Carter's Beloved

Into the Night

Madison P.O.V

I kept my phone down after I heard him hang up. The scene of a few nights ago keeps replaying in my mind, and soon it’s imprinted. Staring hard at the window in front of my desk, I shake my head. There is no one outside; I’m going crazy, seeing stuff in a snow storm.

The snowflakes whirl around in the strong wind, collecting on the ground so soon; there is a good inch of fresh fallen snow. Shivering slightly, I grab my coat from the back of my chair and put all documents on my desk in the drawers. I’ll see to them tomorrow, I tell myself.

The company is filled with employees, trying to go home on time before the storm worsens. They greet me and quickly look down when I pass in front of them. Looking in the mirror at the reception, I see a brunette with wavy hair, wearing dark shades.

I glance up at the large logo of Winsor staring down at the people underneath it, with bold lettering and large font. It’s been so long since I sat at my desk, designing it. My phone buzzes with another weather alert warning people to return to safety, and I scramble outside into the parking lot, looking for my car trapped underneath the layers of frost.

My lips turn cold and mist occurs from my mouth when I breathe. Sitting inside and turning the heater on, I quickly drive out of the parking space before I get caught in the storm. I drive on the fastest route home, after seeing the winds strengthening, knocking a trash bin out of the way.

Soon near the Greens Blvd, my car emits a loud rumbling. Frightened I pause in my seat, wondering where the sound came from. The car moves a few meters more, and again the sound erupts from the engine. I drive next to the pavement and stop my car, getting out into the cold.

Standing in the cold is less dangerous than sitting in a car, threatening to blow up at any moment. Cars drive by, clearly in a hurry and I look around helplessly, searching for a way to return home safely. Is the subway station near? I take my phone out, finding directions for the nearest bus stop and cross the road before walking straight in the opposite direction of the passing cars.

The piercing sound of glass shattering echoes around me and I duck out of fright, dropping my phone on the wet pavement in surprise. The grocery store which I was walking in front of moments ago, it’s glass entrance has shattered completely leaving spinning shards of glass behind which fly out everywhere.

I crouch down, hiding my head in my hands as I hear two more sudden gunshots and the people around me scream. I stay in the same position with a beating heart, feeling the knees of my pants get wet which are kneeling into the snow. My hands feel strangely wet, though I’m not sure it that’s due to the now or the glass shards that hit them, leaving them bloody.

Someone screams for the police while others run around me, no one noticing the woman kneeling in the dirt with her head in her hands, trying to protect herself. I hear the siren of the police car and slowly, look up. The street is the same as I saw it moments ago crossing the street. The grocery store’s windows and door has been exploded to bits and pieces and glancing behind, I see the cashier and other people in the store cowering behind tables or shelves stocked with food, looking around in terror.

I stand up, wanting to get out of harm’s way but one look at the street, the perpetrator is already gone, leaving the passerbys to run away. The police car stops in front of me, three officers running out. The female one instantly runs towards me to check up, while the male ones ask other witnesses, about what happened.

“Are you okay?” She asks in a high voice. Her brown hair is tied, and her hands clasps around my arms making me stand straighter. I nod, though still in shock.

The male officer walks toward me, around the same age as me with an attractive face which makes me wonder why he picked the police force over anything else.

“Did you see anything?” He asks, gripping a pen and paper. I shake my head, clueless. The woman nods sympathetically and brings me a towel, wrapping me in it. The ambulance arrives in a hurry, carrying out a stretcher. I look around confused, I didn’t see anyone getting injured, but soon enough a middle aged man is being carried out of the broken grocery store with a blood red wound in his chest.

A nasty feeling overcomes me, and I look down, not wanting to see more than necessary, but hearing everything. The noise of the people in the ambulance talking hurriedly to each other, telling to treat the wound, while the injured man screeches in pain.

I peer worriedly at him, but soon enough the doors to the ambulance are shut and it is driven off towards the nearest hospital. Soon others come, and the people jump out treating the people injured. A male takes me to the ambulance before treating my cuts on my arms. More survivors from the incident huddle outside, and I watch a toddler hanging off his mom’s shoulder crying rowdily.

The officers come back to question the crowd, and I take my chance to ask the female officer about what happened.

“A man dressed in black fired a gun three feet at the grocery store, later firing another car standing on the road. That’s what the witnesses said. You sure you didn’t see anything?” She asks, and I notice her strong Irish accent which I missed before. I shake my head, wondering if it was my car he brutally shot.

I break away from the crowd after some time, seeing more reporters coming my way and discreetly walk towards my car. The snow has stopped falling and there are stains of deep red, where the blood of the man spilled. Feeling sick and nauseous, I spot my car and immediately know something is wrong.

Another horde of people stand there, a few media vans parked directly around my car and peering across the road, I see the reason why. I look shocked at the two holes in the wind screen of my car, unmistakably made by bullets.

Running across the road after checking the passing cars, I walk nearer and hear the rapid commentary of the reporters as they notify the public of the crime, which occurred. Walking nearer, the reporters spot me and pester me with questions but I ignore them.

I stare at my car, scared why someone would want to shoot an ordinary car, parked. As I edge closer, my hands glazing the side mirrors, I see a small note stuck near one of the tires. Bending down to pick it, I read the text horrified written in black loopy handwriting:

“When the sun sets, at quarter past 7, you will die.” A familiar feeling of reading this message somewhere else overcomes me, and it is then, I realize the email I received last week. Gaping, I pluck the note from my car, my fingers trembling due to the cold, but more because of the message.

Is it the same person? I think over and over again, the note clasped in my hand. I don’t hear someone coming behind me, hence, jump in fright when I see a man leaning over me; the police officer from before, with milky white skin and black hair. He looks quizzically at the note and soon realizes what’s written on it. He takes it gently from my hand, inspecting it as I lean over the hood of my car.

Is it the same person who attacked the store and shot the man? Why did he shoot my car? Was he aiming for me? I notice the officer clearing the area from reporters, shoving cameras in my face, threatening to arrest them, and soon I’m standing all alone next to the officer.

“Ma’am, have you received any threats like these before?” He asks, notebook open, ready to take notes. I nod.

“It was an email, didn’t think much of it.” I said croakily, my throat dry. I rub my neck, oblivious to the cold. He nods, before writing it down.

“I’ll have to take you down at the station for questioning; this could be an intentional attack.” He adds, and I nod. The last thing I want to be doing is going down at the police station and answering  questions about if someone has followed me or not. The man sighs before adding,

“Look, I can tell you don’t want to go, but its procedure.” He says. I nod, not wanting to seem rude and follow him to his car, where the previous two officers sit. We drive in silence, after reaching the station and answering all questions, I tell them that I have no idea who the person is.

The man nods before signaling me that I am free to leave. The police station is lit, and people trudge in, bailing their loved ones out or reporting crimes. I stand up before I hear someone coughing behind me, I turn to see the officer looking up at me.

“If you do see anyone, do not hesitate to call us.” He says.

“Yeah… I will.” I answer, peering at the name tag near his collar.

“It’s August.” He says. I nod and head out, wondering how the hell will I reach home. Walking outside, I think about today's events and how I could have never imagined what could have happened a few hours ago, when I was leaving work.

Shaking my head, I turn left across the street, hoping to find a subway station close by.