Under the full moon, Gregson peeked through his cabin window. The harbor was awash with light; fog so thick, it made his eyes burn. Indistinct shadows moved through it, getting closer. Gregson reached for his revolver, but it wasn’t there. “That’s right, the city took it,” he muttered. He reached for his golf clubs instead. Gregson pulled out his 7 iron.
Then he heard guns cock.
“Hey fat man, get some.” His cabin splintered into a thousand pieces and Gregson hit the deck. The floor began to leak. His boat was sinking to the bottom. He couldn’t get away. His watery tomb was nearly ceiled when he remembered his scuba tank under his dirty laundry. Gregson put on his face-mask right when the water level engulfed his head. There were only a few minutes of breathable air left. It tasted like seaweed. Then his boat hit the bottom. Gregson opened his cabin and swam out. Bullets drilled above him.
There was another diver in the water, not 20 feet away. He had stringy blonde hair. It was Fred, holding a harpoon gun. He motioned to Gregson. There were two ladders on opposite sides of the dock. Gregson read Fred’s mind. They moved towards opposite ladders, ascending like invisible amphibians in the mist.
“Do you hear something? It sounds like sloshing.” Then a spear whistled through the air and pinned one of the assassins to the pier.
“It came from over there.”
WACK. The 7 iron cracked a skull.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Bullets whizzed through the fog and footsteps ran down the dock. Gregson pursued them, but he was too fat to keep up. The machine gun fired again and Gregson felt lead entering his heart. His insides melted. He crumpled to the ground. Consciousness left his eyes. The last thing he saw was Fred’s face.
Then he saw a surgeon and a saw.
Gregson felt vulnerable. His heart was exposed. He never felt like he’d opened up this much to anybody. His I-V was giving him liquid dreams. If only he had a computer right now to write his memoirs. Time disappears on drugs. Gregson’s hair was longer than Fred’s. Figures of friends Gregson thought he knew appeared and disappeared in the room. There was a light and then the fog lifted.
“Gregson. I’m your doctor, Doctor Graves.”
“Somehow, I don’t feel reassured.”
Dr. Graves laughed. “You’ve recovered, but your heart is weak. Any significant strain and the sutures will explode. You’ll need a transplant. Your name has been put on a long list, and I’m afraid it will take too long for you to receive an available heart. You have six months, at the most.”