I am a master of death and destruction. A hired contractor. No matter how big the job. And I always deliver on time. So I press myself into the perimeter and examine.
The concrete wall creeps out and up. A field of dying grass and bunk houses crams into it’s cold gray arms, and it strangles the buildings.
Inside the housing, small cages stare out. The lights in each window die, sentenced to death with no chance of parole. The door slams shut, locked by key no electronic override.
In the grave silence, I search for weaknesses. I am the hunter, the planner, the architect of death. My kill count is unknown, untracked, accepted by those who hire me, and ignored by those who don’t.
I do not kill in hate or in shadows like my prey. No half eaten bodies or floors swab in blood remain when I’m through. A clean kill, no remains, that how I work, but not my prey.
No, a trail of newspaper clippings, photos and headlines flash corpses and sensationalism. Bodies burned and graves uncovered dangle through time like charms on the reaper’s sickle. For the final slash of this murderer’s throat, no price is to steep, no casualty too much.
My bag weighs heavy, and the moon slips high into the sky. I sway closer to the bunk house and search its base. A crack in the wall splinters up two stories. Its primed, a start. From the bag, I pull a metal tube as long as my finger. Its tip wedges into the building. All along the crack, the metal spikes stud and accent the weakness. I move on.
The bag lightens as the moon finishes its arch, but my shoulders stay just as heavy. No one finds me as I set the field. Yet all around me specks of sliver glint and catch my eye. They will be seen. They will attract attention. Time is running short. The deadline approaches, and the job must be complete.
I place the last spike and retreat to the wall. It stretches up and forever out in a horizon of strength. It stands at my back, and I press hard against it. Shakes start in my thighs and my breathing flutters. It’s time. It must be done.
I close my eyes, breath in the moonlight, and remember my purpose. I am the assassin, the cleaner, the last man standing, the expert. It will go as planned. In this moment, I give up my doubt and fear. I set my plan into motion.
The night pops in a series so fast it sounds like one hit of a drum, one drop of the gallows, one strike of electricity. Dust slams into me and tries to choke. Still my eyes stay shut. My ears are deaf, my lungs starved, my eyes burning, and my heart racing. Still I wait.
The night returns. Stone dropping on stone clunks louder as the water drains from my ears. I listen as the sounds of continuing destruction settles. When I can breath, I open my eyes.
The buildings lay dead, crumpled on top of themselves. The giant wall is clear in all directions. There is nothing left. These walls that have sheltered the worst of society and let them feed upon themselves, these walls that could not hide the weekly deaths, these walls that whispered of suicide and murder to all they trapped, these walls stood for nothing now.
For I am the master of death and destruction. The architect of death. The cleaner. And I have ripped the heart from the rib cage of these walls and crushed it. Never again would it steal, rape, and kill. No longer would this be the red forty-seven acres. For I, I am the demolition man.