Mark parked his BMW outside the store, in the furthest of the four possible compartments. His figurine dog's head wiggled for the last time and he got out of the car, unconsciously locking it.
The busy daytime life greeted him with a gentle wave and a honk.
7am. Traffic worsened, stressed average working citizens cursed their lives, their bosses and their cup coffee, and night owls returned back home, sobering up from the myriad of narcotics intoxicating their blood, or alcohol.
An ambulance's siren shook them off their lethargy, speeding down the street.
Mike's store was in a pretty decent shape, but it was never too clean for his boss, so Mark grabbed the mop and broom from the tiny bathroom, beside the counter.
He turned on the radio, his only company during his shift, unless Mike showed up surprisingly.
After tidying up some shelves, putting new drinks in the freezers, and making the white tiles shiny, Mark flipped the sign from 'Closed' to 'Open'. He continued sweeping outside, just to look around the street a bit before his shift.
The morning breeze felt even nicer, until some old car's smoke corrupted it.
Despite being early in the morning, many customers came to the store. He quickly had to return to the counter and tend them, hiding a yawn. From his ill-tempered compatriots, to frivolous Russian immigrants.
Like any other day, Mark noticed the not so subtle cold shoulder some of the Americans gave to the foreigners. The latters were used to this treatment by now, and did the way back.
However, it could escalate quickly to a fight or heated exchange of words, with Mark in the middle. Sometimes, he even sided with his compatriots, knowing he should kick both sides out of the store.
Thousands of people had died in San Francisco three years ago. Many unknowingly took their last breath, as a shockwave swallowed and turned them into ashes.
But then he remembered these Russians didn't order the bombing. They wouldn't be buying groceries in a mere store at Miami Beach if so.
"The people in San Francisco were innocent too!"
Mark put a hand softly on his face, sighed and opened his eyes again. He didn't need any distractions now.
Luckily, things ended alright, everyone leaving calmly with bags or snacks, minding their own business.
The rush hour passed. Mark read the newspaper after being lonely for a while.
A seemingly foreign couple just entered. He glanced at them, before his attention returned to the note of the massacre at the Brickell station.
Many lines, with the Police Chief denying the evident 'hate crime', as one of the victims turned out to be an American, noting it as a casualty of a gang war.
Mark heard the couple approach the counter, so he raised his eyes. A purple-dressed brunette being held by a bald bearded man, dressed in a white suit, both with goofy smiles on their faces. They seemed to be coming back from a party that had just ended, or perhaps started.
"Hey, man." The suited man managed to articulate. "I need a little something to... set my own party, you know what I mean?" He hugged the girl, openly cupping one of her breasts.
Mark raised an eyebrow, somewhat uncomfortable. However, he knew the procedure, so he pointed to the almanac of the Cherry Pop Ice Cream Co., which was behind him.
The white suited man grinned.
"Nice try buddy, but what I need is a real man's drink! American's shitty stuff is too fucking weak for me."
The ex-soldier sighed and ducked under the counter. He picked up one of the vodka bottles hidden there, and handed it over.
"Yeaah!" the man celebrated, sniffing the bottle after obtaining it. His expression changed when he saw Mark kept steady and quiet. "You think that'd be enough, punk?" He hit the counter and made it tremble.
Mark ducked again and retrieved more bottles. He clearly had misunderstood his distinguished customer.
Three bottles were now displayed. Mark didn't know how the Russian would take them, and his vocal cords refused to work. He blinked twice when he saw the couple already had grabbed the vodka in each hand.
"Let's go Milena!"
The brunette stood still for a moment, but gave in, as the man in the suit led her to the exit, brushing her nose against his neck.
"Thanks man! We promise to come back." he exclaimed as the doorbell rang.
Mark leaned out and peeked through the door. As expected, a sedan was outside waiting, with others in the same white suit. He made slight eye contact with the chauffeur, as the couple entered the back seats.
Breaking it before it turned to a glare, Mark returned to his counter space, opening the newspaper.
Within a minute, the bell rang again. The ex-soldier snorted, glancing at the door. He sighed in relief to see Mike there.
