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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v214) (the November 2010 Issue) |
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Order this issue from our printer as an ISSN# paperback book:  or as the ISBN# book “Don‘t Tread on Me ”:  |
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The Hunted
Mel Waldman
Old Joe got off at the last stop-Stillwell Avenue, Coney Island. His frenzied eyes darted and flitted across the bleak platform. He didn’t see him. But he felt his presence. Someone had been following him all day. Maybe the guy was on the job or just another freakin’ mope. He could be a crazy person hungry for trouble, or a hit man tracking Old Joe. Maybe. But who wanted him dead? Why?
Old Joe was turning sixty. But his body was strong, muscular, and finely tuned for self-defense or killing. He descended the barren stairs and wandered through the dark cave that contained antediluvian stores and lost souls. Outside, he crossed Surf Avenue and headed straight for the Boardwalk.
From time to time, he looked back. He didn’t see him. This guy was good, he thought. But Old Joe was better.
He passed the Cyclone, Wonder Wheel, and Parachute Jump as he rushed toward the pier. Suddenly, his brain was flooded with horrific memories that he had buried years ago. No matter. He had a rendezvous to keep.
Christmas Eve. The Boardwalk was deserted. And now, the snow began to fall. Abruptly, he turned his head and tried to see the stranger. He saw only the barren Boardwalk and the swirling snow.
He stood on the pier, smoked a Marlboro with his left hand, and waited. Inside his black leather jacket, his right hand clutched a knife.
“You came back,” the stranger said.
Old Joe turned around and mumbled: “You!”
“Yeah. You thought you killed your old man 50 years ago. My little son stabbed me in the back like a coward. Yeah. You tried. Almost succeeded. But I’ll live forever. Deep within your brain.”
“Maybe I oughta kill you again.”
“You can’t.”
The stalker laughed at him. Old Joe lunged at the beast, cut him bad, and killed him forever.
He lay on the wooden pier beneath the white whirling snow that was turning red. He breathed his last breaths, waiting to die. With death, the unbearable nightmares that had haunted him for half a century would end, he prayed.
Old Joe, professional criminal and frequent hit man, whispered obscenities to his father’s ghost. And he clutched the knife he had thrust deep into his chest, waiting only seconds, but perhaps forever, for the end. Even now, his body shook in terror, for he feared his father would follow him to Hell. And for eternity, he would hunt and torture Old Joe, the hunted.
