Kill: The Game (Short Story #3 in series)

During the pandemic, business was slow for….we’ll call him Jason, though he uses a variety of aliases. To fight boredom, he created a game called “Kill.” As businesses began to open back up, he continued playing the game for entertainment.  
 
The player draws cards from three stacks.  
Stack one – location
Stack two – munitions  
Stack three – clothing  
 
Locations were random gps coordinates. Loads were the varieties he commonly used. Clothing cards were listings of random pieces of clothing that had to be worn and sometimes a general description of style. One card said formal business attire; another said disheveled street clothes. Some were a little crazy like a clown’s suit or Halloween costume.  
 
He drew cards from each stack, checking Google Earth and imagining the assigned task. He thought this would keep him sharp and thinking about my work when there wasn’t any.  
 
One morning he drew the following.
 
gps: 34°02'26.8"N 118°39'41.5"W
munitions: M1 vintage
clothing: western wear and black hat  
 
He checked the gps location. Carbon Beach in Southern California was a place He’d never visited. He felt the urge to travel. He wouldn’t carry out the task assigned by the hand he’d been dealt, but just enjoy some rest and relaxation. He’d worked hard the last year and had money to spend.
 
He stuck a black cowboy hat in the car before leaving and placed his M1 vintage in a compartment in the base of the car trunk.  
 
The M1 Carbine was a fascinating gun, used from the 1940s and even during Vietnam through 1973. It used a .30 caliber load and could fire a round about every second. He’d owned the rifle for several years after picking it up at a gun show.  
 
Jason had a room overlooking the Carbon Beach below. Any human form stood out against the dark sand. His first morning there, the beach was empty. From his left peripheral vision, he noticed movement.  
 
A lady was jogging across the firm sand close to the waterline. She wore nothing but jogging shoes which surprised him, but this was Southern California. While watching her graceful form, he thought of the deer that witnessed his last kill. That deer had been tall and stoic surrounded by an aura of calm. The human he watched from a distance projected the same.  
 
He noted her stride and the bounce of her cropped red hair. She must have been close to six feet tall. Her shoulders looked narrow from this distance. Her legs were long and sprang from strong, substantial hips. He couldn’t see details of her face, but imagined her with a calm expression as she glided across the sand with ease.  
 
The lady veered away from the water to enter a café, grabbing shorts and a white top from a nearby railing. He decided it was time for breakfast.  
 
As he entered, he spotted her at the bar in front of a plate of eggs and bacon. She was downing a tall glass of water and eating like someone who hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. He sat a few stools away.  
 
The middle-aged lady behind the bar said, “You could save money by not burning all those calories out there on the beach.”
 
“That wouldn’t be any fun,” replied the runner. Her voice had sweet resonance that filled the café. “What kind of runner would I be if I gained forty pounds?”  
 
“Still a damn good one,” the waitress replied.  
 
“Do you compete?” Jason asked.
 
She turned toward him and smiled, “Yes, I have since high school.” They’re still trying to break a couple of my records at North Ridge.” Her face blushed pink and her cheeks shined with the sheen of evaporating sweat.  
 
 “Do you live in the area? It’s a little early for tourists,” she said.  
 
“I’m a tourist who likes to avoid crowds,” said Jason.  
 
“Well, this is the best breakfast around. I should know because I come here every morning after my run.”  
 
“Just like clockwork,” the waitress chimed in.  
 
“Good to know.” Then he said, “I’m Jason, visiting from Les Vegas (which wasn’t true).  
 
“I’m Tiffany, and this is my beach. Nice cowboy hat by the way.” She smiled.  
 
“Does this place serve dinner?” he asked.  
 
“Yes, and it’s good.”  
 
“Well then, could I take you to dinner?”  
 
Tiffany paused and said, “I’m sorry, but no.”  
 
There was finality in her voice. He began to stutter, “Oh, I’m sorry… I wouldn’t…”  
 
“Don’t apologize. I’m just not interested,” said Tiffany.  
 
 “Oh well, it’s your loss” said Jason as he stood to pay his bill. There was an awkward silence. Tiffany’s eyes looked away as he left.  
 
The next morning Jason woke up thinking about Tiffany. He decided it would be fun to scope her in just for practice as she ran across the sand.  
 
She appeared right on schedule, still sporting the same outfit consisting of running shoes. He watched her legs churning with the slight effort in her face. Such dedication, he thought. As his scope followed her to the café doorway, he felt a nagging urge to hunt, but he put those thoughts aside and began a day of sight seeing. Still, the image of that deer from a few weeks before kept coming to mind.  
 
The next morning he woke with a strong desire to hunt… to take a trophy. He realized the deer that got away was haunting his sleep. While sipping coffee, he thought of Tiffany. She was like a trophy deer who’d avoided his grasp.  
 
Before Tiffany appeared, he checked the chamber of his M1. It was loaded just as every gun he carried was. He started to take out the shells but then thought that was silly because he’d just have to reload later.  
 
From the end of the beach he saw Tiffany’s red hair waving behind her beautiful form. He watched her through the scope, carefully tracking her across the sand next to the water. Her eyes and chin were raised high and there was a dignity about her. Her small breasts glistened wet in the early morning sun. She so reminded him of that deer.  
 
He thought of what her life might become as she looked out toward her future. He felt the familiar rush of power flowing through his body, knowing he held an instrument capable of ending all that was before him.
 
A sniper’s success depends on humans being predictable. As expected, the first shot he fired into the sand close to Tiffany caused her to run faster. He expected her to run straight, and she did, but still only as fast as humans can run. If she had run erratically, she would have had a chance of escape, but she ran as predicted.  
 
Jason led slightly with the crosshairs through his scope so that Tiffany and his projectile would meet as expected. He pitied her for a moment because of her expectation of survival. He knew this from the angle of her chin and her pace. She was used to winning and, though she felt panic, she expected to survive.  
 
He expected the .30 caliber bullet to enter her right side behind her breast. He expected a good spread and immediate neutralization of the target. The bright flash of his second shot pulled him back into reality and he clearly saw Tiffany fall pitifully into the sand.  
 
This human had not died gracefully. She’d stumbled as a child, landing on the side of her face with arms by her side.  Her red hair that had been dancing in the breeze sagged motionless and sweaty-wet. Her legs fell together side by side.  One still quivered in the sand as if attempting one more stride. He moved his scope to her back and saw that all was still. Tiffany was beautiful and as the quiver in her leg ceased, she appeared to be resting peacefully on the sand. Her arm blocked the entry wound, but it appeared he made contact where desired.  
 
His scope lingered where her lower back curved to meet muscular hindquarters. She’d been so powerful only moments before, churning across the sand. Such beauty of human form! He thought of her past lovers and the pleasures she must have experienced. He was sure she’d been the focus of many men’s lust, and now his.  As his gaze continued, he smiled. She truly was a trophy, desired by many men, but harvested by only one.
 
It was time to go, but he knew he’d play the game again. He had no choice.