著-[美]莱纳德.B.金 译-奔跑的狮子座
会见新人物是最困难的。当然，我所能预料的是：在我知道某人的名字之前，甚至在跟他们握手之前，我就可以准确地知道他们什么时候死以及怎么死。我当然也知道自己的死亡。麻烦的是，我曾以为每个人都知道。当我是个孩子时，每次母亲的叫喊“不要在街上玩耍，你会害死自己的”总会遇到一个刚学会蹒跚走路的孩子的铿锵有力的回应：“不会的，妈妈。”不知怎么的，准确地告诉她我如何或为什么我知道会这样似乎是个错误，但至少在那个时候，我的死亡是我唯一看到的东西。 所有人中，我认为看到她的死亡对我的打击才是最大的。对我两来说都是如此。想象一下，有一天，你坐在家里为你的孩子做着花生酱和果冻三明治。突然，你抬头看见了你儿子爬到你腿上，鼻涕和泪水流到他的下巴，然后他开始哭诉医院、枯萎的“鲜艳的花束”以及比对他所熟知的黝黑皮肤更加苍白的皮肤。之后，情况只会变得更加糟糕。
一开始它仅限于跟我很好的人，不管是谁或者他们怎么死的，我最终都能看到。然后，变得更加频繁了，于我不熟悉的人，从一句“你好”开始然...跟不熟悉的人待在一起真的很糟糕，当然，在那段时间这种情况并不常发生。
“欧内斯托先生，他们准备好见您了。”
自从预见了我的妈妈之后，我将自己奉献于肿瘤科（知道哪个病人即将死亡以及什么时候给予帮助），尽管事实上我无法改变他们的命运。不久之前，我的一个前同事被抓了。政府从他那里打听到了我的事并派了中情局来敲我家门，这只是时间问题。
好笑，那是怎么回事。我向金发的中年秘书点头。她只是在做她的工作，当我在做我的工作时，我不能过分责怪她。在六个月之内她将会别汽车撞到。肇事逃逸。她的名字会被刻在联邦调查局给她的勋章上，和我的一样，而且我敢肯定她会在某个时刻介绍自己的，但如果我不记得这件事对我们来说才是最好的。与人保持距离可以使事情变得简单。
我坐在一间狭小的等候室，跟其他人没什么两样。坦白来说，从我年轻时起，我就一直在想是否所有的等候室实际上都是同一个房间，通往不同的地方。像医生的，牙医的，律师事务所，财政顾问或像我现在这样，一所藏在兰利（中央情报局所在地）之下的戒备森严的军事实验室。秘书小姐护送我到办公室，那时她的脸上苍白的皱纹隐藏在只有她那个年纪才会化的结块的妆之下。这份工作没什么大不了的，至少跟那些在这里工作的人相比不值一提。
我不能撇下这城镇不管，但我也不会因为合作而置自己于危险之中。我生活在政府批准的公寓，两位中情局特工（他们在退休之前都不会死）一直在守卫门口直到我的下一次见面会。然后这次我来了，做任何他们要求我做的事。至于“被政府绑架”的差事，那还不错。然而，没有什么比一无所有更让你怀念自由的了。
三个男人和两个女人在办公室的另一头排成一排，笔直的站在一个不愿意跟我有眼神接触的白人老头面前，我只能猜测这老头是他们上司。所以这只是其中的一天。他们不是特别吸引人，但也不丑。左边的女人皮肤那么黑，几乎跟她穿的套装融合在一起，她的头发扎成一个髻，然后她看起来好像并不在乎我跟她讲的任何东西。另外一个女人则是苍白得像只绵羊，尽管她没有看着我，我仍能看到她眉毛上有些汗水。不会有人想知道他们如何死的，至少干这一行的不会。站在她旁边的男人有着跟我一样的皮肤，黝黑中带有一点红润，但他的脸上没有显露任何我能辨认的感情。不，这一切都集中表现在他的手上，紧紧地攥在背后。最年轻的一个站在他隔壁，他不像他朋友对面那个女人那么苍白，但他看起来仍然很白皙，就像刚大学毕业一样，可能有一段时间没见过阳光了。他是唯一一个似乎无论我说什么对他来说都是一种解脱的人。在五个人当中，可能他是最危险的。他旁边是个老人，晒黑的皮肤，我能看到一些白发在他耳边摇曳。他甚至可能没意识到他们在那里，他正害怕的发抖，但是他并不表现出来。
我沿着队伍走过去。“80岁，被几个想要复仇的孩子狙击而死；45岁，敌人的侦察暴露了你的位置，在敌人的视野内被杀死；53岁，在你去五角大楼的路上被汽车撞死；35岁，被人折磨而死。噢！”我微笑着说，不必费心去隐藏我的兴奋：“真是有趣。”
“哪里有趣了？”老板耸起他的眉毛。双臂交叉着。
“你们正处在一场人质谈判当中，你们就是人质，大约二十名狙击手包围了这里，就在停车场外，干得漂亮，如果你问我的话。”我说道。
在我们七个人当中有一股沉寂，我花了点时间退后并思考了一下，想到了我的母亲。第四阶段的肿瘤正在医院的病床上蹂躏她的身体，我知道没有太多的研究和一厢情愿的想法能救她，我知道没有办法去改变命运。一瞬间，我闪现到最后一名特工的背后，他的枪早已被我握在手中，并且我在其他人有机会抽枪之前就锁紧了他的喉咙。
“好的，让我们开始谈判吧。”我说道，我能感觉到这个男人开始摇摆，他的皮肤湿漉漉的因为他意识到他即将倒下。
毕竟，没人想知道他们是如何死的。
“如果要说有什么安慰的话，我只能比你们多活几秒钟”我一边说一边退出了门外。
Inevitable
by Leonard B King
It's meeting new people that's the hardest.
