Pitch dark. Absolute. Save for the tiniest sliver of light wriggling in under the back door of the warehouse.
The man’s baseball cap still sat on his head, though skewed – like the chair he was tied to, tilted at an uncomfortable angle. The man felt sweat drip from the band of his hat, trickle into the corner of his open eyes, stinging. He clamped them shut.
All around him, breathing; some of it short and quick, some deep and slow. Sounded so close, he thought maybe it was just in his mind. Until someone coughed lightly. Someone else wheezed.
The man moved his head around, looking for any sign of where he was, any shape in the darkness. To his left, he caught a glimpse of light, someone moving behind stacks of… stacks of what? He watched the light move closer, intermittent. Brighter, dimmer, brighter, dimmer. Crates of something. Warehouse, he thought. I’m inside.
Footsteps now, echoing around his head, mixing with the chorus of uneven breathing, and the light flitting closer, nearly upon him. A face swam out of the darkness. Round, pitted. Acne-scarred. Breath like sulfur, puffing on him. The candle in this man’s hand was tall and thick, like its carrier. Built for war.
A voice from one of the crates: “Cleve, step back. Give him some fucking breathing room.”
Cleve grimaced, bared crooked, tombstone teeth. “Breathin’ room, yeah,” he said, and leaned back out of the candle’s light. Stood up straight.
His eyes adjusting a little more to the gloom, the man in the chair saw that the chorus of breathing he heard was made up of twenty-five, maybe thirty men sitting on large wooden crates of various heights – some stacked two, three high – in a rough circle.
He recognized a few faces in the crowd, men whose pictures he’d taken earlier that night – and other nights.
As the cobwebs in his head cleared, the man pieced together what had happened, how he’d got here: driving after Kendul’s jeep, trying to focus, concentrating as hard as he could on the task at hand. Flashes of chrome blinding him under each gas lamp. Two pops. Shot out my tires, flipped the car. Then, nothing.
“Shot out my tires,” the man said, enunciating as clearly as possible. He felt something sticky near the corner of one of his eyes, felt burning across his forehead, figured his face was cut up pretty badly.
Cleve just grunted.
The voice again from one of the crates. “Yes, we did. Cleve and Marcton did, anyway. You were… watching us.”
The man said nothing, just breathed.
“Why were you watching us?”
Again, nothing but a subtle shift of weight from the man in the chair, the click of tiny bones in his neck as he tilted his head to the side.
Edward Palermo jumped down from the crate on which he’d been sitting. Boots echoed, sharper than Cleve’s workboots. Cleve glanced behind him, handed the candle to Palermo, took a seat on a nearby crate.
Palermo leaned in very close, said, “What did you want with the man you were following in the jeep?”
“James Kendul.”
“Yes, James Kendul.”
Silence.
“Look, you’re going to talk. You know it as well as I do. Cleve loves to hurt people. And he would love to hurt you. So you’re either going to tell us–”
“Save the Hollywood bullshit, pal. This ain’t some fucking action movie. You won’t touch me. People know where I am. You kill me, they come looking, you’re fucked. End of story.”
Palermo leaned back out of the candlelight, breathed deeply. Then his free hand moved forward, reached inside the man’s fake leather, found something in the inside pocket, pulled it out.
“Yeah, my wallet, imagine that,” the man said, a big, cocky grin slapped across his bleeding face. “Inside you’ll find out that I’m some guy none of you know named Carl Duncan. Then you’ll get all pissy and have one of your dim-bulb bruisers threaten me, maybe even go so far as to break some of my fingers until I tell you everything. You’ll tell me I’ll never see my baby girl again unless I spill the beans.” Duncan snorted. “But I ain’t got no baby girl. And I’ve been alive long enough to know when someone means to kill me and when they don’t. You fuckers won’t do it. You’da done it by now if you’d meant to. ’Cause you know I ain’t bluffing when I tell you that people are watching the watcher, and if you kill me you’ll be exposed. This whole fucking freakshow will–”
Palermo’s hand suddenly shot forward, cramming Duncan’s wallet into his mouth. Then he drove his clenched fist five times into Duncan’s face, knocking out three teeth, and splitting his lip in two places on the last punch.
Unconscious, Duncan’s head lolled to one side, resting on his left shoulder. Blood dribbled onto his striped shirt. One of his dislodged teeth fell from his mouth into his lap.
“Cleve, Derek, Marcton: take some of the boys, go outside and make sure our friend was alone. If he wasn’t, bring in whomever you find.”
Boots slapped concrete. Motion. Gruff voices, plans of action.
The last thing Palermo wanted his Runners doing tonight – or, really, any other night – was hunting humans. But they’d only ever had one person snooping around before, a reporter. At least in as long as Palermo had been running things. And he’d been a bluffer. Trying to save his life, he went down the same fictional road as this new guy – lying about people watching him, people who’d break things wide open. Expose their society.
