Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 02

[Officially started NaNoWriMo. Writing this book is like pulling teeth. I hope I'm pulling someone else's teeth.

[Behind schedule so far, but I think I ought to be able to catch up fairly quickly. Anywho, here's more story. Poor Mr. Tombs.]

    Tea was pleasant enough, especially since it didn't involve much talking. Talking involved too much remembering of social rules that seemed insignificant, so it was relatively pleasant to work with someone who had no illusions about Marius' personality or nature. They both wore gloves--Marius had insisted that they always wear gloves while working--and used the two cups and one teapot that were almost the sum total of the apartments dishes. They sat in silence, waiting for the tea to cool, then sipped in silence. It was a strange camaraderie, the disturbed collusion of murderers. Mr. Tombs wondered if he would go down in history as that quiet neighbor who was never around much. Small women on evening news programs would talk about how he had been such a nice man and how they never suspected a thing. Of course, being nice was easy. It took very little effort. Most people were so wrapped up in their own lives, it seldom occurred to them that a smile and a pleasant word could signal contempt almost as easily as amiability. Of course, that was assuming his smile was functional, which he was beginning to doubt.
    "It's time," he said, looking at his watch, a round, plastic and steel monstrosity designed to take the pressure of a collapsing mountain, or some such absurdity. He moved to the table as Miss Sweeps turned of the light. Marius reached across the wood, parted the curtains and opened the window, looking out onto a cityscape that mixed low rise buildings with a handful of office towers that poked their scattered rectangles of light up into a night sky empty of moon and--in the glare of the city lights--empty of stars except for a few brave hangers-on. So determined, those stars, keeping alight in a world that could hardly see them, if it ever remembered to look up. It seemed apropos to the situation. Or was the word 'germane?' Perhaps both would be correct. He'd have to look them up later.
    A slightly cool breeze blew in through the window onto his chest, mostly, though some touched his chin and cheeks pleasantly. Marius stood up, easing the tension in his lower back. That tension hadn't been there thirteen years ago. Age? Inevitable, he supposed. Did that mean retirement was in his future? What would he retire to? Would he possibly live that long? Seemed ridiculous, on consideration. He smiled, loaded his rifle, and clipped it into the mounting on the table. Tonight was not his night to retire.
    Miss Sweeps stepped next to him and picked up the spotter's scope. Marius sat down in his chair and leaned forward to the rifle's sight, and they both looked down on the apartment they had so carefully observed for the last week.
    "There he is," said Miss Sweeps.
    "Yes," breathed out Marius. Watching a game show, just like every other night that Mr. Tombs had checked. He could have done the job the first night, but his employers had insisted. They wanted to be in town for this. Marius had wondered about that at first, but a bit of research had given him a pretty clear idea exactly why they had been so adamant about this. "Why does a god enjoy trivia so much?" he wondered out loud.
    "They're not omniscient," said Veronica. "Not like the big 'G' God."
    "Of course not," said Mr. Tombs, still puzzled at how such a reasonably intelligent woman could believe in superstition. "Not omniscient. Nor are your employers. Wind speed?"
    "Beg pardon?"
    "The windsock we placed on the building between the target and us. We've done this before, Miss Sweeps."
    "I know about the windsock. What did you mean about my employers?"
    "Ah well," said Mr. Tombs. He doubted he'd miss, even without a precise wind reading. Bracing against the rifle, he tapped the trigger twice. With the first shot the thick, bullet-resistant glass of the window shattered, and with the second the god on the couch learned a new bit of trivia: what it felt like to die.
    Before the glass had finished falling to the floor Mr. Tombs surged sideways and into Miss Sweeps, crashing his body against hers and bearing her down to the floor. Before the uncoordinated woman could do more than gasp, his knees had pinned her arms to the floor and one hand was over her mouth. She looked at him with eyes that, he supposed, were less frantic than they should reasonably have been, but he didn't read too much into that. She was smart enough, but apparently not smart enough to comprehend what her position exactly was.
    "I meant--regarding your employers, Miss Sweeps--that they are not the only individuals capable of research. Reading is a marvelous ability, and thanks to the great Herr Gutenberg, there is an absurd amount of printed material available to the enterprising individual who cares enough to seek it out. I was hired to kill a god, and I, it so happens, am enterprising. Also, it is amazing what rumors you can find on the internet." Marius wondered why he was explaining things to this woman who was not struggling at all. He couldn't blame her. This wasn't his first time in a brawl, and he knew what he was doing. But why the explanation? She was about to die. She didn't need to have anything explained to her. He was almost certain she intended to kill him now that he'd done the job, and that was more than good enough for him to take action. He'd have to be content with the half of the money he'd been paid up front, but that was better than a full payment and death.
    Speaking of death, with the hand not busy pinning Miss Sweeps' head, Mr. Tombs reached under the table and pulled out the silenced pistol he'd attached to the underside just the day before. This was going to be less tidy than ideal, but--he shrugged--that was inevitable. And why was his hand feeling numb? Not just his hand. He blinked. His legs were asleep. Also, the floor was tipping up toward him. How curious. The floor was softer than he thought it should be, considering that it was wooden. How very, very curious. The tea, of course. How stupid. It was his ritual, and, in retrospect, his blind spot. So much a part of himself, the tea before a job, that he hadn't even thought that it could be used against him. Smarter than I expected, Miss Sweeps. Definitely smarter.
    She was standing over him now. He rolled his eyes up to look at her face as best he could, though it was getting harder to keep them open. Harder, in fact, to think of a reason why he should want to keep them open.
    "Very clever, Mr. Tombs. You figured out that we intended to kill you. But your death is important for two reasons. First, you're some variation on psychotic, and, like a rabid dog, you need to be put down. I've spent enough time with you to know that you won't take offense at that comment." Mr. Tombs silently agreed with her. He was certain he was diseased, and he didn't mind being compared to an animal that, while generally bland and uninteresting, became absolutely compelling when its mind was corrupted by the strange disease of rabies. Miss Sweeps went on. "Also, your death, like your final act in life, is serving the greater good."
    The greater good? Was she talking about religion? So often people did. Marius had never considered it worth the effort of really understanding religion, but something that before had seemed a scam and impractical at best was suddenly very, very practical indeed.
    "The greater good, Mr. Tombs," said Miss Sweeps. "I hope you find some peace in the next life, Marius. With a mind as ill as yours, you certainly could never find it here. Rest well, Marius."
    Mr. Tombs blinked one last time.