(no subject)
The Call
The problem with the ringing phone wasn’t how loud it was, or that it hadn’t stopped ringing for an hour, but that Tom didn’t have a phone. He hadn’t, in fact, had a phone for over a week. His part-time girlfriend Shari had thrown his cellphone out the window where it had disintegrated into a shower of formerly connected parts when it hit the asphalt. The landline had been the victim of an unfortunate convergence of it and a crossbow bolt. The plastic casing that had survived six presidents wasn’t able to stand up to a carbon steel head being propelled by a weapon with a 200 pound pull. Tom’s job as a dishwasher at a local café mean that he hadn’t had the money to go get a new phone yet, and he refused to get one of the cheap pre-paid deals. He had managed to salvage the sim card from the cell, in the event that he did decide to get a new phone. It was in the front pocket of the shirt he was currently wearing; that he had in fact been wearing for the past week.
That didn’t stop the problem of the current ringing though. At first he thought it was coming from one the neighboring apartments. He had gone around, pressing his ear flat against the cheap wood of the doors, but the ringing wasn’t from any of them. He went back to his apartment. The phone was still ringing. He checked the tv (smashed), radio alarm clock (bisected by a machete), and the alarm on the stove (a half-melted piece of slag- the clock not the stove).
Tom swept the collected pile of junk mail off of the coffee table in his living room, thinking he might find it under there, even considered checking in the couch cushions, but the last time he had done that the vermin had declared war. His bed was still considered a DMZ as a result. The odd thing was that the ringing didn’t get any less or more loud, no matter where Tom went. He wondered if he was hallucinating, having a stroke, or going through the DTs.
He crouched on all fours, using a broken piece of a hockey stick to look under his bed. He saw his shotgun and one of Shari’s leopard print thongs, but no phone. Sighing, he sat up, tapped his temple and said, “Hello?”
The ringing stopped.
“Hello?” a voice that sounded like it gargled gravel said.
“That’s what I said,” Tom replied. “Who is this?”
“This Tom?” the voice asked. Tom tried to place it, failed.
“Yeah, what if it is?” Tom asked.
“You’re a hard man to track down. Why aren’t you answering your cell?”
“It tried flying. Didn’t work out so well for it.”
“Oh. What about the landline?” the voice asked.
“Accident with a crossbow. Who the fuck is this?”
“Ah, so that’s why we had to go this route.” The voice sounded a bit sad.
“What route is that?” Tom asked.
“Protocol Alpha Six Sigma Seven,” the voice said.
Tom’s eyes went dead and hard. Data started streaming through his heads-up display: maps, profiles, dates, times. “Been a long time, Control,” he said. “You could have told me about the phone.”
Control chuckled. “Sure, but we know you too well. You’d have found some back alley surgeon to dig it out, and we couldn’t have that.”
“What do you want Control?” Tom asked.
GPS coordinates popped up on the heads up display. “Time to come in, Tom. We’ve got a job for you.”
Tom sighed. “About fucking time.” He found a half-crushed pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. One of the cigarettes was, thankfully, intact. Tom held up his left-index finger and a small flame came up that he lit the cancer stick with. “I was beginning to worry that you’d never call.”
The problem with the ringing phone wasn’t how loud it was, or that it hadn’t stopped ringing for an hour, but that Tom didn’t have a phone. He hadn’t, in fact, had a phone for over a week. His part-time girlfriend Shari had thrown his cellphone out the window where it had disintegrated into a shower of formerly connected parts when it hit the asphalt. The landline had been the victim of an unfortunate convergence of it and a crossbow bolt. The plastic casing that had survived six presidents wasn’t able to stand up to a carbon steel head being propelled by a weapon with a 200 pound pull. Tom’s job as a dishwasher at a local café mean that he hadn’t had the money to go get a new phone yet, and he refused to get one of the cheap pre-paid deals. He had managed to salvage the sim card from the cell, in the event that he did decide to get a new phone. It was in the front pocket of the shirt he was currently wearing; that he had in fact been wearing for the past week.
That didn’t stop the problem of the current ringing though. At first he thought it was coming from one the neighboring apartments. He had gone around, pressing his ear flat against the cheap wood of the doors, but the ringing wasn’t from any of them. He went back to his apartment. The phone was still ringing. He checked the tv (smashed), radio alarm clock (bisected by a machete), and the alarm on the stove (a half-melted piece of slag- the clock not the stove).
Tom swept the collected pile of junk mail off of the coffee table in his living room, thinking he might find it under there, even considered checking in the couch cushions, but the last time he had done that the vermin had declared war. His bed was still considered a DMZ as a result. The odd thing was that the ringing didn’t get any less or more loud, no matter where Tom went. He wondered if he was hallucinating, having a stroke, or going through the DTs.
He crouched on all fours, using a broken piece of a hockey stick to look under his bed. He saw his shotgun and one of Shari’s leopard print thongs, but no phone. Sighing, he sat up, tapped his temple and said, “Hello?”
The ringing stopped.
“Hello?” a voice that sounded like it gargled gravel said.
“That’s what I said,” Tom replied. “Who is this?”
“This Tom?” the voice asked. Tom tried to place it, failed.
“Yeah, what if it is?” Tom asked.
“You’re a hard man to track down. Why aren’t you answering your cell?”
“It tried flying. Didn’t work out so well for it.”
“Oh. What about the landline?” the voice asked.
“Accident with a crossbow. Who the fuck is this?”
“Ah, so that’s why we had to go this route.” The voice sounded a bit sad.
“What route is that?” Tom asked.
“Protocol Alpha Six Sigma Seven,” the voice said.
Tom’s eyes went dead and hard. Data started streaming through his heads-up display: maps, profiles, dates, times. “Been a long time, Control,” he said. “You could have told me about the phone.”
Control chuckled. “Sure, but we know you too well. You’d have found some back alley surgeon to dig it out, and we couldn’t have that.”
“What do you want Control?” Tom asked.
GPS coordinates popped up on the heads up display. “Time to come in, Tom. We’ve got a job for you.”
Tom sighed. “About fucking time.” He found a half-crushed pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. One of the cigarettes was, thankfully, intact. Tom held up his left-index finger and a small flame came up that he lit the cancer stick with. “I was beginning to worry that you’d never call.”