Of course, what could I expect, when before I even know someone's name, before I even shake their hand, I know exactly when and how they'll die?
I'd always known about my own death, of course. Trouble was, I thought everyone knew. When I was a kid, my mother's cries of, "Don't play in the street, you could get yourself killed," were met with as firm a, "No it won't, Mommy" as a toddler could muster. It seemed wrong, somehow, to tell her precisely how or why I knew that, but at least back then my death was the only thing I could see.
Out of everyone, I think seeing her death hit me the hardest. For the both of us.
Imagine, one day you're sitting at home, making your kid peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch and all of a sudden, you look up and your son is clamped to your leg, snot and tears running down his chin and blubbering about hospitals and wilted "get well" bouquets and too pale skin contrasting with the familiar dark skin he'd always known.
After that, it just got worse.
It started with just people I knew well. It didn't matter who it was or how they died, I would see it eventually. Then it got more frequent, with people I wasn't familiar with, to the point where I'd say "hello" and then....
It's only really bad when I'm with unfamiliar people. Which, granted, doesn't happen often these days.
"Mister Ernesto, they're ready for you."
After the vision about my mom, I dedicated my life to oncology (knowing which patients are going to die and when helps), despite the fact that I can do nothing to change her fate. It wasn't long before a former colleague caught on, and from there it was only a matter of time until the government figured me out and sent the CIA knocking on my door. Funny, how that works out.
I nod at the middle-aged, bottle-blonde secretary. She's just doing her job, I can't fault her too much when I'm just doing mine. She's going to get hit by a car in six months. Hit and run. Her name is on the badge the feds gave her, same as mine, and I'm sure she introduced herself at one point, but it's better for both of us if I don't remember it. Makes things easier when I don't have a name to put to a face.
I'm sitting in a small waiting room, no different from any other. Frankly, I've wondered since my youth if all waiting rooms are actually just the same room leading out to different places. Like the doctor's, the dentist's, a lawyer's office, a financial advisor, or in my case, a high-security military laboratory somewhere underneath Langley.
Miss Secretary escorts me to the office, the pale wrinkles in her face hidden beneath a caked-on makeup style only women her age wore these days.
The job's nothing major, at least not compared to that done by some of the other people who work here. I can't leave town unsupervised, but I'm also not risking my life by cooperating. I stay in my government-approved apartment with two CIA agents guarding the door (neither of them die until they're well into retirement) until my next appointment, then I come here and do whatever it is they want this time. As far as "kidnapped by the government" jobs go, it's not half bad. Still, there's nothing that makes you miss freedom more than not having any.
Three men and two women are lined up on the other end of the office, standing perfectly straight in front of an old white man whom I can only assume is their boss, and refusing to make eye contact with me. Miss Secretary turns to leave.
So it's one of those days.
They're not particularly attractive but not ugly either. The woman on the left has skin so dark it almost blends in with the pantsuit she's wearing. Her hair is tied back in a bun, and she looks like she won't care no matter what I tell her. The other is pale as a sheet, and though she's not looking at me, I can still see some perspiration on her brow. No one likes knowing how they die. Not in this line of work, at least. The man next to her has skin like mine, dark, a little ruddy, but his face betrays no emotion I can discern. No, that's all concentrated in his hands, tightly clenched behind his back. The youngest is next to him. He's not as pale as the woman opposite his buddy, but he's still white and looks like he's fresh out of college, probably hasn't seen the sun in a while. He's the only one who looks like whatever I say will come as a relief to him. Out of the five, he's probably the most dangerous. Next to him is an older man, tanned skin, I can see some gray hairs peeking out over his ears. He probably doesn't even realize they're there yet. He's quaking in his boots, but just his boots.
I walk down the line.
"80. Sniper fire from some kid wanting revenge. 45. Enemy spy compromises your position, killed on sight. 53. Car crash on your way to the pentagon. 35. Tortured to death. Oh," I grin, not bothering to hide my excitement. "Oh that's interesting."
"What's interesting?" The boss raises his eyebrows, arms folded.
"You're in a hostage negotiation, you're the hostage. The kidnapper's surrounded by maybe twenty snipers, out in the parking lot. Made it pretty far, if you ask me," I say.
There's a bead of silence growing between the seven of us. I took the moment to step back and think for a bit, to think of my mother, Stage 4 tumors ravaging her body in a hospital bed that I know no amount of research and wishful thinking will fix. I know there's no changing fate.
In a flash, I'm behind the last agent. His gun is in my hand and I've got him in a chokehold before the others can draw their guns.
"Well, let's get started," I say. I feel the man start to sway, his skin clammy as the realization that he's about to die sinks in.
No one likes to know how they die, after all.
"If it's any consolation, I only outlive you for a few seconds," I say as we back out the door.
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