Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [95]
Hardie didn’t make the connection for another few seconds. Why would a guy dying of gunshot wounds sound so informal—Man, help me, I’m dying ova hee-uh. Yo, got a gunshot wound, bro. Then it clicked.
“Wait… your name is Mann?” Hardie asked. “Seriously?”
Mann didn’t reply. Instead she kicked the .38 out of his hand, then grabbed Hardie by the fabric of his stolen police shirt and started to drag his body across the broken glass and pavement, away from the broken sliding doors. The world moved sideways and started to shake. Mostly because he couldn’t contain the crazy, wheezing giggles that were escaping his chest.
“All this time I’ve been fighting the Mann?”
He broke into full-on laughter. He’d never heard anything funnier in his life, honest-to-fucking Christ. Wordlessly, she continued dragging his body, across the dry grass now, the smell of it mixing with the blood and the gunpowder in Hardie’s nostrils.
“You’re the M-Mann!” Hardie cried out, tears welling up in his eyes.
And then when he was at the edge of the pool, Mann nudged him over into the water. More concrete steps, meant to help someone adjust to the chilly water gradually. Hardie didn’t need to worry about that. He was mostly numb, anyway, except for the burning sensation in the places where the chlorine touched his open wounds.
Mann waded in next to him, put a foot on his chest, and pushed him under the water. His laughter was cut off in a messy gulp. Water swirled into his partially open mouth, his back slammed into the bottom of the pool.
“You can be killed,” she said, though she had no idea if Hardie could hear her. “You’re not immortal.”
Mann honestly couldn’t pinpoint her first mistake, where it had all started to unravel. She’d made split-second decisions like always. Had written her narratives like always. But this one had spiraled out of control early this morning, on the 101, when a spoiled bitch had shoved broken glass into her eye. She couldn’t even blame Hardie solely for this horrible abortion of a day.
But it would feel good to kill him, anyway.
Give her one last bit of accomplishment before…
… the next part of her career.
A director has one major fuckup, that director is finished. That did not mean death. Oh no. Mann had heard stories about another director—code name Stanley—who’d botched a production in London once, and rumor had it that they kept Stanley locked away somewhere in a secret prison, toiling away in the darkness, concocting narratives, gaming out possible futures endlessly, relentlessly. Good directors were assets, too valuable to be squandered. They’d keep you working. Working until your body and mind finally gave out.
Still, it was better than the alternative.
It was some kind of life.
Maybe she’d even impress them by killing Hardie. Prove to them that she was still valuable, that, yes, this assignment spiraled out of control but she was still one of the best death directors around. The very thought gave her a strange exhilaration. Some hope was better than no hope. She pushed down on Hardie’s chest with renewed strength.
Die, you stubborn bastard.
Aren’t you going to fight back?
What’s the point? Drowning’s not a bad way to die, so I’ve heard. After you stop fighting it, that is, and let it all happen. Once the air runs out, you faint. You start seeing crystal formations and hearing high-pitched tones and the crystal formations turn into a tunnel and then everybody starts telling you it’s okay, you’re going to be okay.
You are wrong. Drowning is an incredibly painful way to die. Your head is soon going to feel like it’s going to explode. Your body will go into violent convulsions. So, fight back. There’s still more to do.
No, there isn’t. It’s over. I’m done.
You’re being drowned by the woman who threatened to kill your family. What do you think she’s going to do the moment you’re dead? She knows the address. She’ll track them down. She’ll hurt them, just to hurt you after your death.
No.
She knows you know this, too. She’s hoping it makes drowning