"The mob again? Jesus, in broad daylight. Those bastards know no limits." the old man examined his face. "You alright?"
Mark nodded. A year ago, these same people in white suits had started asking local businesses for protection. Mike's was no exception.
Normally the old man would have turned the offer down with a couple of shotgun shells, but doing so meant digging his own grave. It was known on the streets they were in charge now.
But at least their so-called 'protection' proved to be useful and made audacious junkies pay dearly for robbery attempts. The Russians were true to their word.
Still, in addition to their weekly payment they always came to collect on Friday nights, sometimes this kind of request happened, like free stuff. Mark didn't mind them as long as they didn't go hostile. Even if he had just the thought of grabbing the shotgun under the counter, his boss' words repeated inside his mind.
"Just do your job, stay out of trouble and we'll get along, kid."
Fair enough, he obeyed. Besides, his military training hadn't been to go guns blazing everywhere.
Mike walked over to the counter and put some peculiar pink papers on it. Mark put the newspaper aside again, inspecting what he had brought. It looked like a pamphlet.
"Another hit, huh? Looks like some maniac is avenging San Francisco all by himself."
The ex-soldier examined the words on the pink little booklet.
"Don't you think it's time to do something for our country?" The bold letters contrasted the paper's bright color.
"Ah, that thing? It's another patriotic nonsense politicians will surely silence again. This country is going to shit." Mike began rearranging the items inside the store, even though Mark had done it before.
The young clerk kept reading all the pages. He had seen this kind of message spread around the city, but never with real effect. Peaceful patriotism wasn't going to save the Americans from communists in any way.
They made the USA surrender with a bomb, so 'peace' wasn't the way to approach.
"Consecrate your life to a greater cause. Join us and fight the Russian menace."
Fight? How? Yelling them 'Cyka Blyat'?
"Yeah, I stopped on that word too. I can't find another way to 'fight' unless it means grabbing a gun and shoot the bloody Mafia in the face. Guess it's a vet's thought, you get it."
Mark chuckled at him. He turned the page, reaching the last one.
"Support 50 Blessings and receive a monthly bulletin with key information of our fight and efforts against the communist invasion."
Underneath were several lines to write his name, age, address, and weirdly, his phone number.
"America is a tune. It must be sung together."
If this organization was looking for new members, they'd better try harder, because the pamphlet barely stirred his hatred nerve. He folded the paper in four and aimed at the trash can, but the old man stopped him, returning to the counter.
"Hey! You really ain't going to join? Surely you can meet a girl out there... Plus, you're young, you can do three times more for this country in half the time than me."
Mark raised an eyebrow at him, his left hand swaying in the air.
"Perhaps you think I haven't noticed, but it's been almost two years with the same routine, son. Youth is short... If Jordan didn't come here maybe you wouldn't even have any friends."
The ex-soldier frowned and aimed again. He didn't need that.
The little bell rang.
A young blonde girl appeared. Her face looked gloomy and weary, partially covered by her hair, despite having some tied in a messy ponytail. Her dark eyebags were quite prominent, as if she hadn't slept in days.
Mark quickly straightened himself behind the counter, leaving the pink paper over it.
The girl ignored Mike, went directly to the freezer area, opened the one with the refreshments, grabbed three Mountain Dew cans and returned to Mark.
His eyes were fixed on her, as they did every time she came to the store.
Not minding him much, she put the cans over the counter. Their eyes briefly connected, while she searched in her pockets for the bill she used to always give him.
Two seconds later, her hands moved quicker and eyes opened wide. A sigh escaped through her lips, and her expression returned to normal, normally depressed. She brought down the backpack she carried, and began looking for the money inside.
Mark took the opportunity to observe her. He liked to do so. Her small nose, her pale but seemingly soft cheeks, and her pink, slightly chapped lips. A pair of dog tags fell right down the middle of her chest, proudly displayed.
He interrupted his bold inspection, having noticed her light greenish eyes staring right into his face.
Mark cleared his throat and looked away, handling the sudden discomfort. He couldn't help but feel a little warmer though, and blamed the early April's spring.
