The Vacation
This is the first in a new series of mine. I’ll be creating short stories inspired by my photography as a way to practice the mechanics of writing. I won’t pretend that these stories are great but I hope they’ll be interesting or entertaining.
I learned so many lessons while writing my first novel, The Stone Harvest. The biggest lesson is that writing is hard enough but when you’re trying to flesh out an idea that you’ve had in your brain for years, it’s even harder.
So, we write.
Three days was more than enough time in paradise. It was time to get back to work. Unfortunately, Russel David was here in Kailua, Hawaii with his family for another six days. There was no way to escape.
Though the trip had been planned for months, he thought that he'd be able to find a way out of it; a work emergency or a dead family member—no such luck. As the weeks and days went by, the opportunities to cancel never arose. He had no choice but to go along as planned.
Russell didn't hate his wife or kids. Paula could have her charms, but after 17 years of marriage, she had nothing new to offer him to keep him happy or interested. The kids were worse. His reliable income and upper-middle-class lifestyle kept them in a quality of life that he never dreamed of at their age. They wanted for nothing ... but they always wanted more.
While on the windward side of Oahu, he was hoping that he could keep them occupied enough with watersports, sightseeing trips, and nice food that he wouldn't have to interact with them more than the bare minimum.
The plan mostly worked. Paula managed the kids while he just sat at the beach or poolside at their modest resort. Sure, he'd have to pretend to be romantic with his wife and make love to her now and then. Still, he'd developed such routines and habits over the years that faking affection came relatively easily.
What he really missed was killing homeless people after work.
Russel worked as a mid-shift manager at a canning plant in the industrial area of San Leandro, a stone's throw away from the Oakland border. Trucks and train cars would come in with the produce from California's Central Valley. His job was to make sure that the produce got unloaded and delivered to the proper processing areas. Sure, he was also responsible for assigning shifts, resolving maintenance issues, and overall site cleanliness. Once the beans made it to the pot, another mid-level manager took over and continued the process.
He'd been doing this same job for 12 years, and for the past 8, it had been a struggle to wake in the mornings, to find the energy to make it to work. He found his saving grace by accident.
After an unusually long shift caused by a late delivery, Russel drove home along a dark street near the Oakland airport. Because of road construction, he'd been forced to take a slightly different path to I-880. He was waiting at a stoplight, and a homeless man crossed in front of him, ushing one cart and pulling another. For reasons he still can't fully explain, the indignity of waiting for this bum was more than he could tolerate.
Instead of waiting patiently for the man to clear the roadway, Russel accelerated his car directly into the man and his carts. He hadn't built up much speed in just a few feet, but the power of the impact was enough to throw the old man to the pavement where he hit his head more forcefully than a human skull can tolerate.
Russel got out of his car and examined the unresponsive man. He didn't look to be breathing, and, after a few moments of fully expecting another vehicle to pass, none did. He knew exactly what he needed to do.
Russel moved the to shopping carts back onto the sidewalk and returned to the man's body. As he was an emaciated old man, the corpse didn't weigh much. It was easy for Russel to drag the man to the side of the road and toss him over the overpass above one of the many canals that went into and out of the local estuary.
Within two minutes, he was gone from the scene. His heart was beating rapidly, he had a modest erection from the excitement, and all the stress and tension from the day was gone.
He had found the perfect outlet for all the unhappiness in his life.
The next month, he lured a panhandler around to the backside of a building and strangled him.
The month after that, with his bare hands, he strangled a sleeping homeless person near his home.
Another time, near where he made his first kill, he found another homeless person and used a rock to beat him to death.
He refined his technique over time. He'd buy and bring an extra set of clothes and shoes to use in case there was any blood splattering. He became quite good at this sport.
In the 33 months since he started, he had eliminated 39 people. But, as he asked himself, were they really even people? No one would miss them, and the police didn't work very hard to determine why a few more bums were being found dead.
But now, for another few days, he was forced to be in Hawaii, with his wife, with his kids, away from his true love. Here, he'd have to pretend to be romantic with Paula. He'd have to play with his kids now and then. All the while, what he really wanted to do was to go back home and begin the hunt again. He placated himself by looking at the people around him and planning how to kill them but to actually do so seemed impractical, at best. He'd have to wait.
"Hon. Would you like another drink?" Paula yelled out from the kitchen of their rental.
"Of course, Sugar Booger. That'd be swell!" he hollered back. Soon.