To Kill A Deer Chapter 1

To Kill A Deer

A Novel By Bryan Smithson

Chapter 1

April 1st, 2020

The voicemail light was flashing. I don't normally have anyone call me. I pushed the button, and heard, "Hi Harold. Our store has closed due to the Covid crisis. I'm really sorry. We will be mailing you your last check. When stores reopen, we will give you a call. Again, we are very sorry." Damnit. Rent is due soon, and who knows how long it will take to get that check. Even if I did get the money to the landlord on time, there's still other things to worry about. Food. Smokes. Beer. I glanced at my rifle, which was mounted proudly on my wall, hanging right above my couch. I could hunt for food, but it wouldn't provide me with any money. I'm screwed, that's for sure. What am I going to do?

There's no way I can stay here. My mind is too cluttered to want to sit here and wallow in my sorrow. I got up, and left, walking down the stairs. I walked down the street, with nowhere to go. I dont have much money on me, and I don't  know anyone who could help me. The streets were still busy, with plenty of traffic going by, but there was not a soul to see walking by already at seven. Spokane was just that way, where we overreact to the smallest thing. What exactly is this Covid-19? I don't  really watch the news anymore, not since I started working at the grocery store. I don't really have the time, whereas I get off right after the late shift. Today was supposed to be my day off. Now, I'll have plenty of days off. I didn't know what to do, and my mind is only on one thing right now. I wanted to hunt. Hunting had always been my way of unwinding. Out there in the woods, there was no one to talk to, not a thing to stop me from what I love doing the most. Killing game had been a part of me since I was 12. My father had always taken me with him when he went out hunting. We shot buck, with my dad being the finest crackshot I've ever seen. He was a cop who had been killed in the line of duty, 14 years ago, right when I was 21. He's gone, and there's no way he's ever coming back. Sometimes, I hear him in my head, telling me what to do, especially when I'm hunting. Now, however, I couldn't hear a damn thing, nothing besides the cars whizing on by. They sounded just like the hornets buzzing out in the woods. Spokane was a short distance from all the best areas to hunt. I was doing eveything in my power to stop me from grabbing my keys and going home to fire up my pickup. What I need is money, and I need it soon. Hunting won't do anything for me but waste what little resources I have, which is time, and the money I need for gas. I always had plenty of ammo for my gun, and the best sprays I could find for attracting buck. It was real dangerous, too, as these fuckers will do anything to trample you when they're horny. I sat down for a second, and drew a cigarette from my fresh pack, lighting it and looking all around me. I was near the courthouse, and there wasn't a cop to be seen. Where the hell are they? It's like they're so busy enforcing this Covid crap that they don't care to go after the criminals anymore. Several thousands were dead in the United States alone. Not many people have died in Spokane, but it hasn't  stopped them from putting this entire town under lockdown. I've lived alone for years, but now I feel even more lonely than I ever have before. I wasn't on the verge of crying, but more at the point of a blind rage. I cursed underneath my breath, and finished my smoke. I felt like I've been given a death sentence. I have nothing of value to sell, and I had only a few days before all of my utilities are due. I could only think of what they might do in the movies. I love action flicks, and the ones that really get me going are the ones about mobsters. I knew bloody well that what pays the most is killing. Not deer, but people. The only problem is I am as white as a ghost and there isn't a gang that would hire me. Could I really take someone's life? Would I get away with it? As I sat there, loitering, right next to the courthouse, I wouldn't doubt it that I could. This whole Coronavirus sounds fishy, anyways. It's as if the virus hopped out of a lab and is hellbent on weeding out the weak, especially those who are older. They suck up all our resources as hard working men like me are paying for their medications. If I was to kill someone, I would have to make sure of only two things: can I do it, and would it be worth it. I can't just kill the poor as they wouldn't have a thing to loot off their corpse. Still, I know exactly who to prey on. The homeless. Even if they have no place to go, I know that they have to have something on them, be it drugs or booze and maybe a few bucks. Our city hates the homeless, and they view them as predators taking money from hardworking people like me. I didn't know what to do, but I realized I'm going to have to be good and drunk if I'm to take a man's life. I couldn't see myself killing a woman, though lord knows they have been nasty to me, calling me an ugly prick on more than a few occassions. 

