Читать книгу All Fall Down - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 7

Charlotte, North Carolina January, 2000

The closet was small, cramped. Too warm. Dark save for the sliver of dim light from the bedroom beyond. In it, Death waited. Patiently. Without movement or complaint.

Tonight was the night. Soon, the man would come. And like the others, he would pay.

For crimes unpunished. Against the weak. Against those the world had turned their backs on. Death had planned carefully, had left nothing to chance. The woman was away, the children with her. Far away, in the loving and protective arms of family.

From another part of the house came a sound—a thud, then an oath. A door slammed. Excited, Death pressed closer to the door, peering through the narrow space, taking in the scene beyond: the unmade bed, the dirty laundry strewn about, the trash that littered the floor.

The man stumbled into the room, toward the bed, obviously inebriated. Immediately, the small dark space filled with the smell of cigarettes and booze—booze he and his buddies had consumed that night. Laughing. Thumbing their noses at the gods. At justice.

He lost his balance and knocked into the bedside table. The lamp toppled and crashed to the floor. The man fell face first onto the bed, head turned to the side, foot and arm hanging off.

Minutes ticked past. The drunk’s breathing became deep and thick. Soon, his guttural snores filled the room. The snores of a man in an alcohol-induced coma, of one who would not awake easily.

Until it was too late.

The time had come.

Death eased out of the closet and crossed to the bed, stopping beside it and gazing down in disgust. Smoking in bed was dangerous. It was foolhardy. One should never tempt fate that way. But then, this was a stupid man. One who had not learned from his mistakes. The kind of man the world would be better off without.

With the toe of a shoe, Death eased the bedside wastebasket to the spot under the drunk’s dangling hand. The cigarette was the man’s brand; the matches from the bar he had frequented that night. The match flared with the first strike of tip against the friction strip; the flame crackled as it kissed the tobacco, hissing as it caught.

With a small, satisfied smile, Death dropped the glowing cigarette into the filled wastebasket, then turned and walked away.