Lost in Transmission
Another flash fiction.
A faint light approached Charlie as he neared the exit to his secret passageway. The mousehole was behind a bookcase in the dimly lit office of Donald Merry, the head of the financial department. Charlie waved up to the horse seated behind his desk.
"Mr. Merry," Charlie called in a low voice.
The horse held a hand up at him, then reached for the phone to dial his secretary's extension. Same routine. "Carlotta, please hold all visitors for the next ten minutes or so, alright? I'm expecting an important call. Thank you." He hung up and gestured for Charlie to approach. As he did, Donald increased the volume on the television that displayed headlines of a drug raid that went down at Wardnes Boulevard. He addressed his guest quietly. "I'm elated to see you, Charles. Was the trip sound?"
"Mhmm." Hands in his pockets, the rat shuffled his paw in the cool, damp carpet. It'd been shampooed since his last visit.
Donald smiled at his observation. "You like that? I had a fresh cleaning this morning. So- before business," the horse began as he opened a drawer and withdrew a small bottle of liquor, "I'd like to thank you for your services." He filled a glass and the bottle's cap with the hazel fluid.
"You're too kind, Mr. Merry." Charlie sipped from the cap and resisted a cringe; tasted awful, but he didn't want to offend the old horse.
As Charlie sipped, Donald moved his glass aside to sort through a stack of papers and withdraw a featureless envelope. "Charles, you've performed reliably for months. This last delivery won't be trouble for you to bring to Genevieve, will it?"
"Not at all. Last one, you said?"
The horse nodded. "Thank you kindly. It's been very lucrative to do business with you, and it's imperative that you deliver this before midnight." He folded the envelope, secured it with tape, then handed it to Charlie. "Farewell, Charles."
"Yeah," the rat mumbled on his way out.
* * *
The next day, Charlie approached the bookcase at the end of the passageway.
He entered Donald's office and smiled when he saw that it was unoccupied. He double-checked his watch: the old man's lunch break had ended hours ago. Charlie decided to walk around the space for the last time. He trod over the carpet at his pace, still feeling the faint dampness beneath him. He stopped when he reached a few dark, red stains beside the desk. He smiled again.
Perfect.
The envelope hadn't been too much trouble to dispose of. He looked at his former client's seat; he'd never occupy it again. Satisfied, Charlie turned back towards the exit, suppressing the cough that'd been in his chest all day. Before he reached the bookcase, he hunched over as he was possessed by an aggressive bout of coughing.
Fuck, he thought as he tried to catch his breath. A surge of pain seared his innards and knocked him off balance. He coughed his throat sore that it felt like it was bruising. His eyes watered as the fit continued, him on his knees clutching his gut. His vision flashed as he collapsed, his breaths short between fits. His head was throbbing, and his nerves were shouting with agony. The fuck's going on? He strained to think. He choked and squirmed, his breath running out.
His consciousness breaking up, the last thing he saw was the room's door opening for Carlotta, the secretary.