When she finally found the bill, she put it down, waiting for the change. Mark opened the cash register, and quickly grabbed what he owed. Not changing the expression on her face at any time, she took the coins along with her cans, putting them all but one in her backpack, and headed towards the exit.
"Um..." The ex-soldier tried to stop her. He needed to do it today.
The girl stopped and looked at him, blinking a few times. Mark felt his vocal cords refuse to function, again.
The doctor said some event in the war re-triggered a previous disorder he had, worsening his possible ptsd. He prescribed the generic pills, assuring Mark he would heal gradually and, to no one's surprise, they did nothing.
She stood there for a few seconds. As nothing but silence continued, she went out, ringing the little bell.
Mark stared at the door as it closed, tapping his fingers to the counter. Startling Mike, he hopped out of the counter and ran outside, after her.
"Than.. Thanks for coming." His words faded as he spoke.
The girl turned and looked at him, cupping a can in her hand. From her blank expression, her lips moved slightly upward, and she nodded, then continued on her way. Mark just stood there, just watching her moves as she walked off.
"Hey. Hey, kid." He heard the voice of the old man just behind. "Look, Good for you for finally talking to her, but I don't pay you for being out here."
Mark turned and nodded, a visible smile on his face. He entered the store, and returned to his position.
"Tch, these kids nowadays. He doesn't even know her name!" Mike commented, as he walked to see his beloved boat at the port.
Excitement was a puny feeling compared to the one now swarming the ex-soldier. For the first time, he had managed to break her everlasting sadness, but what his boss had said was true. Her name was still missing.
Throughout the morning, many customers came. Almost doubled the usual.
Mark kept his exceptional good mood, helping a housewife with her stuff, or putting up with the complaints from the occasional angry man about the Russians and the poor service in Miami.
"Why in the holy hell Reagan gave up our great America to the reds? Even the army gave up! Fucking cowards."
He couldn't do more for him besides listening anyway, and a few words from someone who will probably never come back wouldn't change the picture of her smile.
The smile that probably would happen again tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow was the day he would ask her name. For sure.
At one o'clock, he had his little snack. Normally at this hour, someone from the nearby diner where he usually had breakfast, would come bringing his food, but today had failed.
He paid to himself in the cash register and grabbed one of the chips right next to him, just to distract his hunger.
As he solved the newspaper's crossword, a car pulled up right next to his BMW. It wasn't a fancy four-door, but it was worthy of a Miami police station's detective, with an off red siren behind the windshield.
"Heyo, Mark. Things going well around here, I see." Jordan announced his entrance with a salute, as usual.
"Hi." The ex-soldier saw him carrying two bags in his hands. He hoped for lunch and not some crime evidence crap. He wasn't in the mood for a prank after April Fool's.
"Mike called me. Here, some of your ol' china is going to save you today." Jordan raised the bags. Both had the Blue Dragon restaurant's logo on them.
"Mike knew? How?"
"He surely forgot to tell you, don't sweat it. Rumours say the Mob's getting tougher on nearby businesses after what happened these days. Deliveries failing, employees quitting and worse service overall." Jordan handed him his meal, and opened his, positioning himself in front of the counter. "I don't blame them though. For the crappy payment they receive I wouldn't risk my life either."
"Thank you." Although Mark's words came out drily, Jordan ignored it. His tone changed as much as the cop's expressions in Cobra: Nearly nothing, like a flatline.
Chinese food wasn't Mark's cup of tea, but it was better than nothing.
"Did you see the Brickell news? It was a nasty bloodbath in there."
"More than the bar?"
"Hm… not really. In fact, it was a way cleaner hit than the bar. Not even one bullet casing. I don't know how the murderers could've been so... accurate to dislocate the neck in a single baseball bat swing. You follow?"
The ex-soldier chewed calmly, hearing Jordan talk. Disgust had been lost many years ago, because of a landmine.
"One-hit-kills?"
"Yeah, amazing, huh? Oh, but three of them were practically unrecognizable. Some rookies couldn't even hide their disgust. Then, the mob itself came to the scene, and held us to account. Morons, as if we had a lot of people after their 'peaceful' silences. Poor Benson."
