#113 Storm Break

by Andrew Duff

It took an age of petitions and council meetings, but the warehouse was finally scheduled to be torn down, all forty thousand feet of it. Which was why Jack was there, out in the snow that the weatherman had promised would be a forgettable half inch and instead had come down so hard and fast that Jack couldn’t see across the street. He fumbled with the key ring the new owners had given him, squinting in the afternoon’s half-light, as the wind stung his face and the snow slid down his neck. He tried another key at random in the lock and tried to turn it, once, twice.

“Shit,” he said to the storm, and glared at the dozen keys still left, then at the door. A few deliberate steps back, and he ran at it. A crackle of rotted wood, Jack grinned and backed up again. He charged, and in the moment before he hit it, he heard the unmistakable bark of a gun firing. The door slammed open.

A man lay on the ground, the blood already pooling around his head. The size of the warehouse made it seem as if there were miles of cold, pitted concrete between them. The man stared at Jack, his mouth opening and closing, though no words passed between them. A tinkle of glass from above, and the storm crept in, a slow and steady dance.