"This is Officer Kyle Thompson reporting from Craven Street!" His voice is strained and filled with exhaustion.
A couple blocks over another officer makes his way to the aforementioned Street. The walkie talkie on his belt is buzzing to life with responses from two other men on the scene. One of them is his long time friend Johnathan Kruger. He always went by John and was currently spouting off a lot of orders to Thompson on how to handle his situation.
"Alright listen kid," John's sigh is profound, "stay calm and get in there. You said you heard a commotion right?"
"Right," Kyle's voice trembles, "Olsen went in already."
"Damn," John grips his walkie tighter, "approach the doorway but do not, I repeat do not go inside. Just try to look inside and report back. Got it?"
Kyle stutters, "Yes Sir."
"John," the approaching officer says into his walkie, "I see the sign for Craven Street. I'm approaching from the opposite end."
"Copy that Mike," John responds while leaning against his squad car. He adjusts his station issued cap and stares down the road at the buildings around him. They're tall and undoubtedly cold from the morning's crisp touch. He's been on the force for five years and has seen a lot of situations like this one. Most were drug related with people hiding out and putting up fights with officers. Usually they could handle it and come out with only a scratch or two. There was one situation that John had witnessed that Mike had not.
It was a summer night on the outskirts of their hometown. Mike was off duty and was temporarily replaced by a younger man from Louisiana. His name was Andy Ross and was a little too excited to be there. John and him had been called in to investigate a disturbance in the farm district. Old man Whittaker lived out there in a rickety old house his grandfather had built from scratch. His neighbors were few, but trustworthy. One of them was the caller. A woman named Doris Doberman with an accent that would instantly remind you of cornbread and beans. She claimed she had heard a gunshot that came from Whittaker's property. She also claimed she saw someone running through his fields. When John and Andy arrived, the farm was eerily quiet. Andy stayed to talk to Doris while John went to the house. The report didn't leave much to the imagination, but he still hoped it wasn't true. Opening the front door gave him a full view of the living room and adjacent hall. Everything was neat and nothing was turned over or broken. It began to give him a strange feeling in the back of his head. So, he pulled out his gun. The perpetrator was seen running, but that doesn't mean he was alone. There could very well be another one.
The hall was dimly lit and lined with framed photos and a small table with an old radio on it. Dust had taken over the top of the thing. The first door lead to the kitchen and was closed. John opened it anyway and once again found nothing out of place. Aside from a plate that is. It was still dirty and had been left on the counter with a silver fork laying across it. The dining room and kitchen were connected and a back door sat dead center on the back wall. It was standing wide open and the night breeze blew in. John went over to the door and examined it with his eyes only. If this man was dead elsewhere in the house, forensics would most certainly want to swab and pick at every square inch of the house. From what he could tell there was no signs of a break in. In fact the back door lined up with Mrs. Doberman's report. It appeared the back door was the perpetrator's exit. Leaving the dining room brought John back into the hall and eye to eye with another door across the way. This one was cracked open ever so slightly and John raised his pistol in caution. With his other hand he slowly pushes it open to reveal a downstairs bedroom. The stairwell was a few feet back further down the hall. As fate would have it John would not need to go upstairs at all. The room was a mess with picture frames on the floor and broken glass piled up next to the entertainment center. The TV was turned over and broken beyond repair. The bed sheets and blankets were pulled tight in direction and halfway way off the mattress. The thing that was pulling it off was Mr. Whittaker. He was laying on the floor in a pool of blood. His eyes were wide open and a dark stain was spread across the front of his flannel shirt. He had been shot once in the chest and was indeed dead.
It took all of July to find the murderer, but they did it. He was an eighteen year old from the city. Tate Johnson was given life and his motive was the all powerful dollar. He had been hired by Whittaker as a farm hand. Whittaker was going through a rough patch and wasn't able to pay him on the usual time. Johnson was in a tight spot too with rent and debt. Still, he made a stupid decision and paid for it. That wasn't John's first time seeing a dead body, but it was his first time seeing a human one. Would've been Mike's too if he had been there, but he's been spared that much for now.
Thompson is peering into the room beyond the alley door. It's yellow from lamp light and filled with old wooden shelves and a large round table in the center. The fold up chairs that lay tipped over on the floor remind Kyle of wrestling. Growing up he always loved watching wrestling with his uncle. Especially the special matches with cages and weapons. The chair was always a common but effective choice. Of course now he knows most if it was staged. Still, getting hit with a chair has to hurt. He wonders if Oslen had been hit with one. He pulls up his walkie, "I can see inside, but there's no sign of anyone."
"Do you hear anything?"
"No, it's dead silent."
"Stay cautious Thompson," Mike interrupts, "we don't know what is going through this guy's head."