"Mob 's casualties?"
"You mean the dead? Shhh, we're not supposed to talk about that." He got a step closer. "But yes. I just hope whoever has done it is having a great day."
"Oh. Ah, my bad. Nothing on CCTV?"
"Nope. To tell the truth, even if there was something to be found, that shitty quality wouldn't let us recognize any face. And what about you? Did you finally talk to the girl?"
Mark picked up some chicken, looked at him and nodded.
"Woo, really? What 's her name?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know? Then what did you say to her?" Jordan frowned, somewhat confused.
"Thanks for coming."
The detective swallowed his food and peered at Mark.
"So, that was it? Well, at least she knows you exist. Gotta look to the upsides."
Mark laughed. Yep, he was 'The guy from the store who came out to thank her for coming over way long after he should' to her.
"Oh? Did you get one too?" Jordan looked at the 50 Blessings pamphlet. "I am proud to see there are still Americans with the will to fight for this cursed country. Aren't you going to join?"
The ex-soldier shook his head from side to side.
"Come on! If I didn't have this ruthless job on my back, I'd be a great militant. I've seen a lot of people your age walking around that place, so you could surely find her there."
"Of my age?" Mark tilted his head to the left.
"I'll always be ten years older than you, little kid. But think about it, you can still live a rebellious and way nicer youth. The thirties are shit, don't forget about that."
"For reals?"
"Considering you haven't had a girlfriend in a long time... Two birds with one stone!"
"Hm..."
"What can you lose? Unless the Mob intend to attack some innocent newspaper, something I see way unlikely, since some suicide gang are currently hunting them down."
Mark rolled his eyes. Reluctantly, he set aside his food, and read the terms again.
He couldn't find anything about protesting or being rebellious, but then saw a place for 'conversation' for the supporters, in the 50 Blessings HQ.
The ex-soldier underlined the word with the pen he had near the cash register and turned it over for Jordan to see.
"Conversation, huh? Maybe you're on for a little practice. I'm always free at night as a wingman, you know."
"I'll just sign, okay? I get a chance every day anyway."
"But two would be better, wouldn't it?"
"Mark R. Chandar. 25 years old. 430 16th Street." He wrote. "Is that it?"
"You missed the number down there." Jordan pointed to the last line. "I also signed up, so if something happens, I can always go snoop around, y'know?" He looked at his wristwatch. "Ah heck. For sure Pardo is already looking for an excuse to get me fired."
Jordan quickly swallowed what was left of his food, and then he came out, leaving his trash in the trashcan by the door. "If you change your mind about the club, call me, yeah?"
Mark used to go out with him once a month, not really willing, just for routine.
His friend detective didn't bore the situation or anything like that, but his said 'plain luck' made him ditch Mark in the middle of the night, while he spent his few coins on soft drinks and then returned home.
The ex-soldier didn't mind, because actually his role was looking less cool than his friend and nodding whenever Jordan asked him something with a girl nearby. Not to mention the fiascos when that 'mademoiselle' had a friend.
Mark wrote down his phone number, folded the paper in two, and put it in his pocket, just to receive another customer. Sending the message by mail could wait.
Four in the afternoon came fast enough. Mark's eyelid twitched at the fourth avalanche of indecisive children, crowding the store. It couldn't be that hard choosing two flavors of ice cream out of eight.
Consequences of the store being close to the beach, but he didn't expect that much.
When everyone finally left, he grabbed a strawberry popsicle and went out for fresh air, after paying himself, again.
The sunrays were already turning slightly orange. He thought of going to this '50 Blessings' HQs and see what was behind all that patriotism in bold letters. Perhaps another cash grab business ongoing.
Nah, who had the time to go downtown. Beach after work was his plan, before looking for dinner.
Taking the last bites of the sweet ice, he saw Mike in the distance, escorted by two men in white suits and aquamarine shirts.
Mark snorted in surprise. Today wasn't Friday. He leaped into the store, threw the wooden pallet into the trash can and flipped the 'open' sign.