The bars were all closed, so I'm  going to have to grab some beer from the covenience store. I walked quickly down the street, speeding as fast as some of the cars going by. It will be night soon, and that's when I plan to stalk my prey. My gun is as loud as a cannon, so I had to make sure and be good as gone before they could find me. Even if the police are narry to be seen I knew I couldn't take any risks. Only the powerful want to see people dead. As I made it to the store, I grabbed a 24 pack with one of my last two twenties, and left the store, with a smile and a jumbled mind. I had to carry this fucker all the way back to my apartment. Even if I found an alley, I wouldn't have my gun. No one paid me any notice as I rushed on by, and as I went up the stairs, I realized our parking lot is empty. Good. No one will notice me when I leave. I'm not taking my truck. One thing I've realized from all the films I've seen is that a car is too easy to recognize. I unlocked my door, went in and sat down, taking a long, deep breath, letting it out slowly.

My beers emptied quick, and it was not before a half hour later that I had started to feel a buzz. It's a shame that nearly 18 cans were littered around me, on the ground. I had turned on the television, flipping right past the news channels. I had put it on a violent show that depicted men shooting up the neighborhood. They wore hats just like the ones I wore, black fedoras. I had become real fond of wearing them while I hunt. This kind of stuff is really all I watch. For years I've relished in the hunt, and now it is time I hunt what once was termed the most dangerous game. 

The film rolled through its final scenes, and my beer was all gone. The night had came, but I wasn't ready yet. Inside my head, I heard my father telling me not to do it. "Don't do it. Son, they're human beings, with lives, and families." I shook my head, not willing to believe I'm hearing a ghost. I've  heard his voice before, but I wasn't ready to believe that my father actually survived death. I shouted, "You're dead, dad. Don't tell me what to do. You left me years ago. A young man, fatherless. Mom went to the psyche ward because you just had to die." I threw my fist down, my skin numb from all the alcohol. I changed the channel, right to the forensic investigation show. I studied it, taking notice to every little thing the killer did to not get caught. Every time they tried to catch him they couldn't. It wasn't for years until they found this man, who had killed his girlfriend's parents for money. All their money had gone to their daughter, without a single soul implicating her. The man was caught because she had turned him in. Good thing I don't have anyone who knows me, just a dead dad and a sick mother. There's  not one person who would ever suspect me, as I was always known as a quiet cashier, who was more than welcome to get by on what little money I made.

The clock struck eleven, and I had watched show after show, each one detailing some of the nation's most prolific killers. I can't wait any longer. My drunkedness might wear off at any moment. I grabbed my gun, strapping it to my back. I got up, and put on my hat, knowing I was now dressed to kill. I unlocked my door slowly, not bothering to lock it when I got outside. If I am to run from wherever I do my dirty deeds, I don't  want to fumble with my noisy door. Who knows what my neighbors might suspect when they see the news. I rolled down the street, going deeper into what we simply termed "The West Side." It's a place where drugs are plenty and the cops dared not to patrol, long before this Covid crap was ever discovered. I traveled down the street, silently, making sure to not be seen. Several blocks later I spied a Mexican, asleep in a broken down pickup. He was sleeping like a babe, despite the chilly breeze. All I have to do is aim my gun through the broken window, and pull the trigger. Our president might give me a medal of honor for wiping out this scumbag. I put the barrel of my gun through the window, steadying it right next to his temple, as he laid on his side. I heard my dad again, begging me not to do it. I said, loud enough for me to hear, "Sorry, dad." I pulled the trigger, the loud fire boring right through his brain, splattering all over the truck's interior. I opened the door, and dug through his pockets, finding sixty dollars, an ATM card, and a name that I cared not to remember, "Isaac Gonzalez." I put the card and the money in my vest, and did not bother one bit to clean up the body. One fingerprint on this boy's corpse could fuck me. I left in a hurry, nearly running down the street, my hard footsteps not heard by a single soul. I was high on adrenaline, and I couldn't wait to run his card through the machine. 

