Introductory Short Story

(continued...)

Bill had experienced these sorts of feelings before, and he could usually tell what they meant, or what was triggering them, more or less. He could get an association with something at the very least, some hint of a memory or a correlation of ideas. He was born with this talent, and ten years in the Paranormal Scientific Investigation Agency (PSIA) in Laketown had made him even more aware, hyper conscious, some might say. He had highly trained and developed all of his five senses, and had discovered more he hadn’t realised he possessed. But for all his talents, he couldn’t tell much about this feeling. Just that it was a bad one.

Last night was one hell of a bender, thought Bill, lifting his buried face from the pillow. No two ways about it. He yawned and exhaled near toxic fumes. Heavy drinking was not something he indulged in regularly, just the odd session with the boys down at the ‘McArnie’s’. He winced in regret as he realised he had missed an entire day at work. He should be able to pass off one missed day without too much trouble. He felt a twinge if guilt. Hell, he was supposed to meet those new recruits today! He’d have to keep this one under his hat.

His boss, Stan Galloway, let agents organise their own time, but God help you if you got caught sleeping off a night on the booze. He wondered how Bruce and Jerry had gotten home.

Still, he thought, even government agents deserved to enjoy themselves once in a while. The agency’s preferred haunt was “McArnie’s”, a small, old-fashioned pub near the pier, with timber floors and weather worn sailboats hanging in the rafters. “The Tattler’s Rest” was the favourite place for the local police, and many from the Laketown FBI field office. The PSIA enjoyed it too occasionally. Bill had run into a few buddies from the FBI at McArnie’s and they had kicked on to the nearby jazz club, “Blue Lotus” and carried on there until eight the next morning.

He squeezed his throbbing temples and got dressed. Seven p.m. or not, there was nothing to do now but start the day, he thought. He had been planning to head down to the ‘Night Shade’ and question a witness who had reported an unusual event. Now would be a good time. He slipped a clip into his Berretta, stowed it in his holster beneath his suit jacket, and stepped out the front door of his apartment.

The incident had been reported by one of the staff at the ‘Night Shade’ a notorious nightclub, a drinking and gambling den frequented by the typical low-lifes, anarchists, and the various criminal elements that inhabited the Withers, a district of Laketown. A man had disappeared. One moment there, the next, gone, according to the witness. This had happened several nights in a row, apparently. The girl who reported it was either deeply disturbed, or something very strange was happening in the Withers.

Bill drove for an hour, from the residential South Western quarter of Laketown, across the central business district, with its fashionable high rise apartments and haughty corporate skyscrapers, through the subway that delved under the rail yards, and into the Withers, a rough, tenderloin district east of the city centre. The Withers was not a safe place for anyone, street punk, cop, federal agent, armed or otherwise. Cops always entered this place in large teams, always heavily armed, often in armoured vehicles. Just as well I’m not a cop, thought Bill. All manner of illegal activities went on here. The cops cast a blind eye on much of it, especially the more lucrative criminal enterprises. They mostly left the Withers to its own devices.

Tonight there were a lot of people out on the street. Chain and baseball bat wielding punks had gathered in a large crowd at the end of the street. They were overturning a car, bashing in its windows, and making a lot of noise. Bill made a U-turn and took another route. He wondered if he should bother calling the police. He made the call anyway. As he expected, the operator said they were unable to deal with this any time soon, they were fielding a large number of officers to quell several other riots, rat attacks on the docks, and scores of other violent incidents all over the city. She told him to keep off the streets, and keep well away from the lake. He laughed wryly, wished the operator a good evening and hung up.

The ‘Night Shade’ was on the outskirts of the Withers. Bill parked his Dodge Neon outside the club, feeling no better despite popping of a couple of non-prescription pills.

Big Tony was on the door tonight, and was dealing with an emaciated young customer who was apparently making some sort of complaint. Bill had met Big Tony once before, and knew he was a bouncer not to be out muscled. Big Tony held him at arm’s length while the customer swore and tried to claw his eyes out. The bouncer pushed the youth across the pavement and he collapsed into the gutter.

Bill stepped out of his Dodge Neon and on to the pavement, black and slick with recent rainfall. His breath ghosted upwards in the chill. He walked over to the youth and helped him get up on his feet.

“Get your **** hands of me, pig.” The youth pushed him away and shuffled down the street cursing.

