YNs— Tyvek

2008

At the end of the day, Symeer Mare had sipped some cognac, straight. The brown liquor warmed his throat and abdomen. He was not drunk, however. His mind trained on his task. He looked over to the woman who held a glass in her hand. She went with the white. Gin on the rocks.

“Shall we continue after our liquid break?” Ramona Corer asked. She was about five-foot-three inches and looked svelte at nineteen-years-old.

He stood to his feet and stretched out a hand. Ramona sat down her glass. She rose up and looked at her boyfriend in his brown eyes that matched her brown skin.

“The work won’t resume itself….” Mare sighed, almost cryptically.

They both walked from one part of the room to the next totally different area where a gaping hole existed. Tyvek wrapped the walls. The hole in the attic provided ample space for the money. The whitish material provided a sense of solace in the minds of both Mare and Ramona. It would provide protection from heat, cold, and moisture. They possessed six million dollars in funds. The streets had been kind to Mare. In eight months he had accumulated this amount. Ramona rode with him the entire way. They didn’t even have to vacuum seal the money in plastic. All they had to do consisted of taking the cash and placing it neatly into the walls for a day that could be savored.

“I swear this is my last one. I’m taking the earnings and funneling them into the stock market. I know I can make a hundred million dollars out of what we have here,” Mare declared this like a general rousing the troops ready to go into battle. Ramona just got out of the Navy due to injury. She had provided the consignment dollars based on her enlistment bonus. She had prepared to reup when she experienced a herniated disc in her spine and started receiving a 90% rating from the United States government. Nearly every dime she made she put into Mare’s street business. She smiled at him.

“We’re going to figure this out somehow,” she reflected.

“No, darling. We’re going to do this now. Hand me those bills, please.”

A chunky stack of twenty dollar bills which had been fives and tens, which they eschewed from exchanging into fifties and hundreds, lay beside her. She picked up the hunk and transferred it to Mare. He heard a noise. He shot a glance at his girlfriend. She gave the international symbol for not having a clue what it was.

“Maybe it’s those orange men,” Ramona winked.

“Psst. Ain’t no orange men. All that’s fairy tales.”

“No, they really go after drug dealers. They want to make you all into meals. Who the hell knows where they came from. I heard it was some mad scientist who wanted to rid the world of controlled substances. It could be aliens, though.”

“Whatever it was, it’s not stopping me from stuffing these walls. Please pass the rest of the money.” Then, a great thud sounded downstairs.

Ramona, with the Mossberg sawed off, ventured down the steps. Her training with this weapon proved to be beneficial in the military. She narrowed her eyes, and held correctly the firearm that had been their first and last form of defense. Ramona stepped not with trepidation but with an assurance and a might that belied her small frame. When she tread, it was like she remained focused on her combat glide as a chef whispers to someone to walk lightly as she prepares a souffle. Ramona looked at the lights but never turned any of them on during her trek.

Mare continued to place the bundles of cash in the walls with a bit of consternation. His brow wrinkled. Sweat beads congregated at his forehead. He opened up the plastic that wrapped the twenties. He broke it in two like bread at a Communion service. His hands moved over the bare spots and the areas where he had already stashed the bills. The time seemed odd. Ramona had not returned to him and he didn’t pay too much attention to the fact she had been gone for a long time. He had stepped on a ladder and had reached its apex. He started climbing down but before he did, he stuffed some more cash in the hole.

He didn’t call her. He just grabbed his Desert Eagle and proceeded to look for his girlfriend. Each step produced a sound which prompted him to roll his eyes. In his mind, she had maybe left to get some food. His stomach rumbled like a growl from a lion. He looked at his watch. She had been away from him for forty-five minutes. The taste of lime tickled his tongue. He turned on every light in the house. He still didn’t call her.

He did, however, do something of serious import to the millions of dollars upstairs. He poked his head outside and saw his car remained parked. So if she didn’t leave, where could she be? His steps seemed measured and precise. He had weapons training, but he received it from his old folks. Grown men who knew how to use a pistol in combat zones showed him the way. He wondered how he didn’t see Ramona and never heard the shotgun discharge. Then, he heard footsteps. They sounded heavy and labored. Not Ramona. Someone else was in this house. He peaked around corners and looked through the dining room, the living room, and the kitchen. The leaden steps returned and seemed closer this time. He turned to see Ramona on the floor, her eyes glazed over but still popping out of her sockets. The shotgun lay neatly disassembled on the kitchen table. The same place where he used to bag up the work had now bore witness to the death of his love. He cradled her and slapped her face, she had already started to grow cold. Slightly. He slid her lifeless body away from the counter and placed a towel over her face.

“Alright! Wherever you are, whoever you are, goddamn it, show yourself!”

With that pronouncement, he started piecing the shotgun together. With a few shells, he knew that he could arm himself in less than a minute. With the Desert Eagle in his back, hugging his waist, he figured that the shotgun would blow away whatever had disarmed Ramona. He looked around and felt like an assassin ready to take out a prominent political figure. The coolness required for such an act, anyway, pervaded his conscience and permitted him to step further.

