Page 115 of Voracious

I trace my finger up and down the scar on my throat, zoning out. My fingers tremble. The shakes have been getting worse, and my mind goes fuzzy a lot. Sometimes, I black out.

That void swirls in and swallows me fucking whole, and I have no idea what happens when it does. It’s kind of my escape. What better place could it be than nowhere?

By the time we reach the property, we’re the second wave. I step over a body on the lawn, blood puddling from the head, and another to my left as I make my way up the footpath with my gun focused on the front door.

I take a deep inhale, closing my eyes. Hold it. Hold it some more, then let it out slowly. “Entering the building now.”

Everyone gets into position. No one wants to be here, but they’re all willing to kill men, women and children to protect their families. No matter how much they vomit afterward, hate themselves, beg for forgiveness from their God and even self-harm, they always pull through with the contracts.

Lights flicker as I push open the door, which is hanging off its hinges. It drops to the ground with a loudbang.

I wait for a second, listening for a cry or the soft whimper of a little girl, and silently beg that no one is here. I won’t kill them. I refuse to. I’ll try to help them escape before the rest can complete the contract.

But going by the mess of the place, the chance of them having survived is low. There are bullet casings everywhere. Why did they send us if the job was already done?

Before I can figure it out, one of the guys behind me radios in asking if the targets have been eliminated. A second later, a voice tells us that the babysitter is still alive. We’ve to keep an eye out for a short woman with dark hair.

They’ll be hiding – hopefully somewhere hard to find.

I hope not to see blood as I gesture to the other men with me to continue, hearing the crunch of glass beneath heavy boots, the inhale and exhale of breaths through the earpiece, the ruffle of uniforms as we turn left and make our way down the narrow corridor to the garage.

I inch to the left and glance into the washroom. A pink blanket sits unwashed along with clothes, and a line of bibs and frilly white coat are drying on a rack.

I swallow a lump. “Clear.”

Using the muzzle of the gun, I push open the main doorway to the garage, searching my surroundings, twisting left and right and leading the group behind me. An SUV is parked, the tyres all slashed, windows smashed, and the baby-on-board sticker lies on the ground.

“Clear,” I say again, shifting past the guys as I take point position again.

Glass crunches under my boots as I take careful steps into the apartment. The torch from my gun shines around the floor and walls, as I inspect shattered furniture and torn sofas. I listen, trying to hear any voices or other signs of life. But the place is silent. I gesture for the guards to keep following me.

There are bullet holes all over the place – TV screens smashed, the coffee table and ornaments obliterated.

I step into the kitchen, keeping my aim raised. “Clear.”

I make my way to a narrow hall, gesturing for Base to follow me while the rest of the men continue searching the ground floor. We open the door to the basement, and he shines his torch. “There’s a bedroom down there.”

I take two steps at a time until I reach the bottom, lowering my gun and turning on the light. “Are you hiding in here? I’m not going to hurt you.”

Silence.

I examine the shelves, my eyes scanning the piles upon piles of books, then pull out all the drawers I can see. Some are empty.

Our radios buzz. “We have floorboards pulled up in one of the bedrooms on the ground floor. Some blood too. Bullet shells everywhere.”

Base being Base, he tosses down his gun and sits on the bed, lying back and closing his eyes. “I have a headache.”

I roll my eyes and head over to the walk-in closet, which has been ransacked. I duck under the bed, look into the bathroom and pull aside the shower curtain, chewing my lip as I stand in the middle of the room again.

A shift beside me as Base jumps off the king-sized bed and grabs a picture frame from the cabinet next to it. He whips off his helmet and pulls away his earpiece before shoving the image in front of my face.

It takes a second to process what I’m looking at, and I lift a shaking hand to take it from him. I don’t blink as I stare at a picture of me and Stacey in bed. The first ever photo she took of us, when she accidentally fell asleep in my arms. I rub my thumb over her face, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Base snaps at me with his fingers. “Why is there a picture of you and Stacey in this house?” Then he frowns. “Wait, were we to kill Stacey? Who’s the family? The kid?”

My wide eyes lift to my friend as the realisation sinks in, and I stop breathing.

The photo frame slips from my grip as I run, feeling like I’m going to pass out as I sprint up the stairs, stopping when I see a busted-up family photo canvas in the living room.

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