"That's right," John says, while moving his car up the road, "someone try to contact Olsen, if it's a no go then we resort to plan B."
"Plan B?"
"Me," Mike chimes in, "I rush to your side and we run in. John will block the alley and we'll corner the sucker."
"Alright, switching signals," Kyle fidgets with his walkie, "Olsen do you copy? This is Thompson. Over."
There's a silence.
"Olsen? Come in Olsen," Kyle pauses, "Billy, you alright?"
This time the silence is broken by a sound that comes through the walkies. It's a deep groan that is laced with pain.
"Bill? That you?" John tries this time, preemptively pulling up to the alley entrance. He looks down it and sees Kyle standing against the doorway.
About that time, Mike also arrives. He waits on the opposite end. His hand is on the holstered gun at his side. Watching him gives John a sense of pride. Seeing his life long friend stepping up to take on things like this. Mike gives it a shot, "Olsen, we're worried about you man. What's wrong?"
Another groan comes through the speakers. This time followed by a weak voice, "help me."
"Were you attacked by the suspect?"
"Help," Olsen whines, "please."
John butts in, "better get in there you two."
With that Mike runs up to Kyle and the two swing the old door open. The sunlight streams through the opening and illuminates the room just a tad bit more. The shelves are covered in cobwebs and lined with various jars and old shoe boxes. The table is dusty and covered in little stab wounds. Almost as if someone had plunged a knife into it several times. Mike leads the way, his flashlight now out as they enter a more darkly lit area of the room. The groans are more audible now. They can see two silhouettes in the dark. The first that Mike's light hits is Oslen. He's laying on the floor and grasping his arm tightly. His mouth is open and the groaning exits from it. The sound is like nails on a chalk board.
"Help me," he utters as he looks up at them, "it hurts so bad."
"Billy!" Before Mike can stop him, Kyle rushes to Olsen's side. Immediately he notices what's wrong.
"What's going on in there?" John's voice echoes in the cold room.
"Appears Bill has a bad arm injury," Mike turns away for a moment. An old habit he's always done while on calls, "I think we can get him out though."
"Alright, what about the suspect?"
Both officers freeze and give each other a sideways glance. They had completely forgotten about the suspect. Kyle goes to move, but Mike silently motions for him to stay put. He then shines his light to where the other silouhute was mere moments ago. The suspect moved. He shines it around with no luck, "John we may have lost him."
"What? Tell me you're joking!"
"Wish I was," his sentence is cut off by movement nearby, "hold on. He's still in the room."
"Good, apprehend him." John lowers his walkie and stares on at the doorway through the car window. A drop of water hits the windshield and is soon followed by more. The rain is light, but probably won't be for long.
John remembers earlier that day he had overheard the news. They were calling for percepitation starting at noon and continuing practically all day. He glances at the digital clock on the dash. It's a quarter past one, right on schedule.
Inside the room, Kyle is hovered over Oslen who's painful sounds join the quiet shuffles of the suspect. He's moving about the room, but not very fast. Mike spots his side profile through a shelf and swings the light right at him. "Walter, that's your name right? Time to give it up bud. Just come with us and everything will be fine."
Walter is a middle aged man with light scruff on his cheeks. He's wanted for abduction charges and suspicion of drug use. They had tracked his recent activity to this back room in a otherwise abandoned building. Kyle knew it as an apartment complex when he was a child, but it closed down when he was only eight. Mike and John were unfamiliar with its past. Seeing how they both transfered here from Pennsylvania. John served three years on the force there and has been here in Virgina for the remaining two. Mike started in Pennsylvania and served one year there before being transferred with John. They were best friends and made a good team. If it wasn't for that, Mike and his family probably would've never left.
"Walter?" Mike continues, taking a cautious step forward. He wasn't moving at all. Walter just stood there and stared straight ahead. Never showing any acknowledgement of the officers at all.
"Is he refusing to cooperate?" John chimes back in, the rain now pouring down around the squad car.
"Not exactly," Mike keeps a watchful eye on the suspect, "he seems out of it. Almost dazed. He's mumbling to himself too, can't make out what he's saying."
"Looks like the drug thing was true then. Do you need me in there?"
"No, I think we can handle this. How's it looking out there?"
"It's freaking piss pouring, Rachel was right."
Mike chuckles, "Rachel's always right."
"Hottest weather lady this side of the states, bet you're jealous."
"Nah, I got my woman John."
"That you do, let's wrap this up. Yeah?"
"Copy that," Mike turns his attention to Kyle, "how's Olsen doing?"
"Not good," Kyle's eyes are wide and he's shaking, "he's out cold and not responding."
"Pulse?" Mike gives Walter one last glance before rushing over.
"I can't feel one."
