THE MISFORTUNATES

In the dark suburb of Kahl, in a city you had never heard of and would never want to hear of, every house and empty apartment block seemed to have been built beside a howling railway line. The moon was the only light, and death was the only achievement most people in the city were ever likely to reach.

Skeletons danced in closets. Alcohol was the smell of your father's breath when he came home from an institution he called a "crust". Life had very few redeeming features.

Sleep and dreams were about all that remained.

In this place sat a man in the shadows, drinking whisky beneath a bare lamp while his own shadow danced across the walls like a headless chicken to a song of death.

His business was eliminating people.

More specifically, he eliminated people who owed money to people who had loaned money to degenerates. The debtors had no way of paying it back. Their income arrived every payday like crumbs and shattered in their hands before they could even count it.

Every kind of sin was covered.

Gambling. Prostitution. Drugs. Fraud.

And, occasionally, something stranger.

The man I am talking about played cat and mouse with these people throughout the city, preying upon their weaknesses like a horse pulling a cart. They generally had two choices.

End up dead.

Or check themselves into an insane asylum.

The man's name was Kirk Klapper.

And Kirk was good at his trade.

He knew how to hook a feeble mind like a fish on a line. But Kirk was different from the common criminal. He approached murder with the cold logic of mathematics.

Mathematics had been the only subject he had ever excelled at in high school. After leaving school, he spent several years in the military, where he learned other useful things.

Things about probability.

Things about death.

Kirk understood the odds of accidents and misfortunes. He understood how easily a person could be selected by the Reaper, as casually as someone picking daisies from a garden.

Most importantly, Kirk knew how to make people die without ever having to kill them himself.

One afternoon, Kirk bought a car from a dodgy dealer whose dealership sat beneath the railway tracks on the edge of town.

The dealer warned him that the brakes needed checking.

"They're down to their last bit of life," the man told him.

For most people, that would have been a warning.

For Kirk Klapper, it was a revelation.

His mind lit up like one of those carnival attractions where you hit a target with a giant hammer and watch a little bell ring at the top.

So Kirk bought the car.

On the drive home, he tested the brakes.

They were terrible.

Kirk smiled.

He had just been handed another opportunity to wipe another nobody from the radar of a pointless life.

The man he had decided to get rid of was named Bob.

Bob owed gambling debts from a cockfight that took place every Friday night in the basement of a Chinese restaurant. He did not even live in the same city as Kirk and often needed a car whenever he came into town.

Earlier that day, Bob had called and requested a car.

Kirk had the perfect one.

Bob's plane landed at approximately 8:32 a.m.

Kirk had instructed him to take a taxi to the other side of town, where the car would be waiting in an alleyway with the keys hidden inside a storm drain.

Bob arrived.

The car was there.

A red Austin Maxi.

Exactly where Kirk had said it would be.

As Bob approached, rain began to fall.

Lightning was not far behind.

He found the keys in the drain, climbed into the car, started the engine, and drove towards the casino.

He followed directions from an old road map that was falling apart almost as badly as his mind.

Eventually, Bob reached the top of the hill leading down towards the railway tracks.

A train was approaching in the distance.

Bob started down the hill.

When he saw the railway crossing, he hit the brakes.

Nothing happened.

He pressed harder.

Still nothing.

The brake cable had jammed.

For one brief moment, his boring life flashed before his eyes.

Then he looked up.

The train hit the car broadside.

The conductor slammed on the brakes, but there was little he could do.

The passengers were furious.

They complained that they would now be late arriving at their destinations.

The police arrived.

Then the ambulance.

But there was nothing anyone could do for Bob.

He was dead.

Completely wiped off the map.

Kirk Klapper's plan had worked.

Kirk was waiting near the railway tracks as though he had known Bob would meet his fate at that exact moment, in that exact place.

Silence settled over the scene.

Kirk lit a cigar.

He smiled.

Another job finished.

Many others had fallen into Kirk's web through rusty staircases, disease-ridden prostitutes, junkies' dirty needles, electrical accidents, and plain acts of God.

None of the fatalities could ever be directly connected to Kirk Klapper.

All of them had fallen into his web of deceit.

Nothing could be proven against him.

The police knew.

The coroner knew.

Everyone seemed to know.

And Kirk had no shortage of authorities knocking on his door.

Whenever he answered, he would grin and mutter:

"You rang?"

He said it in imitation of the Addams Family before instinctively laughing in their faces.

He laughed at every accusation.

He told them he wasn't psychic.

He told them he had no idea how these people had died.

The police could never prove otherwise.

The car Bob had been driving had no paperwork. The dealer was a weak, nervous little man who had burned his records so the police could not connect him to the stolen cars disappearing throughout the city.

There was no evidence that the brakes had been deliberately tampered with.

