The Quick and the Dead

He heard the click of the phone being answered on the other end. There was silence. They both waited, knowing. Well, he had called.

“I’m done,” he finally said.

“We’re tracing the call,” came the reply.

“I know. There’s no need. I’m outside. The corner of West and seventh. Found a phone booth, if you can believe it. Sad to think, a phone booth, still here.”

“The ministry has decided to phase out personal cellular devices. We’ve been reinstalling public phones for the transition.”

A somewhat obscene series of metaphors followed the opening phrase, “Anachronistic piece of. . .” The words halted without finishing, and he let the anger fall from him like a receding tide leaving the shoreline dry and full of dredged up trash. Grasping the phone, he leaned his head into a cool pane of glass. While gazing out at the wintery streets, the heat of his breath slowly built up a fog against his window, obscuring the scene.

“Billy,” he whispered.

He imagined the man on the other end, straightening up at that name. That’s how they all acted when you called one by a real name, when you reminded one of them of their names. An uneasiness came over them, and their already mute expressions died into a faceless deadpan. He said the name again.

“There is no Billy,” the phone finally said.

“Do you remember singing Carols, Billy? It’s Christmas you know.”

“We no longer celebrate—”

“I don’t see one decoration,”

“There is no need to celebrate—”

“O come, O come, Emma-a-a-nu-el,” the man sang, his voice breaking.

“We are coming for you.”

“Make it fast,” he said, slamming the phone into the receiver.

He left the little booth, trying to hum the tune to himself. The snow was an ugly sludge upon the ground, soaking into his shoes. Sitting upon the metal bench beside the road, he felt the frozen bars dispel any warmth left within him. Clinging to the rags about his back, he shivered and his teeth chattered in the cold.

They were not fast enough to catch him; they were the quick, but he was the dead.