“Stand up straight and walk like a man.” Bill yelled hoarsely after him. “And show some respect!”

The youth and made an obscene gesture before he disappeared around the corner.

Bill turned his attention back to Big Tony. “How about dealing with your customers a bit more, how shall I say, tactfully?”

“You a cop?” Big Tony asked him. “I seen you before.”

“No, I’m not a cop. I’m a government agent, and I’m here to ask one of your staff a few questions.” Bill flashed his badge punctiliously.

Big Tony folded his arms. “We don’t like questions, an’ we don’t like no pigs, so go some place else.”

Bill sighed. “For the last time, I’m not a cop. Okay, we can do this the hard way if you like, but I’m coming in one way or another.” Bill scratched his chin and shrugged. “You’ve got something to hide, eh? You got something to hide? I’m not a cop, but I can get a warrant, I can get a warrant quick as you can, er,” Bill clicked his fingers, “and have this place crawling with cops and federal agents, or you can let me in instead. What do you say?”

It was a weak bluff and poorly delivered. Bill’s head haze had highjacked his ability to think straight. Even if they weren’t dealing with riots, robberies and mutant rat attacks, the police and FBI wouldn’t be interested in a few drug dealers, the likes of which would hang out in the Night Shade. That’s assuming they weren’t on the payroll in the first place. Nor would they have the slightest interest in a ‘disappearing man’. All but the PSIA would think it just the hallucination of some drugged up loser from the slums. Perhaps they were right, thought Bill. Nevertheless, a denizen of the Withers had seen fit to contact the authorities about the disappearance of one of their own. That in itself was remarkable.

However, Big Tony wasn’t the brightest bouncer in the Withers. He considered Bill’s threat for a moment in stony-faced silence. Perhaps something really big was going down inside that night. Perhaps the bouncer mistook the hangover hell in Bill’s eyes for a dam about to burst its fury. Whatever it was, Big Tony opened the door, and Bill walked inside.

There was a long bar, a lounge area with brown leather couches at the far wall, a few pool tables, and a large carpeted area to the right with gambling tables and one armed bandits. There was a small crowd; a few drably attired men hunched over the blackjack tables, some pool players with cigarettes drooping from their mouths, a few rough looking groups sitting at tables.

The bar staff did not look particularly busy. Most likely the drug of choice in here was not alcohol anyway. A young man with spiked hair and sunken eyes was flicking a full bottle of vodka behind his back and catching it again in front of him.

Bill walked over to the bar and caught the barman’s attention. “Does a Lucy Staines work here?”

The young man caught the bottle. His eyes moved suspiciously within their dark sockets. “Who wants to know?”

“She reported an incident a few nights ago. I’m investigating it.”

The man put down the bottle, turned around, and turned the music down, and shouted through a door into a back room, “Hey, Bruno, Joey, we got a pig at the bar.”

People turned and looked. A tall, muscular man and a shorter, fat man with a quizzical sneer on his face pushed through the swing door. The smaller man spoke in a high, nasal voice.

“What the **** do you want now? Didn’t I make myself clear to your boss? You’re not supposed to come around here. You’ve got better things to do with your time.”

Bill spread his hands. “Relax, I’m not a cop. I’m with an agency that investigates paranormal phenomena. One of your employees, Lucy Staines, called me.”

The man swore softly. “Little b**tch. Staines! Get your ass over here now.”

A petite young girl, about eighteen, maybe early twenties, came up a stairway with a crate of bottles in her arms.

“You go with your cop an’ don’t come back. Get the hell out. Both of you.” The short man pointed a fat finger at the door.

“I’ve got what I came for,” said Bill. “Let’s go, Lucy. Sorry your boss is such an a**hole.”

The tall, muscular man stepped towards him, arm outstretched and an expletive erupting from his mouth. Bill blinked, and glared into the man’s fierce set eyes, and suddenly those eyes dulled, the arm dropped loosely by his side, and the curse faltered. The tall man stopped, his lips hung open, and he looked around, mouth agape, confused.

The young girl grabbed her coat and went for the door without argument. Bill followed.

Outside the cold air hit them. The girl slipped on her coat.

“Sorry, I think I lost you your job,” said Bill.

The girl stared at the ground. “You don’t argue with those guys.”

“Move along,” said Big Tony. Bill put his arm on the girl’s shoulder and led her down the street.

“So you’re a cop?” she asked him.

