Agents Of Karma, by Chris Reed

Jeff had just climbed into bed and closed his eyes when Rocky started barking. Jeff sat up, switched the bedside lamp on and slid his feet into his slippers. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning. Fearing an intruder, he grabbed his rifle from the closet and hurried down the stairs to the main floor.

As Jeff crossed the living room, Rocky’s growling grew more vicious. He’d had the dog since it was a puppy. From the loss of his only son to diabetes through a three-year battle with alcoholism that cost him his marriage, Rocky had been the only constant in his life, the only one who stood by him through it all, loyally, unconditionally.

Jeff ran through the kitchen, pulled the door open and stepped into the dark garage. He heard Rocky growling near the front of the car. Jeff reached along wall, found the light switch, and flipped it on. The garage lit up to reveal a hooded man in black clothing crouched defensively against the wall. Rocky stood inches away near the car’s front bumper, teeth bore, ready to lunge. The German Shepard was twelve years old now and beginning to show his age. His vision was failing him, and he no longer cared to go for walks. Because of his bladder problems, Jeff had begun keeping him in the garage. But even though Rocky’s health was deteriorating, he was still a good watch dog, still willing to do anything to protect his master.

“Rocky, sit,” Jeff said.

The dog obeyed, but kept a watchful eye on the trapped man.

Jeff leveled the barrel of the gun on the intruder and said, “Stand up.”

Slowly, cautiously, the man rose to his feet. He was tall and slender, his eyes the only part of his body visible in the all-black attire. At first, Jeff thought he was looking at a ninja. Until the man spoke.

“Careful with that gun, mate,” the man said, his mask doing little to muffle his English accent. Jeff had never heard of a ninja from England.

“What are you doing in my garage?” he said.

“I’m doing my job.”

“Your job is to burglarize my home?” Jeff asked incredulously.

“That’s part of it, yes.”

Jeff couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He figured the guy was probably whacked-out on drugs and looking for something to steal to supply his habit. The city was full of crazy dope fiends. “Well, buddy,” he said, “it looks like you picked the wrong house to do your job at tonight.”

“I beg to differ,” the man said.

Jeff didn’t know what to say next. The man’s boldness had him dumbfounded. Jeff had a gun pointed at the guy’s head, could squeeze the trigger at any moment, yet he remained defiant and cocky. Finally, out of frustration, Jeff said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You are Jeffrey White, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Now who the hell are you?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified.”

“Classified?” Jeff noticed something shiny in the man’s right hand. “Hey, what’s that?”

The man quickly put his hand behind his back. “It’s nothing.”

“Drop it.”

When the man refused to relinquish the object, Jeff pulled back the hammer on the gun. Click.

“I said drop it,” Jeff told him.

Reluctantly, the man held out his hand. He uncurled his fingers, and a two-inch, silver nail fell to the ground.

“What’s that for?”

“I work for Karma.”

“That a business or something?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Come now. Surely you know what karma is.”

“I’m not playing, buddy. What the hell is it?”

The man sighed. “It’s the force generated by a person’s actions that determines his fortune.”

“You mean… like good luck and bad luck?”

“Precisely. And I’m sure you’re well aware that you’ve had nothing but good luck for months now.”

Jeff took a quick mental trip through the recent past and realized the man was right—no bad luck of any kind had befallen him. No major illnesses, no traffic tickets, not even the occasional bad day at the office. The divorce was the last thing that had caused him any grief, and that was nearly a year ago. It seemed like nothing had gone wrong since then. Every day was a good one.

“That’s not to say you’ve completely deserved it,” the man continued. “You’ve pulled your share of shenanigans—parking in the handicapped spot at the market, littering the highway, cheating on that wonderful new girlfriend of yours. And you would have been punished fittingly had you not slipped through the system.”

“System? What system?”

“The system that keeps track of good deeds and bad deeds. It’s nothing more than a computer, really. One in dire need of upgrading. Bloody thing’s full of glitches. Has a habit of deleting entire zip codes from its watch, letting hundreds of blokes like you off the hook every year. It’s my job to rectify that.”