His weapons handling and control had been so ice cold efficient that he didn’t worry about getting into a shootout with someone who didn’t even allow one shell to be expended. Lights dazzled around the space as he continued to go around every place in the wide kitchen area. He returned to Ramona. She showed no signs of struggle. Whoever did her in was a professional. He peered down at her and anger boiled on the top of his head. He pumped the shotgun. With every fiber he had within him, he used his strength to look behind him. The kitchen had been wide enough to accommodate a ceiling reaching ten feet. An eight-foot-tall figure stood in front of the archway adjoining the dining room and the kitchen. Its long, orange arms stretched towards the firearm. Mare possessed enough strength to grip tight and aim at the behemoth. He blasted.

“You’re right, goddamnit! You’re real. You killed my girl! Now, I'm gonna kill you!”

The orange giant thrashed its arms and took the shot again. But the orange mass absorbed the discharges. The shot just melted into the skin like truffle butter on a hot skillet. Mare’s mind focused on his target which had slowed some but still stepped towards him, arms flailing in a manner of a beast yet in control of its actions. The money had been shuffled to the bottom of the deck in his head. Rather, he fired and reloaded with expediency and timing. He faced the monster and exploded more shells. It finally paused and collapsed.

“That’s right. You stay down there. What the hell are you, anyway?”

The thing squirmed but still showed signs of life. It picked up its head and roared at Mare. This shriek reverberated around the house but remained muted to the outside because the house sat on a hill a quarter mile from the rest of the houses in Roseberry Hills. The deafening scream didn't deter Mare. He stood in his place and continued to pump the shotgun, sending fragments into his opponent’s skin. A trickle of sweat found its way down Mare’s back. His head already had been soaked in perspiration. He, nevertheless, made his way evident in the fact he could continue backing away until he reached the wall.

He recalled movies and video games and how if you shot the adversary in the head, they’d die. Such was not the case in this scenario. He tried everything. He switched the shotgun for the Desert Eagle. He fired into the head and heart of the beast. It slowed. It fell to one knee which gave him time.

His thoughts raced to get out of the house and into his vehicle. A white on white Mercedes-Benz S-Class 4MATIC carried him as the orange monster lay down on the floor, alive but disoriented.

Mare floored it. He went right into town in Wilmington, Delaware to his connect, Mario Rodriguez. He had brown skin and stood at five feet six inches. He had a fade. A few years older than Mare, he showed off a collection of watches in his room. He received a call while still asleep.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Something wild just happened. Ramona is dead.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m heading over to your house now.”

“Alright, alright. Where’s the body?”

“It’s still at the house. That’s why I’m calling you. I wouldn’t be calling you unless it was an emergency.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll be down soon.”

The two men met in Rodriguez’s foyer.

“What the hell happened? You look like you’ve just been through combat.”

“Damn near. They’re real.”

“Who’s real?”

“These giant orange things. I don’t know. One got Ramona, the son of a bitch.”

Rodriguez scratched the back of his head. Instead of disbelieving Mare, he actually championed his words.

“Yeah, I had a few guys taken out by what the people who found them had huge gashes or were swallowed whole by these orange bastards. What’d you have on you?”

“Double shotty and a Desert.”

“Alright, come in. I think they only come around when someone is actually involved in the crime. They’re selective like that, you know?” His tone seemed even and almost graven.

“I’m telling you, she was gone. I didn’t see any marks or anything but it dispatched her. Maybe her injury slowed her gait.”

“We’ll make the arrangements.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s with the hand?”

Some residue from the shot had remained on Mare’s left hand. But that’s not what Rodriguez referred to in this particular moment.

“It’s just some stuff from the gun,” his hand shook violently and he didn’t even notice it.

“I’m going to get us some cognac,” Rodriguez announced. “Come in, go to the drawing room.”

Mare abided and tried to stop his hand from quivering. He felt in his gut that he shouldn’t be consuming anymore alcohol. “Make mine a double,” he suggested to his connect, disregarding all signs pointing to him not having a drink.

Rodriguez handed Mare a glass which he took with his right hand, steadily and with enough composure to see that he could have few sips at this late hour.

“Yes, they came for some of my dad’s couriers. They just were selling dimes and nicks. No weight. But they were solid guys. It’s a shame what happened to them. It’s a shame what happened to Romona.”

“We still have her body to deal with right now,” Mare reminded, his voice cold and hard and sharp like an ice pick driving into a block of frozen water.

“Yes. We’ll do it, but it’s going to cost you. You had six million? I’ll take two for my troubles.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got a rather efficient clean up guy who knows what to do with stiffs…no offense.”

Mare shook his head. “I’m not worried about that. I just want to dispose of her and just keep her family guessing.”

“Yes, my cleaner has a whole list of problems he solves on the regular. That’s included in the two mil’,” Rodriguez reminded.

“Alright. I get it. We must keep this together.”

Rodriguez threw up his hands. “Like I said, the myths swirl until one is in your face. Then it’s often too late like Ramona. But you got away.”

“We’ll take a trip over to the house and––let’s see what’s on the TV,” Rodriquez put forth.

“Tonight, word of a fire at the residence in the gated community of Roseberry Hills has left many unanswered que–” he switched off the set.

The two men looked at each other. They found it amazing that Ramona’s corpse would be consumed and the Tyvek might protect the money, at least what was stuffed in the attic.

“Well,” Rodriguez pointed out. “Lesson in everything, no?”