Buried in Silence

by Ryan Toronto

The snow fell regardless of season on the old, forgotten bench at the side of the road. At one time it had been covered, sheltered; but now it faced the ever-present cold alone. The canopy was long gone, taken by scavengers looking for any scrap of metal they could harvest. The bench, bolted to the cracked sidewalk, remained.

No buses stopped here now, as they had, with sporadic reliability, in the past. There were no passengers to take elsewhere--they were already gone. The fate of this bench was the fate of many others like it. The whole of public transportation was a dead memory to the people of this winter world.

The snow fell in the same indifferent manner on the old, forgotten man who sat alone on the bench. He, like all the rest, was not waiting for a bus. He simply was waiting.

The old man brushed absent-mindedly at the snow gathering on the sleeve of his worn parka. The faded blue fabric was wearing through in places, and any snow that melted there would soak the few layers he wore underneath. The zipper on the parka was useless as well, stopping no farther than halfway up. As the old man sat unprotected in the cold, at a bus stop that would never again see a bus, the random passerby would not understand what he could possibly be waiting for.

Perhaps even this old man did not know exactly what he was waiting for.

Not that any other person happened by. The road by which the bench sat was just as lost to the people as to the buses. The road stretched away like the old man's past, no one in sight.

That was why the stranger's appearance on the street was so unexpected.

At first the man thought his eyes were proving themselves as old as they were; but with every heavy step the younger man took in that direction, the more the old man believed he was there. He even went as far as to rub his tired eyes, but upon opening them again, the stranger was really still approaching him.

Neither spoke as the newcomer walked up and took a seat next to the old man. He was dressed in militarily efficient clothes, from the dark jacket to snow-camouflage cargo pants to heavy boots. A pair of slick shades rested on the bridge of his nose, distancing him by eliminating direct eye contact.

The old man took all this in, watching as the young man sat rigidly at his side, facing straight ahead. But who knew what he was really looking at. He cleared his throat, a rough, old sound.

"This side of Pluto's always got more snow, have you noticed?"

Silence.

"Or maybe you haven't been here too long? You're too young. It's a sad thing, what's happening to kids today. I'll bet you're not over twenty, and here you are, in an outlaw's haven." The old man looked over, but the other showed no sign of even hearing.

"Nah, it's nothing new. Same happened to me. Back in the day, I was the best hit man money could buy. I remember what it's like to be young and invincible. But then, one day, I just couldn't do it any more. That's when the money stopped coming, you know. The ring leaders around here really know how to get what they want."

The old man shook his head. "But here, they're the only ones with power. No matter how long you're been here, you know that."

At this the young man's countenance darkened slightly. But that was all.

The one-time hit man went on. "And then, when you try to get out, they won't let you. Because the only way to get out is to go to the cops. Take as many with you, so the judges'll go a little easier. But it's suicide to try that. You've got the House on one side, certain death on the other, and the only way to keep away from either is to go on doing what they tell you to do. But I couldn't."

The wind picked up, attacking now with short icy jabs unhindered by the threadbare blue coat. So I just disappeared. I tell you, that's the only thing that allowed me to get old."

Snow fell in the silence. It landed softly on everything, slowly but surely determined to even out the small planet under a pure white silent blanket. Only time.

"I don't know, I guess I got lucky, too. I was forgotten. See, I knew too much. If I ever went to the cops, I'd be able to take down some of the highest untouchables in my syndicate. Sometimes, I think the senility is a blessing, but nobody would ever believe me."

The old man hung his head, protecting his face from the snow that bursted in quick flurries. His bent back sagged under some invisible weight. He wrung his hands, as if trying to warm them. But they'd never be warm again.

"You know, that was pretty thoughtful of you, listening to an old forgotten man's last ramble. If only there were more young people like you, then the old could at least pretend that they made a difference in someone's life." A pause--a thoughtful, calm pause.

"I'd appreciate it if you did it cleanly. Although, I guess I don't have to question your skill."

His old body was still hunched over, hands restless between his knees. He felt more than saw the stranger stand. The ice crunched under the professional boots as the young man made his way around to the back of the bench. The footsteps stopped directly behind the old defector.

Another sound, one that was pulled from past memories into reality; a click that had been all too familiar, and now heard again like a ghost from dead thoughts. The gun pressed against the base of his skull. Subconscious needs were acknowledged, standards from long-unneeded procedure were met, and the old man was satisfied with the method.

"You weren't forgotten," said a soft voice. Much, much too young.

The snow fell, still disinterested in the comings and goings of men, still trying to level the world. It filled the two sets of footprints leading up to the weathered bench, and the one set freshly departed. In time, it would cover the forgotten bench, and the cold form that turned some of the white into red. In time, only a smooth blank surface would exist.

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