"Oh shit," Mike mutters and checks the neck point first. Nothing. He goes to grab Olsen's wrist and freezes. His entire arm is covered in a black mass. It pulses and moves like slime.
"What the hell is that?" Kyle jumps up, his shrill voice echoing around them.
"I don't know, but let's get him out of here!"
The groan is heard again, but this time it's not from Olsen. Both officers look over and watch as Walter limps into the light. His clothes are ripped and dirty. His arms and half of his torso are covered in the same black mass. Mike glances up at his face and sees that half of it is also covered. Walter's mouth hangs open on that end. Almost as if he had a bad stroke. His eyes are glossy and almost full white.
"Walter, stand back." Mike tries to reason the suspect, but none of his words are heard.
Walter swings his arms at him, missing and knocking over a pile of boxes on a nearby shelf. The groaning becomes less painful and more enraged. Mike steps back, "John! We have a situation."
"What is it?" John adjusts his position in the car seat. Thunder now joins the rain overhead.
"There's something wrong with the suspect," Mike glances over at Kyle who is even more scared than before.
"Um, Mike," his voice is small and high pitched as he points to the floor.
"Shit!" Mike shouts, dropping the walkie and backing up towards the door.
"Mike? What happened? Dammit Mike answer me!" John listens as both officers shout amongst the background noise in the room. He can hear the groaning, only this time it sounds like two different voices.
"Don't leave me!" Kyle runs towards Mike and trips. He hits the floor with a loud Thud! Walter notices and shambles towards the young officer.
"Hold on," Mike runs back and takes Kyle's hand, "on your feet! Let's move!"
"I can't," his voice becomes strained, "he's got me!"
Mike shines his light and sees Olsen grabbing Kyle by the ankle. His body is even more covered in the black mass and he's making the same sounds as Walter. Angry and animalistic with piercing white eyes. Kyle begins screaming in pain for seemingly no reason. Being grabbed shouldn't hurt that much. Mike shines his light down to where Olsen's hands are. They're covered in the stuff and that black mass is crawling up Kyle's leg like a vine on a tree. Mike tries to pull him out of the grip but isn't fast enough. Walter lunges down and grabs Kyle by the shoulders. The black mass from his hands spreading across Thompson's back. Kyle cries out, "Oh god! Please help!"
His voice is shrill and terrified. Mike backs away slowly as the black mass takes all three of them over. Oslen, Walter, and Kyle. Soon no remnant of them is left. Just black sludge and white eyes. The door swings open behind him and a hand pulls him out into the rain. The sensation and fresh air are a welcomed thing. Mike watches as John stands in the door way, his gun drawn.
"Holy shit," he mutters, "is that them?"
"Yeah," Mike responds with a heavy tremble in his voice.
There's a silence before John closes the door and blocks it with a nearby crate filled with trash. He stands there for a moment as the groans can be heard. Three different voices on the other side. The thumping of palms on the wood and the shuffling of impatient feet. The two leave the alley in a hurry, making it back to the squad car and driving away as quickly as possible. The car ride is quiet and filled with unspoken thoughts and worries.
"Someone get the cheif on the line," John says into the reciever of the car's built in radio, "the sooner the better."
Static comes through the speakers followed by a gruff tone, "this is him, what's the situation Kruger?"
"The operation was a failure. Something went wrong, horribly wrong."
"What do you mean by that? Was someone hurt? Did the suspect escape?" The chief was of course thinking practically and had no real idea of what the two had just witnessed.
"Not exactly," John switches hands and does a right turn onto the highway, "Olsen and Thompson are um well..."
"Hurt," Mike chimes in, "they're hurt bad."
"Right. Hurt," John repeats into the reciever, "and the suspect is hurt in the same way."
"John," The cheif's voice grew impatient, "you're talking to me like I'm a child. How in the hell were all three of them hurt? Was there a shoot out?"
Mike motions for him to hand the receiver to him. John nods and passes it over. All the while the cheif calling out his name in frustrated shouts. Mike gathers himself and takes a deep breath, "it's me cheif. Collins."
"Oh good to see you're alright, now what happened out there?"
Mike sighs, "we ain't trying to undermind you Sir. It's not that at all, but you see...we just don't know how they are hurt. All we know, all I know is that I've never seen anything like that before. It was awful and unnatural."
"Are you still with them?"
"No," Mike looks out the window at the pouring rain, "whatever happened made them aggressive. We had to leave them locked inside the building. I suggest we handle this with extreme caution."
The cheif sighs, "whatever. Look you two report back here on the double! We'll discuss this more when you get settled in. For now, I'm gonna go smoke."
"Copy that, over." Mike hangs up with an added aggression in his demeanor. John gives him a sympathetic glance before putting his attention back on the road. The station wasn't too far away, but it already felt like they were driving for hours.
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