And the world Bob belonged to was shady at best.

Bob was just another nobody Kirk had erased from the earth.

In Kirk's mind, he had almost done the man a favour.

After all, Bob's debts had been hanging over him like a noose.

But Kirk's greatest misfortune was yet to come.

It began with a tip-off from a Portuguese lounge singer named Miguel Costa.

Kirk had been spending night after night at the club, listening to Miguel's Latin crooning while watching the dancers.

He waved his money around as though he were in some high-class strip club, trying desperately to attract the attention of women who wanted nothing to do with him.

The more he drank, the harder he tried to fit into the sophisticated atmosphere.

Unfortunately, he reeked of alcohol and desperation.

Still, he stayed.

After hours, when most of the customers had gone, Kirk remained behind, drinking with the staff.

Really, he was clinging to the illusion of the Rio de Janeiro sunshine they represented in his otherwise dark existence.

Kirk had been feeling the constant stress of dealing with the police and really needed a vacation.

A vacation far away from there, somewhere he wouldn't be bothered by accusations.

Brazil interested him, and he was genuinely impressed by what he saw in the Brazilian lounge.

One night, Kirk struck up a conversation with Miguel.

They began talking about a flight that would be leaving in a month's time.

Flight RJ789.

Destination: Rio de Janeiro.

The pilot for the flight was a con man named Richard Lobstaire.

Everyone called him Lobster.

Lobster had spent a considerable amount of time at the club, drinking himself into a coma.

He was a terrible pilot.

He had little concern for safety and had allegedly paid off high-ranking aviation officials to look the other way after several of his aircraft had crashed.

While Kirk obviously didn't want to take this flight himself, he could think of many other people for whom it would be perfect.

It was the perfect marriage of circumstances for Kirk.

Lobster could make people disappear.

Kirk wanted people to disappear.

Kirk had another person to send to his grave.

Kirk also wanted a holiday somewhere warm.

Miguel's uncle was something of a travel agent, so Kirk asked him about two flights.

The first was Lobster's flight.

That was for the man Kirk wanted dead.

The second was a reliable flight for Kirk himself, also bound for Rio.

Kirk planned to fly to Rio, soak up the sunshine, and play volleyball with people considerably more attractive than himself.

The victim Kirk had in mind for this disastrous flight was a man named Alan.

Alan was a boring accountant who still lived with his mother.

His greatest vice was collecting strange artefacts from archaeological digs all over the world.

Some of the objects were questionable.

Some were certainly things that belonged in museums rather than in Alan's living room.

But Alan would pay top dollar for them.

Kirk was happy to lend him the money.

Now Alan was falling behind on his payments.

But he couldn't stop buying.

He had also developed a methamphetamine habit, which he carefully kept hidden from his mother.

Alan also wanted to visit Brazil.

Kirk arranged his ticket on the same flight that Lobster would be piloting.

Given Lobster's reputation, there was a very good chance the aircraft would end up in the ocean and nobody would survive.

Kirk made the arrangement even more certain by paying the bartenders at the airport bar on the night of Alan's flight to ensure that Lobster was blind drunk before boarding the aircraft.

Kirk had also paid off airport officials so that Lobster could pilot the flight, no matter what state he was in.

It was a perfect plan.

A plan that fate could surely never interfere with.

All Kirk needed was for Alan to be sitting on Lobster's plane when it disappeared into the sea.

Two flights.

Two different men.

The same airline.

The same day.

Around the same time.

Leaving for the same destination.

One being Kirk.

One being Alan.

On the morning of Kirk's flight, he woke early and had a few martinis before leaving for the airport.

Alan, meanwhile, had packed his swimming togs, snorkel, and boring, plain pyjamas.

At the airport, the two men sat opposite one another beside their respective gates.

Alan's flight was scheduled to depart around ten minutes before Kirk's.

This was unusual, and there was every chance something could go wrong.

Lobster was busy in the airport bar, drinking before piloting the flight.

The bar staff and airport officials had to accept Kirk's bribe, or they knew something unfortunate could happen to them, just as it had to many others who had double-crossed Kirk.

Kirk, meanwhile, read a newspaper, occasionally lowering it to watch Alan.

Alan was reading a gardening magazine.

Beside Alan sat a wild, exotic plant.

The first boarding call came.

Alan's flight was ready.

He eagerly made his way to the gate and handed his ticket to the flight attendant.

She stared at it.

For a moment, the pause seemed like an eternity.

Perhaps she thought it was a forgery.

Eventually, she tore off the end and waved him through.

Alan glanced back at Kirk nervously.

He thought Kirk was a rough diamond, although his mother had always told him that if he didn't have anything nice to say, he shouldn't say anything at all.

Kirk smiled back.

It was the smile of a snake waiting to strike.

Ten minutes passed.

