He checked the address on the bag. It was unfamiliar
to him; he’d never delivered there, but he knew the neighborhood—up five blocks
and over three from the deli—to be pretty sketchy. He had barely escaped
getting mugged there only the previous Friday when someone turned a corner at
just the right time and scared a strung out, knife-wielding creep away. So he
had his head on a swivel as he approached the building to which he was
delivering. But the block was quite crowded this day with folks out enjoying their
day off. He’d been so intent on the people around him that he only noticed as
he was at the foot of the building’s front steps that ominous clouds had
gathered. The first few drops, big and thick, crashed hard onto his head just
as he was buzzed into the building. The apartment was 513. The good news was
that the building had an elevator. The bad news was the door to it was covered
by two strips of police tape x-ed across the opening. He tried not to think
about what that meant as he mounted the first flight of stairs.
At the top of the fifth flight, he looked right,
finding 501. On the left, he found 530. He figured the floor made a complete
square and the math favored going right. He was right about the square part but
way off on the math. After he turned left, the numbered rooms ended halfway
down the hall at 510. There were lots of unmarked doors going nearly to the far
back left corner of the building before they started having numbers again. As a
result, he was two-thirds of the way back around to the stairwell before he found
the door he sought.
The response to his knock was little more than a
rustle at first. It sounded like someone had attempted to quietly shuffle to
the door, but did it poorly. As he waited, he noted an acrid odor, something
like nail polish remover, rubbing alcohol, and some sort of chemical all mixed
together. After maybe 30 seconds, he heard someone call out through the door that he or she—he couldn't tell which—would be just a minute. It felt more like
five, but eventually the door opened just a crack, enough for him to see an almost freakishly large bloodshot eyeball staring out at him. This struck him odd since
the door was equipped with a peephole, but he let it pass.
“Betelbaum’s Deli,” he said, holding up the bag.
Before he could react, the door opened an inch or two
more and a long, spindly arm shot out, grabbing the bag from his hand. He
didn’t even have time to yelp a protest before the bag disappeared inside the
room and the door slammed shut. Stunned, he stood slack-jawed for a few
seconds. Then he tried the knob. Locked. So he pounded on the door, shouting.
“Hey, you forgot to pay your bill! Hello? Anybody in
there?”
He felt a little silly after saying the last thing,
since, unless he’d climbed out the window and gone down the fire escape or he was
Spiderman, the sandwich napper was probably inside. He waited a few seconds
before raising his hand to knock again. Before he did so, though, he heard an
odd click from inside the room. His eyes grew wide and the words he was going
to shout caught in his throat. Was that…?
The next second, the top half of the door exploded. The
bullet pounded into his left shoulder like Superman’s fist, driving him against
the wall behind him so hard it knocked the air from his lungs. For a split
second, he felt no pain, but that was almost instantaneously replaced by a
searing heat radiating out from his wound. Half expecting to see his shoulder
ablaze, he looked down; at the sight of his white Betelbaum’s Deli shirt
quickly growing crimson, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped,
unconscious, onto the grimy floor.
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