Chapter 1 - The Chair
Tuesday, September 13th, 11:43 PM
Officer Reynolds, DEA
North Outer District
"It just seems to get worse and worse out here, huh?"
I nod along to Jim's words, bringing the car to a squealing stop next to the crumbling sidewalk, cringing a little at the noise. I shut the car off, light a cigarette, and open the window a bit for ventilation. The air is muggy tonight, thick with impatience. Electricity singes the air, a sign of an incoming storm. Our car sits in shadow, nothing but a ghost on the abandoned road. It is silent out, the only disturbance is the occasional shout or car passing. The rest of our team hides similarly in dark vehicles around the block.
"You sure this is the place?" Jim asks, restless. He twirls a pen in his hands, the cap chewed up. He does not glance away from the window.
"Yes."
"Chief describe the building to you? Or give you the address?"
I stub out the cigarette and sigh.
"This is the place."
Jim continues staring at the house, a faux air of boredom arising from him, in an attempt to mask his nervousness. The house sits on the corner of the road, a modest one-story building - left to rot. It sinks into the ground, its sickly plaster walls straining against years of neglect. The yard is barren, dead plants line the driveway, and the splintered fence offers no protection to the desolate structure. Grated windows let out a pallid glow, which occasionally flickers out with movement behind the clouded windows.
"How long does this usually go on for?" Jim exhales in frustration after a few long minutes.
"However long it needs to. Thought they taught you that already."
I glance at the kid, annoyed, although not completely surprised by his incompetence. He's barely out of school, still with the air of invincibility most guys have when first joining. I sigh again and light another cigarette.
Generally, the stakeouts are uneventful. Watch, record, and let the younger guys deal with it, occasionally beat information out of some dumbass. Easy. This job's a little more complicated, but still, I'm hoping for a break. It should be a simple night.
The dashboard clock is nearing half past midnight before anything happens. This is to say, a rugged man, in clothing three sizes too large for him, leaves the house, carrying a crumpled brown paper bag. He heads to the busted car on the side of the house, wipes his wrist under his nose, and falls into the driver's seat, throwing the bag to the passenger's side. A moment passes, then a large growl emanates from the rusting thing, and it visibly shakes from the noise of the engine. The guy pulls out of the driveway and down the road. I silently turn my car on and pull into a crawl, headlights off, engine a gentle purr. I radio to my other guys to follow, and I see three more shadows move from around the block. We begin to trail the guy.
It takes only about thirty minutes of driving through the collapsing city and then marshy thickets before we reach our destination, a large warehouse near the north waterfront. Untamed scrublands line the concrete foundation, along with skeleton streetlamps whose light bulbs were broken years ago. The only light comes from patchy fluorescents lining the hulking warehouse. The structure itself isn't much better to look at, plastered posters and graffiti caking every surface. The man parks around the side of the building, and I position my car in the brush a good distance from the structure itself; hidden, but still able to watch. The others, I know, are discreetly surrounding the structure. The guy shuts the car off and steps out. He glances around him, and makes his way towards the building, fighting a large jumble of keys as he steps forward. I can see his hands shake even from a distance. The brown bag is cradled under his arm, against his ribs. He struggles with the door, but eventually opens it, and disappears inside the maw of the building.
I look at Jim and move my finger to my mouth in a 'silent' motion, then reach for my pistol, and make my way out of the car. The air is denser here, the storm is closer. Hopefully, we'll be out of here before it hits. He follows clumsily, and I wave for him to follow me.
"Wait!" He half-whispers, half-shouts. "Don't we need a warrant or something? The guy's not doing shit right now. For all we know he's just saying 'hi' to his druggie pals."
I turn to him, tense.
"You see where we are?" I hiss, trying to be quiet despite my annoyance. "You see any 'No trespassing' signs near here? These warehouses have been abandoned for years. It's condemned property. We can do as we please."
He looks down, attempting to cover up a rather pathetic pout. I motion for him to follow me.
We make our way around the side of the building, meeting up with the other officers. We're eight in total. We hug the shadows in the wake of the structure and creep towards the door. The silence is heavy, and the humid air presses down on my skin through my thick clothing.
The windows around the building are caked with dirt, making it difficult to see in. No noise comes from inside as we make our way to the door. I pull at the doorknob and smile at the guy's idiocy. He didn't lock the door behind him. I slowly turn the knob, and peer inside.
A long, dark hallway greets me. Empty.
