Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) by Phillip Thomas Duck Page A
Authors: Phillip Thomas Duck
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sounded when I popped the tab. Ice cold, but it did nothing to douse the fire in my chest as I guzzled it dry. I crushed the can with one hand and started to stroll.
Jiang was bent over his trash bag, working the tails of it into a knot. I’m big, but I move quietly if need be. At that moment I needed to. He didn’t hear my approach.
Ten feet from him, I dropped the Coca-Cola can and kicked it over by his feet. He froze, looked down at the crumpled soda can, a puzzled expression on his face. Then realization formed and he looked up and spotted me. He stood up bolt straight and contemplated the gray door. It loomed five feet away. By then I had closed the distance between us to three feet.
“Pick up the can,” I said. “No littering.”
He didn’t take his eyes off of me.
“Pick it up. The Coca-Cola can,” I said.
He closed his good eye and groaned like an undernourished stomach.
“I won’t tell you again, Jiang.”
Another glance at the Coca-Cola can. Then back to me. He raised his arms in surrender. A yelping sound rose from his throat, a fevered cry of fear. Most men would have been embarrassed by the sound. Unless they had me staring them down in an alley.
“Pick it up, Jiang. Last time I’ll tell you.”
He sighed and made a move to do as I directed. I kicked the can a foot behind him before he could get his fingertips on it. It clattered across the asphalt like sunburned leaves. He turned to his right and refocused on the can. Left his back exposed. A huge mistake.
I kicked him hard in the seat of his pants. Adam Vinitieri would’ve smiled and sought a high-five.
Jiang landed in a heads-first heap a full horse length beyond the Coca-Cola can. I have to give him credit, though. He’d rolled over on his back and had his hands up to ward off my blows by the time I reached him. Still, I picked him up roughly by the collar of his shirt, pulled back my arm to deliver a blow that was certain to extinguish his flame.
I aimed it for his good eye.
But I heard him say something.
I dropped my arm, nodded.
Jiang had saved himself with one word.
Pepsi.
EIGHT
I’M NOT CERTAIN OF the correct definition for irony. I struggled with the concept in both high school and college. Most use the term incorrectly, that much I recall. Something regarding the incongruity of what is expected and what actually occurs. Well, bad luck and trouble had followed me all the days of my life. It’s irony, to my thinking, that I would choose the dilapidated building diagonally across from Panda House as a respite from that lifetime of bad luck and trouble.
The building had an expansive history, much of it stained. Just six stories tall, the second floor windows on the east side of the structure had yet to be replaced after a serious gunfight that actually made the news a few years back. The windows were absent of glass and covered by plywood. The lobby carpet smelled of mildew and death. Gurneys, black body bags, and harried emergency medical workers weren’t strangers to the dark lobby. Yet Jiang had looked from his storefront at Panda House to just across the street and seen profit in the building. Bought it, I’m told, the same week he had the epiphany. Smart.
I pushed the elevator button for UP. The stairwell wasn’t safe, even for me. When the elevator car arrived, I stepped on and pushed another button for the third floor. On the ride up, I read most of the promotional stickers plastered to the elevator walls. Mostly rappers I hadn’t ever heard of. I considered a trip back to the lobby and out of the building without finalizing my intentions. That didn’t happen, though. I exited at the third floor. Unlike the stairwell, the third floor corridor did not smell of piss and body odor. The strong aroma of cinnamon from inside someone’s unit drifted out into the hall. Baking. A suburban concept in a building a galaxy away from a world of manicured lawns and white picket fences. Another irony?
I didn’t
Jiang was bent over his trash bag, working the tails of it into a knot. I’m big, but I move quietly if need be. At that moment I needed to. He didn’t hear my approach.
Ten feet from him, I dropped the Coca-Cola can and kicked it over by his feet. He froze, looked down at the crumpled soda can, a puzzled expression on his face. Then realization formed and he looked up and spotted me. He stood up bolt straight and contemplated the gray door. It loomed five feet away. By then I had closed the distance between us to three feet.
“Pick up the can,” I said. “No littering.”
He didn’t take his eyes off of me.
“Pick it up. The Coca-Cola can,” I said.
He closed his good eye and groaned like an undernourished stomach.
“I won’t tell you again, Jiang.”
Another glance at the Coca-Cola can. Then back to me. He raised his arms in surrender. A yelping sound rose from his throat, a fevered cry of fear. Most men would have been embarrassed by the sound. Unless they had me staring them down in an alley.
“Pick it up, Jiang. Last time I’ll tell you.”
He sighed and made a move to do as I directed. I kicked the can a foot behind him before he could get his fingertips on it. It clattered across the asphalt like sunburned leaves. He turned to his right and refocused on the can. Left his back exposed. A huge mistake.
I kicked him hard in the seat of his pants. Adam Vinitieri would’ve smiled and sought a high-five.
Jiang landed in a heads-first heap a full horse length beyond the Coca-Cola can. I have to give him credit, though. He’d rolled over on his back and had his hands up to ward off my blows by the time I reached him. Still, I picked him up roughly by the collar of his shirt, pulled back my arm to deliver a blow that was certain to extinguish his flame.
I aimed it for his good eye.
But I heard him say something.
I dropped my arm, nodded.
Jiang had saved himself with one word.
Pepsi.
EIGHT
I’M NOT CERTAIN OF the correct definition for irony. I struggled with the concept in both high school and college. Most use the term incorrectly, that much I recall. Something regarding the incongruity of what is expected and what actually occurs. Well, bad luck and trouble had followed me all the days of my life. It’s irony, to my thinking, that I would choose the dilapidated building diagonally across from Panda House as a respite from that lifetime of bad luck and trouble.
The building had an expansive history, much of it stained. Just six stories tall, the second floor windows on the east side of the structure had yet to be replaced after a serious gunfight that actually made the news a few years back. The windows were absent of glass and covered by plywood. The lobby carpet smelled of mildew and death. Gurneys, black body bags, and harried emergency medical workers weren’t strangers to the dark lobby. Yet Jiang had looked from his storefront at Panda House to just across the street and seen profit in the building. Bought it, I’m told, the same week he had the epiphany. Smart.
I pushed the elevator button for UP. The stairwell wasn’t safe, even for me. When the elevator car arrived, I stepped on and pushed another button for the third floor. On the ride up, I read most of the promotional stickers plastered to the elevator walls. Mostly rappers I hadn’t ever heard of. I considered a trip back to the lobby and out of the building without finalizing my intentions. That didn’t happen, though. I exited at the third floor. Unlike the stairwell, the third floor corridor did not smell of piss and body odor. The strong aroma of cinnamon from inside someone’s unit drifted out into the hall. Baking. A suburban concept in a building a galaxy away from a world of manicured lawns and white picket fences. Another irony?
I didn’t
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