The Rat Killer
Alvin's hobby was shooting rats at the city dump. He did it as often as he could find the time, which was usually two or three times a week.
There wasn't much else to do around his little burg. He didn't drink or use drugs, he didn't care for television or radio or movies, his car had been irreparably broken for months. He thought he would like to travel some, but his job as a janitor at a local furniture factory didn't pay travelling wages. And so he settled for shooting rats, something that was fun and also a benefit to his fellow man, he believed.
Alvin used a cheap J. C. Higgins .22 caliber rifle for his rat hunting. It was a clip fed, bolt action rifle. The clip held six long rifle cartridges.
He had gotten the rifle when his Uncle Paul died. It wasn't a fancy gun, but Alvin could get at least five rats per clip and sometimes six. But he didn't waste shos like some did with the semi automatics. He could hit a moving rat sometimes, but mainly he waited for them to stop before popping them. Some of the kids with "automatics" would waste 20 rounds firing a burst at one rat and still not hit it.
As for shooting other things, Alvin had never considered it. He didn't shoot squirrels or rabbits or birds. And he had never thought of shooting another person until the day that he did it. It was as big a surprise to him as it must have been to the man he shot.
Things weren't going too well that day. Alvin had to work overtime and didn't get home until almost 9:00 a.m. Some of the boys had made a big mess just to aggravate him. They had said they were going to and they did. They poured spring oil all over the floor and tore up a bunch of rejected packing boxes. They scattered batting and cut-offs everywhere, instead of leaving it where it dropped. When Alvin went in at 11:00 p.m. to begin his shift, he almost cried at sight of the damage.
After the shooting was all over, Alvin wondered why it couldn't have been one of those boys from the factory. They would have deserved it. In fact, Alvin had no idea why he had shot the man. It just seemed like something he had to do. There was no mulling it over, no thought of consequences. No concern that he might go to prison or the death chamber even.
The man needed to die, Alvin believed that. The man had wanted to die, had, in fact, come there that day to die. He had walked around the south rim of the pit and down into the smelly bowl knowing that Alvin was sitting on an outcropping on the north side, firing a rifle at times. The bum had been like a soldier too long in battle, one who just throws down his weapon and walks out into the line of fire to get it over with, to be done with the agony of waiting. Alvin had seen that happen in combat, although he had never dreamed of doing it himself. But the bum had dreamed of it and he had found his salvation at the hands of the rat killer.
The man dropped behind the rusting hulk of a refrigerator when he was hit. He went down clean and Alvin knew, after looking at the wound, that he was dead before the rubbish broke his fall. The slug had punched a tiny hole in his left temple between his ear and the corner of his eye. It had struck a major artery; the blood was still pumping after Alvin climbed down the bank and made his way over to the body. The guy was dirty and dressed in ragged clothing, but he looked peaceful, almost smiling. His eyes were about half open, still glistening with moisture. Alvin knew he should feel fear or regret or something, but he didn't. He felt very right for the first time in a long time.
He took a big stick and scooped out a grave in the refuse pile. In a few days, the caterpillar would be used spread a layer of dirt over the surface. The landfill was being closed out because it didn't comply with all the new fancy federal regulations. Very little was dumped in it now and, with the exception of a few shooters and the county crew, few people came around it.
Alvin dragged the body over and rolled it into the indention, which was a good four feet deep. The dead man landed on his side. That didn't seem right to Alvin. The poor man shouldn't have to spend eternity lying on his side in a landfill. And so he scrambled down into the hole and moved the man onto his back, folding his hands across his chest like the undertaker would have.
"I hope you are in heaven now," Alvin said to the dead man. "I hope you are peaceful and your troubles are all over."
He filled in the hole with debris and then rolled the old refrigerator over on it. It would help protect the body from animals. The rats would surely find him. They would have a feast and grow fat. They would make easier targets.
Alvin went back to the dump many times until it was completely closed out almost nine months later. Then, there was no trace of it left. The ground was a fresh carpet of sod and pine seedlings sprung up everywhere.
But before that happened, he always went to visit the grave. Long as the refrigerator was there, he would go down and stand by it and talk to the man. A time or two he thought he heard whispers rising up from the rubble beneath him. He smiled when that happened, because he was not afraid. He had nothing to fear.
And he killed a lot of fat rats those last few months. Always six for six shots. His luck had become better all of a sudden and there was only one reason for that.
Alvin smiled. He figured maybe he would get to travel someday. His luck seemed to be changing. It might be his reward for killing all those rats, and for the other good act he had committed.
Life was strange like that. One deed always led to another. Good and bad beget their kind.
Yes, life was good like that.
[I wrote this during 30 minutes this afternoon at work. Don't ask where it came from because I have no idea at all.]
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