Jacob was a victim of hard luck. Despite slogging his
way through high school, he had failed to find a job that
suited him in his home town of Mackville. Dismayed, he
had moved to the big city to seek an apprenticeship in
the field of jet-engine repair. Having never seen a jet
engine before, and because he lacked a Social Insurance
Number, his job hunt fell flat.
Eventually Jacob came to live in an abandoned warehouse.
His primary sources of income were the blood bank down
the street and the people passing him as his stumbled
home. What little money he had saved was spent on a small
hand radio and batteries. After enough searching, he’d
gathered quite a number of old blankets. These, combined
with hard liquor, kept him warm at night. All things considered,
he didn’t feel it could get any worse.
Jacob spent most of his nights wrapped in blankets listening
to his radio, He had an inexplicable need to know what
was going on in the world, and he enjoyed listening to
the various radio shows. He wouldn’t have traded
his precious radio for anything - he swore he would die
before he gave it up.
One afternoon Jacob turned on his radio, and he was immediately
greeted by the sounds of ghosts and ghouls moaning, “Happy
Halloween!” Damn. Halloween had once been Jacob’s
favorite time of the year, but that was when he’d
had hopes, dreams, and a future. Now, having separated
from society, he had become its target. There were no
tiny children trick-or-treating in his neighborhood, but
there were more than enough pick-up trucks filled with
drunken idiot teenagers. Year after year they tormented
him, though it was never the same group twice. Last year
he had been cornered by a large group of bloodthirsty
teens, and he had only escaped by grabbing a piece of
pipe and swinging like madman. This year he would be ready
for them.
The afternoon wore on; the sky began to darken. Jacob
sat nursing a whiskey bottle, listening to a tale about
a great black creature who preyed on humans. This creature
could not be killed unless you severed its head, crushed
its skull, and fed its brain to your first born son. He
shook his head and turned his radio to the local news
station:
“…and police suspect he is hiding out somewhere
in the warehouse district. Once again, if you see Billy
Tester on the street, notify police immediately. DO NOT
APPROACH HIM.”
Perfect. Now he wouldn’t just be pestered by punk
kids, he would also have to deal with the police. Fuming,
he switched off his radio and listened. Sure enough, he
could already hear the roar of the truck engines.
“Just a matter of time before someone gets the
idea to check out the creepy old warehouse,” he
thought. He reached over and gripped the steel baseball
bat next to him.
Suddenly there was a loud crash behind the warehouse.
Jacob jumped. The trucks hadn’t been that close;
how could they be here already? For a moment he didn’t
know what to do. Finally he took a swig of whiskey and,
gripping his weapon tightly, made his way to the back
of the building.
It was now quite dark. The sky was cloudy, and there
was no moon. Behind the warehouse were heaps of various
scrap materials. Beyond that was an old back road which
was almost never used by anyone, except, of course, drunken
kids. The area was flooded in orange light from a nearby
street lamp. Jacob quickly noticed the change: One of
the scrap piles had been disturbed and scattered.
Someone had to be nearby. Jacob decided he had better
take a look around. He took a short walk up the street,
but he saw nothing.
“Must have been a cat or something,” he thought.
As he approached the warehouse, something caught his
eye. He ducked behind a scrap heap and peeked out. Yes,
there was a man there. He was wearing some sort of bright
orange jumpsuit. He seemed preoccupied with something,
so Jacob crept closer. He could see something small and
black in the man’s hand.
Finally, when Jacob had come within twenty feet or so,
he heard a voice, muffled and raspy. He froze and stared.
Had he been noticed? No, the man was still fiddling with
the object in his hand. He held it up to the light, and
at this distance, Jacob could just make it out –
it was a small hand-radio. Jacob’s radio.
Jacob felt a terrible anger rise from within him. With
an enraged scream, he ran forward and swung the bat. It
came down on the other man’s head with a horrible
crack. The man crumpled to the ground, blood trickling
down from his hairline.
Jacob picked up his radio. It was undamaged. Only then
did he realize what had happened. The memory of the news
report came back to him. Judging from his clothes, this
man was an escaped convict. He was Billy Tester, the man
the police were looking for. And Jacob had stopped him
single-handedly! Now he would be a hero! Finally his luck
seemed to be changing!
As he was pondering his future as hero and role model,
Jacob suddenly saw headlights coming down the road. Damn,
he had forgotten about the kids. The vehicle came to a
halt right in front of him. Blinded by the headlights,
he couldn’t tell what it was, but he could just
barely make out two shadowy figures getting out.
This was it. Time to defend his home. He pointed to the
disabled convict and waved his bat around. He yelled curses,
hoping to scare them away, but his speech was slurred.
The two called back to him, warning him to give up, but
he wasn’t about to. In a half-drunken rage, he charged
toward the shadowy figures.
A gunshot tore through the night, and a bullet slammed
into Jacob’s chest.
Jacob was the victim of hard luck. He had certainly stopped
a dangerous convict from stalking the city streets. But
when the police found his standing over a body, waving
a steel bat, and yelling threats, they’d been forced
to open fire. Unfortunately, the first shot had pierced
Jacob’s heart. He died that night, still clutching
his precious radio.
