Isaiah's bad day

ISAIAH'S BAD DAY
Isaiah Jeepman sat slumped in an old, fraying wicker chair. His eyes
intently following a trail of smoke that rose lazily from a dying
cigarette. The smoke filtered and faded as it reached the ceiling,
Isaiah envied its easy escape.
The walls that surrounded him sweated in the humid air, grubby pale
blue paint peeled away exposing a pungent mould. Isaiah felt dirty,
days without washing left his skin feeling like the walls.
On the table in front of him sat the few items he had requested. A
bottle of rum, his crumpled map, a packet of cigarettes and a plate of
fresh boiled vegetables, the air carried the sweet sound of his
favourite samba music. His senses greeted each one like a long lost
friend.
He began with the rum. Leaning forward he eased the cap from the
bottle and poured a generous measure into a grubby glass, he had a
whole day to fill and a whole bottle to fill it with.
The liquor danced on his tongue, a sequence of hot pirouettes that
singed his taste buds, he held it there for a few moments before
allowing it to pass to the groaning pit of his empty stomach.
The cigarettes he thought, lighting another before the last had gone
out, were not going to last, he had no time for worrying so he
continued.

He puffed and drank and felt exhausted, a wreck. A long flick of dirty
blond hair hung from his fringe cutting his left eye in half, the rest
was swept back, knotted and striking out at unlikely angles. His chin
pierced by shorter, sharper needles of darker hair felt alien. Sweat
stained clothes clung to him like a lost child.
He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. He imagined an ocean of
cool water passing over his body, vast streams cleansing both inside
and out, purifying him. He hadn't seen fresh water for a good while,
the only liquid he had now rested in the rum bottle.
Isaiah sighed, raised his sweaty palms and covered his face. He
thought about the last week and the advice he had ignored. Only fools
or villains with nowhere else to hide travelled here, they had told
him. Fools were thin on the ground but he'd had no problem finding
villains, desperate men with desperate secrets who'd do desperate
things to keep them. They weren't keen for him to leave, people always
talk. He cursed himself for not listening.
He picked up the cigarette and took a deep, choking drag, punishment
for his foolishness.
The map folded and worn, was full of memories, he picked it up. His
hands trembled as he spread it out over the table. There, hidden in the
creases and tears, lay the stories of the last two years. He pulled a
pair of fine wire rimmed glasses from his breast pocket, the stories
stared back with an unnerving clarity.
He saw his jeep bumping along heavy jungle tracks, tireless and
obliging, delivering medicine and essential supplies, he was a careful
driver, respectful toward his vehicle. He knew the terrain, the way the
forest could swallow tracks in a short time and the way the sodden
tracks could swallow his truck. Isaiah Jeepman was comfortable here.
The villages he visited were always grateful, parades of chattering,
shouting, smiling children, dressed only in shorts, arms and legs
smeared with dried mud would escort him the final few hundred yards.
They would lead him to the main building, feed him and offer any drink
they had, tell stories of events since his last visit. After all that
he would hand them the medicine that kept their children healthy. He
could do no wrong. If only they knew where he was now.
Following the contours of the map further he rose with the mountains,
challenging twists and turns that appeared to lead straight into the
clouds and dizzying descents swathed in choking dust. This was a
different world, harder and drier, awkward and unnatural to him, he
welcomed the return to sea level.
With that came the smooth journeys along the coastal plains, miles of
wild sand, unhindered and free. The glorious ocean, commanding and
powerful, how he envied the effortless way in which it earned respect.
His memories reached the edge of the map, he'd run aground,
abandoned.
Their partnership was over and he was sorry, they'd had many
adventures, but now, their final trip upon them, he knew he'd have to
finish alone.
He closed the map, placed it in a tin rubbish bin, flicked his lighter
and watched with a heavy heart as his memories filtered upwards,
mingled with the cigarette smoke and drifted out of his life.
The soft easy samba music gave way to the tougher rhythms of a faster
salsa beat, reminding him the day was moving on. His pulse jumped a
gear, nervous of the time. He sat upright, alert again.
He took another mouthful to calm himself, the bottle, three-quarters
gone, was failing him, no dulling of the senses, no removal from the
situation. He picked at the vegetables, cold now, their appeal
disappeared, he wondered why he was bothered about vitamins at this
time. He pushed them aside, frustrated, growing angry, the plate
toppled off the side of the table, he kicked the food across the floor,
the rats could make a meal of it.
The cigarette was shrinking rapidly, he killed it off in a series of
short, sharp attacks, his thin lips feeling the heat as he inhaled the
last drag. He stabbed the butt into the ashtray, fallen ash blew up in
a small cloud and drifted partly into his drink, he displayed little
concern and took it down with the remainder of the glass.
The salsa record finished its first set. Isaiah heard someone outside
the room mutter quietly as they turned it over, he had only been
allowed the speakers in his room. The final set began.
Isaiah felt nauseous, the rum and cigarette smoke offended his empty
stomach. Despite the heat he was awash in a cold, clammy sweat.
Grabbing him deep inside the feeling rose up through his body, leaving
him rigid, expectant, ready for its charge. Outside he heard raised
voices, excited and eager, he grabbed at the rum bottle, no time for
glasses. The liquor collided with his rising fear and nausea, panic
swam like a hooked fish in his mind, circling and diving, its destiny
already determined. He longed for a warm comforting embrace.
The music hit a bold brassy break, the type of break that could get
Isaiah out of his seat dancing, he barely heard it. The door to his
room slowly creaked and moaned its way open. He was captured by the
sound.

A thick, solid breath caught in his throat, leaving him gagging for
air. He pulled himself up from the chair, petrified legs failing him,
his arms added their support, grabbing the frame of the chair for
stability.
A tall, muscular man entered the room, well groomed and well dressed,
out of place in the dank, decaying room. Their eyes met, Isaiah looked
but saw nothing of hope in his stare. A tumbling, burning gut full of
fear rose once more, tearing at each muscle it passed, his throat
stretched wide offering little resistance. Isaiah released his fear
across the table.
Choking and spitting he righted himself. The man, unmoved by the
display, stepped coolly toward him. Sweaty strands of straggly hair
hung down Isaiahs face, dividing his eyes like bars. He stood silent,
his mouth half open allowed a final trickle of vomit to trail down his
rough chin.
Isaiah fell weakly toward the man, closer to the cold, unemotional
stare. He tried to speak, his vocal chords, paralysed by fear, refused.
They left the room, Isaiah trailed behind, his head dropping lower. As
they walked he saw, tucked casually into the jacket pocket, the cold,
hard handle of the executioners gun.