I had made it home, without a single person noticing me. The clock read 12:30, and my dad's voice still haunted me. "You'll never get away with it, son. You've became a beast." I cried, "I don't care, dad. Society made me a beast." I racked my gun, and left the house through my still open door, wishing to get away from it all. I won't let my pops corner me in my crashpad. He won't have the pleasure of bleeding out my victory. Tonight I had done what few men could, justifying the worst sin imaginable. I locked up out of caution, and fled to that same convenience store I had been earlier. I ran his card, having made careful note of what his bankstatements had read. I pulled out 200 hundred dollars, and grabbed a couple 40s and a carton of smokes. The cashier, an Indian man of middle age, smiled at me, and I left, debating what to do with the card. Sometimes these deadbeats draw social security, having it deposited right on the card. They'll find his body long before he gets any new money. I can't just throw it away. That would be evidence. When I got home, I filed his card away in the kitchen drawer, knowing that no one could see it, except for me. I cracked open the forty, and put one of my favorite DVDs in. It was an old black and white mobster movie. As I drink my beer quickly, my dad tried to repeatedly get in my head, begging me to turn myself in. "They'll go easy on ya, Harry." It didn't matter. Not a motherfucking thing he said was bothering me one bit. He left me years ago, so it's too late for him to now want to be a dad, dead and all. 

My movie had just gotten to one of the good scenes. The main character had started to boss around one of the enemy mobsters,  doing his best to threaten him. As the other guy quaked in his boots, he shot him, ending his sorry life. He spit on his body, and left him there, dead in the back alley. I smiled, realizing that's what I had done earlier. I had ended that sorry son of a bitch's existence. He had no right sleeping there, making us pay his way. I could only imagine what my mother might say if I was sleeping in a truck. I had watched two movies in a row tonight, waiting patiently for the morning news. I had to know if they were looking for me. I turned it to channel six, watching as each piece was on none other than the Covid virus. Not a damn thing was about that boy. I don't know whether I should be relieved or dishonored. I laid down, and passed out, my father's ghost appearing in dream after dream. 

When I awoke I saw that my answering machine was flashing again. I pressed the button, and listened. My mother had tried to call me. She hadn't phoned me in five years. She had said, "Harry? Are you okay? I heard about the Covid crisis and I'm worried sick about you. They say I might be getting out soon. Please, get back to me honey." Well, I'll be damned. After all of these years I might see my ma again. I don't  know whether to laugh or choke up. I may be on the run before she gets out. What's done is done. I've became a hunter of men, knowing fully what it is like to catch a deer. I got up, and started coffee, seeking to remove my strong hangover. As the coffee brewed, I turned it to the local news station. It was already five. I had slept through the entire day. It's not like I had anywhere to go. I can't just kill someone new each day. Then I'd really be asking for it. I settled down in my chair, and waited anxiously for the coffee to finish brewing. After a tense moment, I got up, and poured myself a mug, plopping two ice cubes in it. I chugged the coffee, savoring its strong taste. I then sat there, on the couch, lifeless, glancing every now and then at my gun. The night would pass slowly, with each and every news report not being about that kid. I guess they didn't care at all that he's dead. You kill a deadbeat like him and I swear you're doing this world a favor. When the morning had came again, I passed out, feeling drunk on criminal investgations and the news.

It was now April 3rd, and the reports on Covid hadn't stopped coming in. Do they really give a shit about any of these people who have died? Has the whole world gone mad, including I? It's as if the newscasters were relishing over each death. It wasn't until the five o'clock news that my number had came up. As they ran his picture on screen, I was relieved that all they had ran was the balistics on my gun, a standard rifle that could belong to any hunter. When I kill next, they'll know me by the same gun. That's why I had to develop a new way to kill. I'll need a new gun or a knife if I plan to take a new life. Two hundred dollars won't pay the rent. I'll have to kill again soon, let me see, before April 10th before my rent is due. If all I got was 200 dollars then I'll  need another 300 hundred before I'm sitting pretty. I can buy anything else I need when my paycheck comes in. Even if it gets here soon, I wanted to catch another deer. I've became bloodthirsty, mad about my dad, in grief over my mom. I'll be damned if I don't take revenge on those who held me back in life. I'm sick of people doubting me and flipping me shit. I just want to be free from my father's relentless spirit. I cleaned off my hunting knife, which had been used to gut my last buck. It's time they call me the second coming of death, a hunter who lost his job, who's absolutely sick of it. Let me live, even if I must take other's lives. I'm dirty and forlorn, in love with the feeling of ending someone else's meaning.