footsteps
Mist swirled menacingly around his legs as he ventured down the dark alley. He treaded carefully, his recorder in his hand, eyes darting around anxiously. He was close, he knew it, to the greatest story of the year, close, but he had to get evidence of it. It would be the biggest scoop in this decade and it would definitely wipe the smirk off the director of The Daily Tribune, who often looked down on her. The shadows grew darker but he did not notice. It started to rain, heavily, so he slipped the recorder into his coat so as not to damage it. Then, as he wa-ed towards the place where he had received a tip-off about, through the maze of mist and alleys, he felt someone move behind him. He flipped his head back. There was no one there, but something felt terribly wrong. He quickened his steps, but there it was again, the faint sound of footsteps following him. He stopped and turned once again. There was no one there. Then he set off at a running pace and this time, he was sure he heard clearly footsteps pounding behind him. He cast a third look over his shoulders, and it was his last.
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Detective Tansha Yellstown was the only policewoman in the entire police force of New York, and she did not enjoy being it. In the 22nd century, no man dared to risk his neck on the force, let alone women. So she received several forms of advice on her daring choice of occupation, ranging from little snide remarks by her colleagues, the raging of her mother, and the ranting of a lunatic old man. Of course, these would never deter her from what she had aspired to do from birth. Back when books were more common, she had lavished in Sundays of detective tales and accounts, all read out to her by her father, but once he died, these Sundays also died along with him.
Now, 24 years old and widely criticized by neighbours, she had few friends, but had a burning passion for her work. She rose up to the challenge of every case, however puzzling or dangerous. Quite a number of crimes in NY had been solved by her and of course, overlooked with a mere sneer by the Head of NYPD. So when she received the call about the death of the journalist, Tom Kits, she was positively elated. She had been sifting through an unending portfolio of the criminals that had risen to the attention of NYPD in the past decade; a boring and tiring job assigned to her by, of course, the Head of Police. So she leapt into her coat, packed up her trusty pistol, which was scoffed at by her colleagues, who preferred the more modern electric guns that had the in-built technology that allowed the user to aim sloppily and fire; the bullets and the gun would see to it that the bullet reached its target. However, Tansha liked the old pistol as it had a wider range and a greater ability to injure its target, and gave off an aura of authority.
She hopped onto her old motorcycle and roared off in a cloud of smoke towards the scene of the crime, not noticing the shutters that flickered in the window of the building opposite the NYPD central headquarters, nor did she notice the gleam of the eyes that were hidden behind the shutters.
Tansha reached there just after sunset, at a time when traffic was the busiest. She turned into a small, dirty alleyway in the Old Town area that stood near the docks. And received the shock of her life. The bodies of six officers were draped across the ground, eyes glazed over and faces fixed in a silent scream of terror. Blood was splattered over the two walls of the alley, and she heavily suspected that they were of the policemen. She felt again the disgust that racked her stomach at the sight of the devastated bodies of the policemen. There were vicious gashes in their flesh and blood still dripped from the brutal cuts on their arms, which told that they had suffered horribly before they had died.
Then she noticed another body that was cut off from the six bodies and she knew that it was the body of Tom Kits, the journalist, even before she took a closer look. But it was not his body that drew her attention. It was the white piece of paper that was placed upon his body, which she removed without hesitation, which drew her utmost attention. She scanned it swiftly and her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Tansha was thinking most furiously, but she pushed her dark thoughts to the back of her mind and called for backup, and was surprised when her voice shook as she related the location of this grisly murder. Then she got back onto her motorcycle and thought about what she had read.
As night approached, backup finally arrived. The Head of NYPD himself sauntered towards her.
"What's this, Yellstown? What are you doing here? What the…" He gulped when he caught sight of the six mutilated bodies of policemen behind her. He steadied himself and then barked, "What the hell is going on here, woman? Update me! Now!"
"I received a call by…" Tansha repeated what had happened since she'd received the call calmly and smoothly to the man constantly made things difficult for her.