layer of supernatural weirdness.
My stomach jerked into a knot and the air took on the consistency of a blanket that had been drenched in boiling water. Everything was hot, so smotheringly hot I could barely breathe.
Down the hallway were two openings between me and the back wall. On my left was a steel gate, like prison bars. It had a big lock on it. I swept the light inside the bars. There were shelves lining each wall stacked with bins. In the center of the room was a long, cheap table. At the table sat naked women stuffing little white rocks of crack into small ziplock bags. They were naked so they couldn’t steal crack from the drug dealers, so high they moved like automatons. Robotically, they swung their arms from piles of crack to piles of plastic bags. So far gone that none of them looked over at the big scary man with the shotgun and the halogen spotlight. I turned away, moving on.
A few steps down the hall was a wide-open archway. Warm yellow light spilled out, cutting a space open on the floor of the hallway. The carpet of trash abruptly stopped just short of the opening, leaving a clean hardwood floor under the spilled light. I pressed my back against the wall and listened. There was a clinking noise, low and chiming. Not repetitive, but similar each time it sounded. My mind couldn’t pick out a pattern to it or place where I had heard it before. The supernatural taint to the air was oppressive. I took a deep breath to center myself. The inhale brought me up short.
I smelled pot roast.
The scent of cooked meat tore through the air, so out of place in the environment I was in that it was jarring. The smell clashed in my mind, reminding me of Sunday dinners at home with my family after Mass.
I shoved that memory away. I couldn’t get caught in it, especially back then. They still sneak up on me even today. Memories like that, they blindside you. Memories like that could drive me to my knees. Memories like that could drive me insane. Memories like that could get me killed, and there were two little girls waiting on me to save them: Kaylee Anne Dobbs and Mary with the big brown eyes who was waiting in the Comet. They needed me. I couldn’t fall apart because of a memory. So I ripped it out of my mind and crammed it deep down, pushing it away violently.
The smell still jangled on my nerves. So out of place. My skin was tight, every muscle primed. Adrenaline simmered in my veins as I swung around the archway to face whatever was in that glowing, yellow room.
I found a man sitting at a table eating supper.
The man was huge. His silverware looked dainty in hands the size of catcher’s mitts. He was well-groomed, red hair and full beard neatly kept. The clothes he wore were very suburban. A light blue polo shirt strained over shoulders the size of bowling balls, and I could see khaki pants covering his legs under the small table where he sat. The hems of the pants sat on loafers the size of shoeboxes that stretched out between the table legs.
He didn’t look up, even with the shotgun’s light shining on him. He just continued eating the last of the meal on the plate in front of him. The knife in one hand cut meat with a clinking scrape. The fork in the other stabbed the meat along with potatoes and carrots, and scooped them up to his mouth.
“What the hell are you doing? Are you McMahon?”
Ignoring me, he tucked away his last bite, chewing and savoring it. With a sigh, he wiped his mouth with a wad of fabric and looked up. His eyes were beady and black, set in a wide face. There was still a bit of potato stuck in his beard.
“I am McMahon. Who the hell are you?” His voice had an Irish lilt to it.
“Where is Kaylee Dobbs?”
“Oh, you are here about the girl.” His hands came down on the table and he looked like he was going to stand up. I swiveled the shotgun and squeezed the trigger. Thunder roared out of the barrel as the last breecher slug smashed into the refrigerator beside him. Racking
My stomach jerked into a knot and the air took on the consistency of a blanket that had been drenched in boiling water. Everything was hot, so smotheringly hot I could barely breathe.
Down the hallway were two openings between me and the back wall. On my left was a steel gate, like prison bars. It had a big lock on it. I swept the light inside the bars. There were shelves lining each wall stacked with bins. In the center of the room was a long, cheap table. At the table sat naked women stuffing little white rocks of crack into small ziplock bags. They were naked so they couldn’t steal crack from the drug dealers, so high they moved like automatons. Robotically, they swung their arms from piles of crack to piles of plastic bags. So far gone that none of them looked over at the big scary man with the shotgun and the halogen spotlight. I turned away, moving on.
A few steps down the hall was a wide-open archway. Warm yellow light spilled out, cutting a space open on the floor of the hallway. The carpet of trash abruptly stopped just short of the opening, leaving a clean hardwood floor under the spilled light. I pressed my back against the wall and listened. There was a clinking noise, low and chiming. Not repetitive, but similar each time it sounded. My mind couldn’t pick out a pattern to it or place where I had heard it before. The supernatural taint to the air was oppressive. I took a deep breath to center myself. The inhale brought me up short.
I smelled pot roast.
The scent of cooked meat tore through the air, so out of place in the environment I was in that it was jarring. The smell clashed in my mind, reminding me of Sunday dinners at home with my family after Mass.
I shoved that memory away. I couldn’t get caught in it, especially back then. They still sneak up on me even today. Memories like that, they blindside you. Memories like that could drive me to my knees. Memories like that could drive me insane. Memories like that could get me killed, and there were two little girls waiting on me to save them: Kaylee Anne Dobbs and Mary with the big brown eyes who was waiting in the Comet. They needed me. I couldn’t fall apart because of a memory. So I ripped it out of my mind and crammed it deep down, pushing it away violently.
The smell still jangled on my nerves. So out of place. My skin was tight, every muscle primed. Adrenaline simmered in my veins as I swung around the archway to face whatever was in that glowing, yellow room.
I found a man sitting at a table eating supper.
The man was huge. His silverware looked dainty in hands the size of catcher’s mitts. He was well-groomed, red hair and full beard neatly kept. The clothes he wore were very suburban. A light blue polo shirt strained over shoulders the size of bowling balls, and I could see khaki pants covering his legs under the small table where he sat. The hems of the pants sat on loafers the size of shoeboxes that stretched out between the table legs.
He didn’t look up, even with the shotgun’s light shining on him. He just continued eating the last of the meal on the plate in front of him. The knife in one hand cut meat with a clinking scrape. The fork in the other stabbed the meat along with potatoes and carrots, and scooped them up to his mouth.
“What the hell are you doing? Are you McMahon?”
Ignoring me, he tucked away his last bite, chewing and savoring it. With a sigh, he wiped his mouth with a wad of fabric and looked up. His eyes were beady and black, set in a wide face. There was still a bit of potato stuck in his beard.
“I am McMahon. Who the hell are you?” His voice had an Irish lilt to it.
“Where is Kaylee Dobbs?”
“Oh, you are here about the girl.” His hands came down on the table and he looked like he was going to stand up. I swiveled the shotgun and squeezed the trigger. Thunder roared out of the barrel as the last breecher slug smashed into the refrigerator beside him. Racking
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