mirror of https://github.com/nealey/Horrors2
184 lines
5.0 KiB
TeX
184 lines
5.0 KiB
TeX
\chapauth{lucifer chikken}
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\chapter{The Warehouse}
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Dripping water echoed through the empty warehouse. I stepped into a
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slant of light thrown by security spotlights outside. The sliver of
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light was intermittently chopped by an exhaust fan set into the
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wall. I checked my old automatic watch, lost in meditation as the
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second hand whirred smoothly around the dial. It was late. I wound
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up at the old warehouse in the harbor on a hunch, there was a lot
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of money riding on the investigation, and Luke Bavarius, P.I.
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listened to hunches when it meant keeping the freezer flush with
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starchy Hungry Man dinners.
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In the distance, a low grunt crept through the darkness accompanied
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by the clang of metal. The sound rattled me down to the very
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marrow. Instinctively, my hand flew to my Beretta, two fingers
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rubbing the sleek metal for security. I'd seen a lot of horrors in
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the Big Apple, some things I'd never shake. The Beretta was my
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partner through each of them.
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Gritty footsteps crossed the dirty cement floor some distance in
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front of me. Squinting, I caught a flash of pale skin, a glint of
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metal. I pulled my gun from its holster, admiring its length as it
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was unsheathed. Stalking forward, back tight against shipping
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containers, I disengaged the safety and cocked the gun. Footsteps
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scurried further into the depths of the warehouse.
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I spoke to the darkness. ``Show yourself,
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asshole.''
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Legs flashed across a slit of light.
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``No one should be here now,'' I muttered. My heart fired
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adrenaline through my body. ``Shoot first, ask questions
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later, Bavarius.''
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I raised my weapon, aiming it at the sound. ``Stop right
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there!'' I shouted, firing two shots into the darkness. An
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anguished cry echoed off the tin ceiling, followed closely by a
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thick thud of a body hitting the floor.
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I honed in on the sound and stalked toward it. In the shadows,
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another hulking figure loomed. ``What the fuck is
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that?''
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It emitted a low sound and moved. Its form seemed unearthly. My
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colon clenched in response to the adrenaline rush. Must've drank
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too much muddy coffee before this stakeout.
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Again, my Beretta found itself ready to fire as I aimed at the
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hulking figure. The sounds it was making, the low groans, were
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unearthly. Whatever it was, it had to be done away with. My finger
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twitched on the trigger.
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``Don't do it, Mister.'' The weak voice came from my
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right. My eyes darted between the veiled voice and the shadows in
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front of me.
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``What the hell are you?'' I called.
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The voice didn't answer immediately. It just whimpered.
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``What are you?!'' I demanded again, pouring all of the
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testosterone pooled my balls into my voice.
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``I'm{\ldots} hurt. Don't shoot it.''
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``Shoot what?'' There was a pause. ``Shoot
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what!''
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``Please{\ldots} I'm just a kid{\ldots}''
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Oh, hell. A kid. I bit the inside of my cheek to stave off the
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encroaching vomit. I could envision the bile on its rise from my
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ulcerated stomach. My hand shook. The figure groaned low again and
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my finger impulsively squeezed away at the trigger. Violence
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exploded once more, echoing through the tin-paneled warehouse. The
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figure received my bullet, still unsure of its identity, I watched
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its shadowed form waver in the shadows.
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``No!'' The kid cried, his pubescent voice cracking with
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pain and disgust. He had dragged his body toward me. My gun hand
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fell limply to my side; I looked down at the kid with pity and
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shame. A gleaming snail trail of blood darkened the cement floor
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behind him.
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``Why are you in here?''
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The kids eyes were pale with death. You could almost hear the blood
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draining from him in sick little spurts.
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``You shot the giraffe,'' he wailed, low.
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My attention snapped from the kid to the darkness in front of me. I
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squinted, deciphering the dark figure wavering before me. Its long
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neck gradually came into focus. I stepped closer to the beast. It
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was vomiting blood from its neck, muscular spasms shooting through
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the six foot long tube of meat; its long blue tongue drooped to the
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side flaccidly. Long eyelashes fluttered over its cow-like brown
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eyes.
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Woozy, the giraffe suddenly dropped to its knobby knees, its neck
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lolled dramatically to the side. The neck snapped over a row of
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container drums, folding thickly like a bag of sand. The sound
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reverberated through the hollow spaces in my bones. It wasn't
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likely to be forgotten, to abandon those spaces, any time soon. I
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clutched desperately at my stomach, trying not to vomit my liver
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and onion dinner all over the floor.
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I glanced at the kid. Exhalations escaped him in a long rattling
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breaths. He'd be a goner without help.
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``Ah shit,'' my chest heaved. ``Should've listened
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to the kid, Bavarius.''
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Sirens screamed toward the warehouse. From the wide doorway, the
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rain-slicked streets of the Empire City opened their arms to me. I
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pulled a Pall Mall from the emergency pack stashed in my pocket and
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lit it up, muttering to myself, the cigarette bouncing between my
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lips. ``New York. I ream her and ruin her, but the whore keeps
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taking me back.''
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Red lights whirled closer. Suddenly, I was sobbing.
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