The old man had never told him much details about his deal with the mob, so he didn't know what to do, other than standing there at the counter, waiting.
His anxiety soared. Those two were probably armed, and he could take out both with the double-barrel if he aimed correctly. The second shot was way riskier than the first one if he tried wielding it with one hand, but using both meant losing precious bits of seconds...
He swallowed hard, this wasn't what the old man would want. Also, the latter could get hit in the middle of the possible shootout.
"JUST GO, MUTE! GO!" A different voice resounded in his mind.
Despite being the same nightmarish memory, it didn't have the same effect as before. That time, Mark had to smash an old TV with a pipe to vent off.
The door opened, Mike passing first, followed by the pair of mobsters.
"Welcome. Hey there, Mike." His breathing sped up, even though he didn't notice.
"Hey lad." the old man muttered. His face kept an uncommon stoic expression, as he positioned himself beside Mark, behind the counter.
The eyebagged blond mobster stopped facing the two, and the other one, with purple shades, eyed through the door's window, before stepping behind the first.
"Straight to the point, shall we? As you may know, you've made a pretty good profit these few last weeks, and we've noticed our 'percentage' isn't what we agreed to. We'll let it pass as an unfortunate accident if you give us the difference now.
"How much would that be?" Mike crossed his arms, looking at the Russians. They both had their weapons by their belts, ready for action.
The blond put up his hand and raised two fingers, forming a V.
"I don't have that much." the old man replied. He was trying to keep his blank facade, but a little tic escaped through his cheek.
"We can't leave empty-handed, Baker. The boss told us to return with his pay and we will." This time the mobster behind drew a revolver, which glowed with the light above, but didn't raise it.
For a few seconds, they only exchanged glances. The mobsters were relaxed while Mark struggled with his own mind, huffing silently.
"You haven't taken your pills, have you, son?" Mike whispered with a calm tone.
Mark triggered and bent to reach for the shotgun. The old man reacted and elbowed him in the gut, virtually knocking the air out of him.
"Hey, hey!" Both mobsters backed away and the one in front drew his weapon in alarm.
"Whoa! Take it easy! He's not..." Mike raised his hands and glanced at Mark as the latter breathed heavily, having fallen to his knees.
"The money! Now!"
"Okay, okay! Just, put down your guns!"
The old man took out what was in the cash register, counting several bills, and handed them to the front mobster, folded in half.
"Alright, we'll be back on Friday." They both put their weapons away and stepped out, the little bell ringing again.
After ten seconds or so, Mike let out a deep sigh, and helped Mark up.
"So they were the ones who made Larry shut down his bar. Assholes. Did it hurt?"
Mark grunted, with a hand on his abdomen. That strike got pretty close to make him throw up.
"Then I still got it. Let's go outside, we need to talk." The old man opened a sealed pack of cigarettes from the display cases. "You got a light?"
Mark weakly reached his left pocket, and handed his lighter at Mike. The old man grabbed it and went outside, as the younger hobbled behind him.
They didn't speak for several minutes. Mark didn't usually smoke more than twice a day, but when he saw Mike starting the second one, he had another too.
"You still have sudden memories of Hawaii, haven't you?"
Mark kept looking at the ground, as the air blew the ashes of his cigarette.
"Yes."
"Huh, and you don't take the pills." Mike let the smoke out of his lungs. "Do you think that's fine?"
Mark raised his eyes to him. At the slightest suspicion that the question was rhetorical, he preferred not to answer.
"I'm not telling you to use them, to tell the truth. Look for other ways for release, maybe today's girl, going out with Jordan more often or even find a more exciting job, I don't know. Now, you're a time bomb, almost reaching zero if I hadn't been there. It would've killed us both."
Mike took a drag until he reached half of his cigarette.
"Get a grip, Mark. You are no hero, neither are they villains of the story. Aye, the world would do a lot better without them, but we are just random people living the worst bloody period of time. Ah, for heaven's sake."
Some of the smoke went out through his nose, and he continued.
"I've come to trust you, and I don't want to fire you."
Mark exhaled this time. The old man hadn't ever mentioned getting him fired, but it didn't surprise him anyway.
