of old.), but it had seemed like a good idea when the flier had first been blown into his legs by the fickle winds of the world.

Jack could remember it as if it were yesterday. Mainly, because it was yesterday when he’d seen the flier. A life celebration thrown like a party to celebrate his achievements in ridding this tiny-ass town of its population of shadow demons. And also that one clerk who tried to interfere in honorable mutual combat. Shame on him.

“-thanks, I’m glad you like the cookies, Sherry!”

Jack blinked.

What?

He scooted closer to the edge, lowering his head to nearly be flush with the top of the window. What? That woman’s voice… it was familiar.

“Yes, they were delicious. Tom… would have loved them. He would have stayed right next to the whole batch and snuck bites all night. No leftovers with a boy like that! But… now…”

No, not that voice. Not the weepy weepy super sad voice that wouldn't shut up to let him listen. Jack made a mental note to track down that… Sherry? Yeah. He was pretty sure the weepy lady's name was Sherry. To track down that Sherry later and tear her jaw off so she would shut up and stop being a weepy-weepy stupid face.

But the other voice. Jack waited patiently like a hunter in a bush watching for prey. Except Jack was on a roof and he was listening instead of watching.

“How about this, I’ll make some more when we get home. Then when we’re done, Steve and I can bring them over and we can talk all about Tom. It’s okay. Lean into my shoulder and let it all out. Tears aren’t something to be ashamed of. There you go, Sherry.”

There. The crying reached a fever pitch but the woman’s voice (not the weepy lady, the other one) was still understandable enough.

A grin spread across Jack’s face. A feral one stained red with the blood of worthy demons whose strength was added to his own. That woman’s voice was familiar.

The last time he’d heard it was over the radio.

“Wattson… the game is afoot,” He muttered. For Jack was a good boy and had been rewarded with the sight of the police’s radio operator. Kill her and the hunt in this town would become far more interesting, filled with prey scattered and disorganized after their communication lines were cut.