Bill ran his hand through his hair in frustration and breathed out slowly. “Nope. I’m a government agent. PSIA. I spoke with you briefly on the phone. Lucy, I want to know more about what you reported. What happened and what you saw.”

“Well, like I said to on the phone, I was walking home from the club, and this really weird thing happened.”

“What weird thing?”

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy.”

“I’ve heard lots of crazy stuff, and a lot of it turned out to be true. Tell me what you saw.”

“Okay. There was this guy, standing there, and he disappeared.”

“Who? How do you mean disappeared?”

“He just disappeared. This guy”

“Who was the guy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were you walking with him?”

“No, he was just standing there, on the footpath.”

“A stranger?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you get my number, by the way?”

“I saw your card in a phone booth. It caught my eye.”

Bill laughed. “Finally someone actually picked one of those up. So can you take me to the spot where he disappeared?”

“Well, it happened a couple of places on my way home. Two nights in a row.”

“Okay, well we’ll just follow your normal route.”

The two strode down the street in silence. As they walked, Bill felt a presence next to him, and he knew immediately that the girl was supersentient, psionic, like him. He hadn’t found another psionic for quite some time.

“How do you usually get home?” he asked.

“Walk.”

“You’re kidding me. A young girl like you shouldn’t walk alone.”

“Got a better idea? I’ve stayed alive this long. I grew up not far from here. I know the streets. I can look after myself.”

“I thought you might have a Dad or a boyfriend,” suggested Bill.

“Dad got me this.” The girl pulled out a silver Derringer from her white handbag. “I’ve used it.”

“I won’t asked if it’s licensed,” remarked Bill. “Don’t get overconfident, Lucy. The situation is getting more dangerous by the month. The mutated rats have moved into Laketown recently, and their population is exploding. Did you know that? Have you seen one?” ” He looked at her and she shook her head.

“Well, you’re lucky. Might be the last thing you see. Rat humanoids, big fellers, some of them nearly as big as me, many of them toting automatic weapons and gunning people down. Sometimes for food, sometimes to steal, sometimes just for sport. They’re cunning bastards. But there’s no humanity, no semblance of anything that makes them worthy of possessing intelligence.”

The girl shuddered and looked over her shoulder. “Have you seen any around?”

“Yeah. I’ve taken a few out too. Part of my job. They must be destroyed for the good of the world. I take no pleasure in slaughter, but it’s got to be done. Actually there’s a government operation to clean them out. ‘Operation Spring Cleaning’, they’re calling it. Damned messy business. We’ll be cleaning up carcasses like a biblical plague before long. You can thank their creator, Dr. Methven Malur. Nobel prize winning bloody franken-scientist. Damn the lot of them.”

“What did he do?”

“He brought them to life, in his lab, that’s what he did. With the backing of the government.” Bill shook his head. “Another government that ‘went wrong’. You know, now it’s basically us or them, the human race, or the rats. It’s as simple as that. What’s worse, they’ve brought a plague strain with them, which attacks them, and which is threatening to cross the species gap to humans. Half of them have been driven mad by it. They’ve found the Withers much to their liking, unsurprisingly. They’re probably having a party in the old catacombs right now.”

“What happened to Malur what’s his name, the scientist?”

“Well, he’s not around to tidy up his mess, that much we know. He’s gone underground long since. Too many people want to kill him. There are a lot of rats holding smoking guns and a lot of people with dead relatives. The FBI is looking for him. The government want him to help combat the rats. Some think he used himself as a guinea pig for some of his experiments and went mad.”

“You’ve just got to look out for yourself,” said Lucy in resignation. She retrieved the handgun from her purse again and checked the cylinders were loaded.

Bill looked at her diminutive weapon, and at the pale, delicate arms of the young girl. He thought of the rats, and how little she knew about the dangers of the world. The rat problem was big, but there were rumours of even greater threats. Bill had recently been helping an FBI counter-espionage teamwork against a very secret organisation, so clandestine, its very existence was still only speculative. There was the Shining Hill incident last summer - still unsolved. The space debris of unknown origin that had crashed to earth in the Bahar Desert three years ago was sitting in a government laboratory as yet unidentified. There had been the recent stirrings in the Laketown cemetery, and then there was the Subway Horror…

“You need something with a little more stopping power against those beasts.” Bill pulled out his Berretta from under his jacket and squinted down the barrel. “If they come in numbers, that’s about as much use as a hole punch.”