Kirk sipped his martini.

He could almost feel the warm Brazilian sunshine glistening through the dark prison walls of his existence, like morning light breaking into a forgotten cave.

Then came the announcement.

Kirk's flight was ready for boarding.

He joined the queue.

When his turn came, the airline attendant tore the end off his ticket.

"You'll be sitting near the emergency exit," she said.

Kirk laughed quietly.

He thought to himself:

That's funny.

It'll be Alan who needs the emergency exit when his plane plunges into the dark ocean tonight.

Kirk boarded the aircraft.

Something about it felt wrong.

The interior had a strange atmosphere.

There were old ladies wearing hairnets.

Old men in pyjamas.

Everyone looked strangely out of place.

Kirk found his seat and sat beside an old man wearing a hospital gown.

The man's head was completely shaved.

He looked like a prisoner who had been forgotten by the world.

The man turned towards Kirk.

"My name is David Oscar Adams," he said.

"My friends call me DOA."

Then he smiled.

"Nice to meet you, Kirk."

Kirk froze.

He had never told the man his name.

That was peculiar.

He said nothing.

It seemed as though fate had finally caught up with Kirk.

Kirk finally asked, "How did you know my name?"

"I've been waiting for you. We've all been waiting for you," David replied.

Kirk looked across the cabin at all the strange people. Something didn't seem right.

David continued.

"You know, I've had so many cancer treatments that I can't stand another one."

He looked towards the window.

"I've felt like a prisoner inside this old body of mine."

He paused.

"Tonight, maybe the pain will finally come to an end."

Kirk nodded.

"Well, good luck with that."

Kirk had no idea what the man was talking about.

He picked up the airline magazine and began turning through the pages.

Tropical beaches.

Hotels.

Sunshine.

Nice things.

Things that were waiting for him in Rio.

Eventually, everyone was seated.

The doors closed.

The locking mechanism clamped shut with a metallic bang that rang through Kirk's skull.

He put down the magazine and looked through the tiny aircraft window.

The airport stretched beneath him.

He looked at it for what he believed would be the last time.

The pilot came over the intercom.

"Welcome aboard your flight to Rio. My name is Lobster, and I'll be your pilot tonight."

Kirk suddenly woke from his dream.

A migraine started pounding behind his eyes.

His heart began to race faster than ten cups of coffee.

Something was wrong.

Then he realised.

This wasn't Alan's flight.

It was his.

Kirk Klapper was on the plane that Alan was supposed to be on.

He was the one sentenced to die.

Kirk ripped off his seat belt.

He stood up and ran towards the aircraft door.

A male flight attendant shoved him back.

Kirk fell to the floor.

The engines roared to life.

"Let me out!" Kirk screamed.

"I don't deserve to die!"

The flight attendant pushed him back again.

"There's no going back now. We all know we're goners on this flight, so shut up and go back to your seat."

Three large men from a Brazilian football team were sitting towards the rear of the aircraft.

They stood up.

They were big, bulky men who had no intention of allowing Kirk to disrupt the flight.

One of them grabbed Kirk and carried him back towards his seat.

Kirk struggled.

He kicked.

He twisted.

He tried to break free.

Another man produced a chain and padlock.

They chained Kirk to his seat.

Then they gagged him.

"There you go," one of the men said.

"Just enjoy the flight."

The three men returned to their seats.

They began chanting football songs.

Kirk tried to scream.

The only person who heard him was himself.

The plane flew through the night.

It was bumpy for several hours.

But it wasn't turbulence.

Lobster was simply drunk out of his mind.

The aircraft lurched through the sky as though it were being piloted by a man who had forgotten where the ground was.

Hours passed.

Then everyone on board heard a tremendous thud.

The aircraft suddenly pitched downwards.

Vertically.

Straight towards the ocean.

No one could see Lobster in the cockpit.

He was asleep.

There was no co-pilot.

No one was there to take control.

It was as though Lobster himself had given up on everything.

As though the entire flight had become a suicide mission.

Everyone understood what was happening.

Including Kirk.

Kirk, who had planned for Alan to die in his place.

Alan, by this time, was probably drinking margaritas on his flight safely to Rio.

Kirk tried to scream.

Nobody answered.

The aircraft struck the ocean.

The impact tore the plane apart.

Water rushed into the cabin.

The passengers disappeared beneath the black surface.

One by one, they drowned.

Kirk's final thought was simple.

He had to get free.

He had to swim.

He had to reach land.

But the chain was still wrapped around him.

There was no escape.

No remorse.

No regret.

Only darkness.

Then the light went out.

And this time, it stayed out forever.

Fate had finally caught up with Kirk Klapper.

There had been a mix-up with Kirk's and Alan's tickets.

And this time, Kirk was the one who was gone, never to be seen again.