“Rectify it?” Jeff said. “You mean you were going to put that nail in my tire?”

“And this in your milk,” the man said, retrieving a small vial of clear liquid from a pouch on his belt.

“What’s that?”

“Magnesium sulfate.”

“Which is…”

“A mild laxative.”

“You were gonna give me the shits?”

“You’re getting off easy compared to the guy down the street,” the man said as he dropped the vial back into the pouch. “He’s getting sugar in the gas tank of his brand new Mercedes.”

Jeff was speechless. Did this lunatic really think he was going to let him do these things? What kind of neighbor would that make him? What if this psychopath ended up really hurting someone? Jeff thought he’d better let the police handle this. He spotted an orange extension cord coiled up on top of his tool box and reached for it. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“Please, Mr. White, if you will just let me do my job, you can get out of this with just a flat tire and an upset stomach.”

“Turn around!”

Reluctantly, the man did as he was told. “Getting me arrested won’t do you any good. Karma has thousands of agents.”

“Oh do they now?”

“They do. And some of them aren’t as friendly as me.”

Jeff chuckled as he looped the cord around the man’s wrists.

“You really don’t want to do this,” the man said.

“Shut up.”

“You don’t understand what you’re meddling with.”

“And what’s that?”

“The course of fate.”

“Tell it to the judge, freak,” Jeff said as he pulled the knot tight. Then to rocky: “Watch him, boy.”

Jeff went inside and grabbed the phone off the kitchen counter. He thought he saw something through the window behind the sink, a dark figure moving through the neighbor’s back yard. Apparently this ninja guy had him more rattled than he thought. He was about to dial 911 when Rocky started barking again.

The crazy bastard’s running! Jeff thought.

He hurried to the garage and found the side door kicked open, Rocky barking outside. As he ran for the door, he heard tires screech in front of the house, followed by a loud thud, then a canine squeal.

“NO!” Jeff cried. He threw down his rifle, charged down the driveway, and ran into the street where a silver Mercedes had stopped. The driver, a stout, forty-something man with salt and pepper hair and a gray suit coat, stood beside the car, dialing his cell phone. Lying motionless under the front bumper, awash in the car’s headlights, was Rocky.

Jeff knelt at his side. The dog’s eyes were still open, glazed and lifeless, a puddle of blood spreading beneath his head.

“He ran right out in front of me,” the driver explained. “I tried to stop.”

“You shouldn’t have been driving,” Jeff said as he stroked Rocky’s muzzle.

“What?” the driver said.

“The motor should have seized… from the sugar… should have kept you off the road. I should have listened. Should have let him do his job.”

“Look, I know you’re upset, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. The cops are on their way to fill out an accident report.”

Behind the driver, up and down the street, men dressed in ninja garb scaled walls, crouched on rooftops, and climbed in windows. Jeff felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw the ninja from his garage, crouched down behind him. He was holding Jeff’s rifle.

“Dropped your gun, mate,” the ninja whispered.

Jeff took the rifle, and the ninja sunk back into the shadows.

“Look, I’m really sorry about your dog,” the man in the gray suit said. “You should’ve had him on a leash. This is all your fault, you know.”

“No,” Jeff said, shaking his head. “It’s karma. It’s working again.”

“Karma, huh?” the man chuckled. “No offense, but I don’t believe in that stuff. I’ve been a prick my whole life and nothing bad’s ever happened to me.”

“That,” Jeff said as he slid a shell into the chamber, “is all about to change.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Reed is the author of more than 50 short stories. His fiction has appeared in a variety of small press publications including Black Ink Horror, Chimeraworld 5, and the Cutting Block Press anthology, Tattered Souls: The Provocative Boundary of Fear, with stories slated to appear in Sex and Murder and OMG! The Book of Awesome Stuff. Aside from writing, he enjoys frozen pizza, Seinfeld reruns, and hockey fights. He lives in Davison, MI, with his photographer wife and their two enigmatic children. Visit his official Web site: www.ChrisReedFiction.com.