I turn to the others, and mouth 'clear' to them, and silently we make our way inside. The hallway has several doors lining it, each one closed. At the end, however, a door is ajar, and pale light flickers from beyond the doorway. I look at Jim, and he nods back, his hand near his holster. Just in case. We creep down the hall, and I occasionally peer behind us to make sure no one is trailing us. I motion for the guys to go on either side of the door, and glance inside, cautious.
The room is smaller than I expected, with crumbling concrete and rusting sheets of corrugated tin making up the walls. A few boxes and crates rot in the corners. A single lightbulb in the center of the room illuminates the place, a pillar of light mirrored on the floor where stale water sits. Shadows hug the walls, as though scared to enter that pillar. No one is inside. I gingerly push the door open with my foot, my pistol raised defensively in front of me.
The first thing I notice is the overwhelming smell. Dust, metal machinery, and motor oil greet my nose, as well as the scent of decay. I feel bile simmer in the back of my throat, and try to push it down. The water must be rusting from the metal, growing mold, some bullshit. Paranoia traces down my spine, and I feel sweat on my brow. I look through the halo of light in the center of the room, to the potent shade on the other side. A door waits.
I beckon the others in with my pistol, and lower it to my side, though I don't reholster it.
The others enter the room, and I hear a few muffled groans from them likely reacting to the revolting smell. I use my hand to cover my nose and mouth and make my way to the end of the room, to the door. Halfway there, my knees collide with something hard. The guys move their hands to their holsters, but I wave them off. I look down. I ran into a decomposing chair. It sits right on the border of the light, legs barely visible in the tangible shadow. The vinyl seat is cracking; the wood splintering. I glance at it for a moment, then I step forward, behind the chair, and open the small metal door along the back wall. Its hinges scream as I force it open. Darkness fills the doorway. I turn on my flashlight, and wave it around the room. A small office greets me. Yellowed and rotting papers line the room, filing cabinets crushed and mangled. A desk sits overturned, and dust lines every surface. No one inside. I close the door, and turn around, shaking my head to let them know there's nothing.
"Maybe he ran for it. Caught our scent and got the hell out of here." I hear one of the officers mumble. Some of them nod, whether because they agree, or simply want to leave, I can't tell. They keep their hands raised over their faces. Jim steps around me and opens the office door, leaning in.
I wave off all of their annoyance and motion for them to head out. This is more than I expected from tonight. This is way too fucking confusing for me.
I know the guy didn't run away, since we heard no engine start, but he could have run off into the brush, waiting for us to leave. Regardless, we'll search the rest of the rooms before we head out.
They all shift and stumble towards the hallway at my motion. I head for the door as well, then hesitate. I feel my vision swim. The room gains a charge, and the air is tense, like a lightning bolt about to strike. I feel… watched. Sweat trails down my back under my vest.
"Leaving so soon?"
It should have been a simple night.
I gingerly turn around, foot first, then my waist, then shoulders, and I finally turn my head towards the circle of light.
Feet sit at the edge of the circle. Shiny black shoes disturb the water, and the dark legs are a soft gradient until the darkness swallows them past the knees. The right foot is tapping impatiently.
I can feel the vomit rise from my stomach, my vision foggy from the overwhelming smell of death.
What the fuck?
The rest of my team, upon noticing my absence in the hall, turns back around. I am simultaneously comforted and distressed when they rush back inside, clumsy hands reaching for firearms. So they can see it too…
It's then that I notice Jim is gone.
The feet move. The figure stands.
Blood curls in the water at the feet. A gentle chuckle sounds from all around the room.
"DEA! Hands up! Don't move!" They shout from behind me.
A pause.
"Get on the ground! Get on the fucking ground!"
I feel a large thud go through my body, and I fall to the sodden ground. Shot? A searing pain clutches my body.
A chorus of struggling ensues, and gunshots fire, the light from the pistols bouncing around the room. Limbs twist in violence, and the visceral crack of several bones breaking reaches my ears. The scent of blood permeates the air, filling it, chewing it. The water seeps into my scalp, chilling my bones. The noises continue for a few moments, then suddenly stop.
Silence drenches the air in the room. A beat passes. Two. The gentle sweeping of fabric sounds near my ear, and the elegant clunk…clunk… of shoes.
I force my eyes open. A shadow swims at the edge of my vision. A man. A ghost?
A demon.
The last thing I see is the face of Death staring down at me, his pistol pointed at my forehead.