AND SMILED. A short story

The sky was darkening, over the low mountains to the east, as a tall but stooped man, clutching his raincoat to himself tightly against the cold, descended the steps of a bland and non-descript office building, onto a dimly lit street. He paused to light a cigarette, the flash showing part of his scarred, dark features, and he coughed. It was the cough of someone who had been smoking for years, and who had no intention of quitting anytime soon.
Pulling his coat around him more tightly, and flipping up the collar, he smiled a tiny, private smile at the realization that it was vogue for the hip kids to pop their collars on polo shirts. The smile faded as he reached the corner, two blocks south, at which point he would have to turn east, toward the bus stop. There were always bums, in the lot he would have to pass on his way to catch the bus, and he had begun to despise them for their lack of initiative, for their constant freeloading on others. The smile faded completely, and was gone, as he remembered what he had to do that night. He shuddered, at the thought, this time not from the cold, but from the thought of performing that terrible task, and from the idea of having to hold onto the greasy, warm handle on the bus, warm from the previous person’s hand, greasy from their sweat, skin, and god knows what else they had just grabbed. Maybe a businessman’s cock, for a quick twenty bucks. Maybe a screaming baby’s shit-covered bottom.
He pushed those thoughts out of his mind, and turned to look up the street, for any sign of the bus, as he was nearing the bus stop, where one or two others sat waiting already, still a ways down the block. Hearing a voice behind him croak something, he continued on his way toward the bus stop, despite subsequent and repeated requests from the darkness for change, a smoke, help. Not turning, pretending not to hear, he turned again to look for the bus, and started. Somehow, he was suddenly in a dark alley, one he had never seen before. Staring about wildly, he saw broken windows covered by rusted old bars, felt the soft hardness of packed earth through his shoes, so foreign. Paint peeled off of crooked, bent wooden slats on the far wall, exposing grain turned grey from age in sickly light coming from some unseen source.
He began to panic, turning around in small circles, frantically searching for a way out. The small dirt alley was sealed, it seemed, on all four sides. Suddenly, he thought he felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled, fists up in what he hoped was a menacing stance. In the dim light he saw movement through one of the broken windows, and, despite his fear, but after a moment’s hesitation, leaned forward, closer to the jagged panes, to peer inside.

A figure sat, hidden in the shadows, on large, dully gleaming metal crates. After an moment that was somehow too brief, the figure stood, and walked a few steps toward the window. The man jumped, but did not back away, although he was very afraid. He watched as a gray, sunken face, which seemed to float in the weak, oily light coming in through the jagged mouths of the concrete windows, came into sight. Its skin was like parchment stretched tight; wisps of white hair clung in patches to the skull, and grew in riotous clusters out of moles on the neck. It smelled of warm dampness and ozone, with a faint overone of rotting. Rags could be seen hanging limply from a skeletal frame. Large, dark eyes opened slowly, almost audibly, to peer back at the man.
“You must not proceed with your duties tonight, no matter how much she offers. I warn you, Vincent Braun, not this one. She must not be allowed to go through with it.” The voice sounded like pebbles bouncing their way down a stone well-shaft, and it sent a shudder down his spine.
As he opened his mouth to answer, Vincent became aware of brakes screeching, a horn blaring, and realized his head was leaning out into the street. Yanking it back barely, just before he became a pesky stain on city property, adrenaline pumping, he turned, wild eyed, toward the others at the bus stop, and met a dead, disinterested stare from an old woman who probably, he thought, would have like to see him decapitated by the bus. He jogged a half block to the stop, and jumped on just as the doors were closing.

Fumbling in his jacket pocket for his pass, he finally showed it to the void, uncaring face of the bus driver, who looked him up and down, once, then turned, motioned with her head toward the back, and dropped the bus into gear.
Vincent made his way carefully through the bus, all other seats taken, to his usual three man bench at the back, which was taken up fully by a man, dressed in dirty castoffs, who seemed to have wet himself, some time earlier, and was asleep. Vacant, void, uncaring stares from those witnessing his petty predicament watched him reach up, pause, then grasp the glistening hand-railing, revulsion barely concealed on his lean, scarred face.