They crossed a deserted street. Above the brick chimneystacks, in the far distance, Bill could see the flashing taillights of a helicopter landing on top of Cash Tower. They heard the crackle of gunfire from afar, screaming car tyres, and the deep boom of an explosion, in the direction of the Laketown docks.

As they reached the other side of the street, Bill noticed a man, across the street to his left. He was leaning up against a lamppost, an umbrella in his hand. The man seemed to be watching them. He had an oddly featureless face, vague in the dim lamplight. Slowly, Bill became aware of that feeling again, the feeling he woke up with - the bad one. He quickened pace and glanced back at the man.

Bill tapped Lucy on the shoulder and nodded towards the man across the street. “Was that him?”

She turned to look. The lamppost stood alone. The man and his umbrella were no longer there.

“I don’t see anyone,” said the girl.

Bill stopped and looked at the lamppost. “Well, neither do I, now. But a second ago… What did he look like?”

“Um, well he didn’t look like anything, really.”

“What was her wearing, then?”

“Um, he was wearing a jacket, and a hat…when I saw him,” said Lucy.

“Like a bowler hat?”

“What’s that?”

“Okay, was he holding an umbrella? Wearing a long dark grey overcoat?” asked Bill.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“I just saw him.”

“And you saw him disappear?” asked the girl.

In reply Bill pulled his Berretta from under his jacket and cocked the hammer.

The pair paced cautiously in step down the street, past three storey tenement buildings, an automotive garage, a brewery that leaked a pleasant yeasty aroma into the night air, then a junk metal yard, casting a wary eye about them. A cat slithered under a rotting board fence and looked curiously back at them, then squealed and darted, as it seemed to notice something else in the deeper darkness of the yard.

Bill stopped and peered into the scrap yard. The girl kept on walking.

“Duck!” he roared. He dived and bundled the girl to the ground.

He squeezed the trigger from his prone position and pumped two tactical rounds towards the spot. He heard a high pitched squeak, sensed a movement behind him, then darkness descended over him like a black cowl.

*
Bill awoke to fluorescent lights, nausea and pain. This awakening was worse than his last one by far. Stan Galloway, the new boss of the Laketown PSIA stood over him.

“What the hell happened, Holly?”

Bill opened his mouth to speak, but only a croak came out. “Staines, uh, Lucy. Lucy Staines. Where’s the girl? Is she OK?”

“Who?” barked Galloway. “What on earth are you talking about? There was no girl. You were damned lucky. An armoured police van stopped and pulled you out of the Withers. One of your ‘old mates’ recognised you.”

Galloway shook his head. “The sh*t has really hit the fan in there. Rat attacks are spiralling. What the hell were you doing alone? You damned well know agents must travel in groups of two to four in there.”

“Uh, damn. Boss, something’s really bad has happened. She’s been taken. She’s a… yeah. ” Bill’s voice trailed off.

Galloway lowered his voice. “I know you’ve taken a hammering out there Holly, but try and pull yourself together, I need to get someone else on to take over your case load.”

Here I am half dying in a hospital bed, thought Bill, and he just wants to pump me for information.

Galloway was a no-nonsense, bread and butter ex-policeman, who had recently taken command of PSIA. Bill resented the fact that Galloway had caved in to police and FBI pressure and focussed resources in areas so that PSIA was fast becoming just another arm of the police force. His bottom line was cleaning criminals and rats off the streets. Fair enough, thought Bill, but I’m not a cop.

He tried remember more. “Uh…”

Galloway pulled out his palm pilot and fiddled with it as he talked. “Okay Bill, you need to rest. You took a blow to the head, and you’ve got cracked skull and some bruising. Some street punk must have jumped you from behind. The doctors say you’ll be fine, but might be in here for a few weeks. Rest up, and get back out there. We need to step up this war on the rats. We haven’t got time for your spooks in the subway and bright lights in the hills, you got it? Operation Spring Cleaning is the number one priority for all government agents now. Understand?”

Bill made a lazy salute that bordered on insolent. “Aye, aye, boss.”
“Oh, and some new recruits, will be coming in later. You were supposed to meet them yesterday. They’ll have to pick up your current assignments.”

Bill’s hand flopped back to the hospital bed. Good luck to them, he thought. I hope they know how to dodge bullets, because they’re going to be flying like the winds from hell.

To be continued by the new recruits… (YOU!)