Palermo knew then as he knew now that even if this pompous sack of shit wasn’t lying, and there actually were others with him, exposing their society wasn’t as easy as he made it out to be. Because no one really wants to know the details of the disease they’re carrying, no one wants to understand it, admit it even exists within them.
They just want rid of it.
The snow had still not stopped, and it was now so high that Marcton’s boots were barely enough to protect him from it. Not that he appeared overly concerned.
“Why don’t you ever wear a fucking coat?” Cleve said, as they marched out into the warehouse yard. Figuring on a bluff, they weren’t being particularly stealthy. “Stand around shivering like an idiot when you could just throw on a fucking coat.”
Marcton shrugged. “Don’t want to wear one.”
“Yeah, but why not?”
Marcton shrugged again. “Don’t like how close they make me feel. Always feel too tight. Don’t like the rubbing on my arms.”
Cleve shook his head. “You’re such a dick, Marcton. You know that?”
Marcton broke away from Derek and Cleve, swept his arms around, motioning for the five other Runners they’d brought with them to separate and search different areas: two to go across the street where the man’s car still lay upside down; two to go up on the warehouse roof to get a bird’s-eye view; and one to stand guard at the back entrance. All connected by walkie-talkies.
“Hey,” Cleve shouted over the wind, “why aren’t you avoiding my footsteps like you do Palermo’s and your own?”
“Quit needling the poor bastard, Cleve,” Derek said, scanning the tracks that disappeared into the blowing white haze.
“Shut up, Derek,” Cleve said. “Answer me, Marcton.”
“Don’t always do it,” Marcton said. “Just sometimes. You know, like you and thinking before you open your fool mouth. Now let’s be quiet and keep our eyes peeled, yeah?”
Cleve frowned, unsure whether or not he understood the insult. He stomped in the snow, mumbling under his breath.
The Runners grew quiet as they approached their designated search areas. The two on the roof slipped up via a rusty fire escape pinned to the back of the warehouse; the two out front drew their guns, more exposed to street-fire than the others; the guy at the back door just stood smoking, swiveling his head back and forth like an oscillating fan; and Cleve, Derek, and Marcton drifted slowly apart from each other along the tracks, a lantern Cleve had stolen from a neighboring factory trying like mad to illuminate their way through the storm.
Marcton’s walkie crackled. A thin voice squawked out from one of the guys on the roof: “Nothin’ up here. And nothin’ movin’ down below. Not that we can really see shit through the storm, mind, but still. You guys? Over.”
Marcton tapped the side of his walkie. “Nothing so far here, either. Just a pile of snow getting blasted into our faces. What about over at the car? Over.”
Marcton released the walkie’s button. Waited.
Nothing. Cleve and Derek started pulling away from him on the tracks. He wanted to shout at them to wait up, but thought better of it. They pulled farther away still, and Marcton decided to risk raising his voice. “Hey! Slow down!”
Cleve spun around and gave Marcton the finger, kept walking. Derek slowed a bit, though, now about halfway between Cleve and Marcton.
Pressing the walkie’s button down again, Marcton said, “Hey, everything cool by the car? Anyone copy? Over.”
More silence.
Then finally, something: “Yeah, rooftop here. Trying to see what’s happening down by the car, but tough to tell, so much snow. Looks like movement other than our two guys, but can’t be certain. Just waiting to see whether–”
Then shouting filtered through the walkie system. Marcton brought the walkie to his mouth. “Report! Over.”
Rooftop answered: “Fuck! Christ. Both men down. Repeat, two men down, front of warehouse, near the overturned car. No one other than the bodies, though. Not sure when it happened. Killer could be…”
“Shit,” Marcton whispered, turned, yelled for Cleve and Derek: “Two men down out front! Get your asses back here now!”
Cleve turned, started walking back; Derek turned, too, but then a dark shape, one arm raised, sword in hand, seemed to materialize from the swirling snow about three feet from where Derek stood. Derek, completely unaware, opened his mouth to shout something to Marcton farther up the tracks. But instead of words, only silence came out. Then Derek’s head toppled from his shoulders, his body following it to the ground a moment later.
But just as Derek had been taken unawares, so was the killer, as Cleve fired two shots into him as soon as Derek dropped. The first pulped the killer’s right eye, the second burst his heart. He crumpled and lay still in the snow.
Cleve, now squatting low, looked all around him, gun tucked in close to his body. Without another word, Cleve and Marcton searched the area carefully while shouts on the walkie confirmed that the two Runners out front had been beheaded. Satisfied that there were no other immediate threats in the area, Marcton and Cleve headed back to the warehouse.