A cat screeched, and scampered away up the stairs past him, when he had almost reached their foot, and the door to his atelier/living space. Adjusting his shirt against the goose-bumps, his heart pounding, he jiggled the key in the lock, once, felt it begin to slide against the pins, but stop.
“Shit.” He said aloud. A tired, quiet sound, and turned to look for the can of W-D40 some workmen had left behind, by accident, the week before.

Inside, he made his way cautiously through the cluttered living space, past piles of old newspapers, five half-dismantled bicycles, a couple of cracked computer monitors, to the back room, flipped a switch to reveal a brightly light, immaculately clean area sealed off in plastic, with a stirrup mounted gurney in the middle. Stripping completely, in a small cleaning area, he washed himself, and donned clean scrubs from a small cabinet, then began to wash his hands, thoroughly, refusing to look at himself through the shards of mirror glued to the wall above the sink.

“It’s open,” he said, at the slight nock at his door, a little after two A.M. She entered, her face hidden by long bangs, barely visible in the poor light. She wore cheap clothes, jeans and a generic chain-discounter sweater, but he could tell that she had money. Somehow, he could tell. And, she was young.
“Look, I just want to get this over with, as soon as possible. My parents don’t know I’m out right now, so, can we be quick?”
“Sure,” he said quietly, never looking directly at her. “You’re going to have to change into … something else, for the … procedure.” He pointed to a cheap, import screen shielding one area, just to the side of the plastic sheeting, illuminated by the bright fluorescents within.
“But, before we do … what we agreed on, I’ll need it now. Before we go any further.”
The girl hesitated, both at the idea of changing behind the flimsy screen, and fearful that he might steal the money, but only hesitated for a second, then dug an envelope, out of her front pocket, and handed it to him.
“You’re short,” he said, steel in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice wavering, tears starting to crowd the corners of her eyes, “I tried real hard, but my parents started asking questions … Please …”
“If you cry, for real, you leave. I’ll do it, for this. For you. Now get changed.”

Later, washing the blood from his hands, he shuddered at the sight of what had emerged from the girl. It had shone, seemingly with a light of its own, pulsing out, and fading slowly in the steel basin below the gurney until it had shone no more. Inspecting his fingers closely, he reached for a coarse brush, and started over. Once he was satisfied, he stripped, and scrubbed his whole body with the brush until he bled in spots, then threw his clothes into the same plastic trash bin into which he had balled and stuffed the plastic sheeting from the operating area. On his way up the stairs, he grabbed the can of machine lubricant he had used earlier, and dragged the plastic bin a good ways onto a large concrete slab about a block from his flat, between the gutted husks of once-proud factories that stretched to the south, for miles. He sprayed the entire contents of the can onto the bloody clothes and plastic sheeting, the stepped back, lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, and threw it in. The fire caught, and burned brightly. So brightly, in fact, that he had to shield his eyes, and turned away.

When the spots cleared, he found himself on the edge of a very deep, vast forest, turned, and ran toward the open plain he could see, just through the trees. His foot caught a root, and his speed sent him flying.
A tree had fallen, just ahead, and one of its branches had broken, forming a jagged spike sticking out at about a 45 degree angle. Vincent’s full weight pushed the spike into the top of his left shoulder, shattering the collarbone, finally stopping just short of his heart, but not short of the left lung, which collapsed.

Too shocked to scream, in too much pain to whimper, the man tried weakly, after a moment, to push his body off of the log, but the pain ran in yellow lightning past his eyes, blinding him, and he lost consciousness. When he awoke he saw a pair of old, dusty boots, just to his right, and knew at once they belonged to the face and the rest of the body of the man he had seen through the glass, in the dirt alley, on his way to the bus stop.
Strong hands grabbed him, and twisted his body along the jagged branch, which ripped through his heart with the movement, sending a geyser of blood past the spike, to join the pool on the forest floor. The dusty old woman, dressing in rags ,old eyes staring out of taunt skin, leaned close to his face, watching the life fade from Vincent’s eyes, and seemed, in a way, sad.
“Did I not tell you, not to service her? Now, you have brought this, upon yourself. No worries, though, there will be another. You may have killed one who would save us, save YOU, but there will be more along."

Vincent awoke, briefly, before he died, impaled on a rusty piece of rebar jutting out of a piece of old foundation. And smiled.