"Haha, I hated those pills too. I admit I flushed a lot of them down the toilet. Ah, that made Mary so mad..."
For a while they enjoyed the breeze, while the sun's rays dimmed.
"Now go. Try to get some sleep, or ask Jordan to go somewhere tonight, if he's not too swarmed with work. A strong drink never goes wrong."
Mark curved his lips and nodded at his boss. He couldn't believe how quickly his annoyance had passed, or perhaps he just didn't want to show it.
He entered the store for his jacket, and came out, bowing slightly to Mike in goodbye.
"Sir."
"By the way, what did you do with that 50 Blessings thing? I'd like to make a donation so they can keep fighting..." He frowned. "On second thought, better not, now that my profits are going to hell. Forget it."
To cheer him up a bit, Mark pulled the signed sheet out of his pocket, which had been driven deeper because of gravity.
"You signed? Oh, now those Russians will know the real deal! Just keep things easy, lad."
The latter only raised a thumb, before getting into his vehicle and driving off. He wanted to drive around the city, before going home.
Many things have happened today. The girl finally looked at him, the silver gleam of a gun made him lose control, and his boss almost fired him.
His mind trailed away from his head, leaving his senses driving. They were used to Miami traffic anyways.
When he regained consciousness, he was reaching the HQs of the so-called 50 Blessings. His apparently good memory made him remember: NW 27th Avenue.
As soon as he got out of the car, he noticed something strange about the place. The door and the walls were made of a strange and apparently metallic material, like a military anti-bomb shelter. No one guarded the entrance, but all the lights were on.
Wandering around the entrance, a man with glasses appeared. He had a blond military cut and a well-groomed stubble.
"Greetings! How can I help you?" He approached immediately sporting a clear fake smile on his face.
"Eh..." Mark, noticing that his vocal cords stopped working again, took out the pink paper again, out of his jacket pocket.
"Oooh! Thanks for your support! We will send you this week's edition in a couple of days." The man took the paper, examining it. "If you wish to participate in any chat, or conversation, you are welcome whenever you wish, Mr. Chandar."
Mark looked around and raised an eyebrow at the man. He forced a blink, and instantly regained composure.
"Don't worry about how lonely the place is today. Our members are hardworking people who come more often on weekends. But if you wish to support us even more, there's always the monetary way. However, it is not mandatory. Our duty is with our country itself."
Mark stared at him, and nodded slowly.
"I've got work to do. You're free to take a look around, but please don't go into the administration rooms. We reserve those for staff meetings. Once again, thank you for your support, and we hope to see you again."
The blond man walked down the hallway and entered the room to the right. Mark followed him out of curiosity, and found many computers, with a couple of people working on them.
It didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary, until he noticed that everything was on a rug, resembling the American flag. July 4th was still several months away, so he frowned his lips.
The blond man noticed and gave him the fake smile again, and turned on one of the computers, presumably to work himself.
When Mark entered the other room on the opposite side, he realized it also had the same rug. Many tables had the pink pamphlets on and opened, looking like a center of discussion, but empty.
Feeling uncomfortable for snooping around for no reason, he left the place.
The sky's blue tone was fading away. That was quite a view from any place in Miami, but not in downtown, where many buildings blocked the sight.
Perhaps it was time to go home.
Taking one last glance of the metal walls, Mark got into his car. He didn't know if he had done this to satisfy his desire to go against the Russians or out of social pressure, but it felt good. Despite the place and the man managed to poke his suspicion nerve, he chose to ignore it.
As he crossed the bridge to Miami Beach, he remembered the girl. Maybe he could find her there, and get to know her even more than her name.
The sun slowly hid in the horizon, with pink and purple taking their place beside the clouds.
"She's pretty, isn't she?" Mark asked himself, and pushed it, letting the fresh air in. His secondhand car didn't disappoint.
He got home and barely cared to take off his shoes, throwing himself onto his soft pillow.
Hopefully his exhaustion and lingering pain blocked any possible nightmare fabrication.
The tender night awaited, along with his pills lost inside the drawers of the closet.
Voyager - Horizon