The guard at the back door stepped aside to let them in, said he’d seen nothing, just heard the shouting on the walkies. The interior of the warehouse was bustling as Cleve and Marcton came in. Palermo barked orders in all directions. “Total lockdown!” he said, pointing at the exits and first-floor windows. “No one in or out unless it’s on my say so, is that fucking clear!?”
Concern about whether or not a Run would happen tonight – and the consequences of such – hung in the air, but no one spoke, just went about securing the building.
Marcton approached Palermo, leaned in close, spoke in low tones near his ear. “Derek’s dead, too, sir. Beheaded like the other two. Cleve got the fucker who did him, though. Dead, as well, not more than a few feet from Derek.”
Palermo closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Exhaled slowly.
“We’re locking down till further notice, Marcton. Get word to Kendul. He’ll want to keep his eyes peeled for a similar attack on his Hunters. Maybe the Run happens later than usual, maybe not at all. But we need to regroup, figure this out as quickly as possible.”
Marcton nodded, joined the rest of the bustling Runners. Cleve stood to the side, grim-faced and sour, more affected by Derek’s death than he’d like to admit.
Carl Duncan woke up amidst the commotion, spat his wallet out of his mouth into his lap, said, “Having a little trouble?”
The entire crew – men, women, and children – was gathered around Palermo again, the building having been completely sealed up. Armed guards on every door, lookouts at all the windows. Palermo glared at Duncan hard, his breathing deep and steady.
“Just sayin’ ’cause it looks like you might’ve lost someone out there. Maybe a few someones. Hard to tell. But someone’s dead, that’s for sure.”
Palermo just stared and breathed for a moment. “Three down,” he said. Then: “Got one of yours, too, friend.”
Duncan looked around at all the hate staring back at him, wriggled in his chair. He wondered which of his friends it was. Decided he couldn’t let emotion affect what he and the others were trying to do.
He tongued the hole where one of his missing teeth used to be. Flinched at the pain. “So now you kill me, huh? Then what? What will that solve? You’re busted, uncovered. Yeah, we removed three of your pawns from the board, you got one of ours, big whoop. You’re cornered, motherfucker. Done.” He turned his head and spat a great gob of blood onto the floor.
“Killing doesn’t have to solve anything, Duncan. Sometimes it just has to be done. For no other reason than it brings great delight to the killer.” Palermo stepped forward, drove his fist into Duncan’s face once, hard. He considered the effectiveness of the action, then repeated this four more times. Duncan’s nose crumpled. Palermo leaned down, got right in Duncan’s face, locked eyes with him. “Still awake?” He slapped Duncan across the cheek twice, rousing him. “I want you to see the hammer that’s about to cave your face in.”
Duncan just grunted, nearly insensible. He mumbled something. Palermo leaned back, reached his hand out behind him, still looking at Duncan. Marcton handed him a large metal hammer. Palermo hefted its weight, brought it around to bear.
He moved it in front of Duncan’s line of sight, smacked his face again till his eyes focused on the hammer. “See it? Do you see it, you little piece of shit?”
Duncan dribbled more blood onto himself and closed his eyes. “Just fucking do it. You’ll be joining me soon enough. Soon enough… Just know that it was Bill Krebosche. His friends and family did this to you. For what you did to them. To us.”
He could see Palermo’s mind was whirling, searching, but evidently the name meant nothing to him.
Right before Duncan lost consciousness, Palermo brought the hammer down. Duncan felt the first two blows, then nothing else ever again.
When Carl Duncan had been pulled out of his car and dragged inside Palermo’s warehouse, William Krebosche dropped his binoculars, hung his head, and closed his eyes. He was lying flat on his belly in the deepening snow, four hundred feet away in a field close to the tracks upon which Palermo’s caboose sat. From his vantage point a little while later, he saw two men – one of the Runners, and one of his uncles – get killed. He saw the two remaining Runners scramble back to the warehouse, watched as guards appeared at all the windows, knew the place would be securely sealed now. Duncan would no doubt be dead soon. But that was OK. Krebosche just needed to remember all this. Needed to remember it had actually happened. Then, Duncan’s sacrifice would be worth it.
To ensure this, he’d been whispering the details of the events as they’d unfolded into a digital voice recorder tucked into the inside pocket of his parka. His memories had begun to fade minutes after he’d spoken, and he knew from experience that not only would he need to record the events themselves, but he would need to remind himself that the recording device held these memories. For this purpose, he had written CHECK RECORDING DEVICE: V. IMPORTANT on the backs of both of his hands, so he could not miss the message. Only parts of his past recordings made sense to him afterward, but he hoped that what he’d gotten tonight would be enough.
It was certainly more than he’d ever gotten before.
Krebosche stood up, brushed himself off, and thought of how he would break the news of his uncle’s death to his aunt. Never a good way to tell someone their loved one has died. But this was necessary. They all knew it was necessary. And they all knew the risks going in.
Now it was up to Krebosche to make it all worth it.