The world spun in a spiral like a drain being emptied.
Alister stepped backwards. His eyes stayed glued to the atrocity ahead. He tripped, falling bottom-first onto the cold cement. The pain coursed through his veins. He loosened his grip on the knife to lift himself from the ground.
His right hand reluctantly opened. An imprint had been left by the grip. It singed, the pain subsiding in the cool air. Slowly, he raised himself, and stared at the now ice-cold shard of steel lying by his foot.
Alister’s stomach convulsed. Bile rose to his cheeks, and he quickly turned to one of the trash cans. Lifting the lid, he pushed his head inside, and let the sick flow. A bitter taste filled his mouth - it didn’t taste as vile as the alcohol before. A sour, limey taste.
Hyperventilating, Alister’s eyes darted around the scene. “What the fuck.” He mumbled. “What the fuck is going on?” His voice echoed throughout the desolate alley.
Slow, deep breaths - one, two, one two. Alister lowered his heartbeat. He closed his eyes. A dream. It must be one of those lucid-dream things he’d heard about. Counting down from five, he shot his eyes open.
Nothing changed.
The corpse stopped bleeding. The crimson red pool flowed freely; like a river, it slowly dripped down the drains. Alister could hear the sound in the quiet alley; drip, drip, drip… Like a hourglass.
His back turned, he slid down into a seated position. The coldness of the brick walls calmed him.
What the fuck had happened here?
He glanced at the knife. No, that couldn’t be.
He crawled into a fetal position. For minutes, he laid there, a million lies and delusions filling his head in a desperate hope.
Drip… Drip… Drip…
“This is really happening.” Alister thought. “I… I can’t have done this.”
He turned to face the cooling body. He knew that man - Brian Fox. The republican candidate for a local election; the prospective new mayor. The leading candidate. Alister disliked the man - most people liked Fox’s charisma, but he always found it painfully fake. But Alister couldn’t be a killer.
Alister steadied himself against the nearby wall. He searched his pockets and found his telephone. Turning it on, he found himself even more confused - eight hours had passed since his time at the bench. Now, dawn neared, and the distant chirping of birds sang harmoniously.
He opened the dialer.
Three buttons is all it took. Three taps, and Alister felt sick. He had to report this - somebody had died. But he couldn’t take the consequences. He didn’t deserve to. His arm shivered, yet he steeled his resolve.
Alister peeked out of the alley. He recognized the street. Washington Avenue. Only about ten minutes away from his apartment. From there, he could see a thin orange peering over the horizon. No figures roamed the streets, save for a couple strays pilfering the trash.
He dialed the number.
Moments later, an unfamiliar voice responded. “911,” it said. “What is your emergency?”
Alister’s hand trembled. “Hello?” The voice asked again. “Anyone there?”
“...Yes!” Alister suddenly snapped. “There’s a body here at Washington Avenue.”
“A body?” The voice asked, tinged with an edge of scrutiny. “Excuse me, sir, what is your name?”
Alister quickly tapped the end call button and removed his phone’s battery.
He gasped for air. His ragged breaths chilled his throat with an uncomfortable burn. “They’ll be here in no time.” He realized. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
He turned back to the alley. “But I can’t leave so much evidence behind.” He thought. He moved quickly, digging up an old plastic bag from a nearby trash can. Alister winced when he noticed how effective the poncho had been. Pulling it off his body, no stains remained on himself. He packed the poncho and his rubber boots into the bag. He wrapped the knife in an old newspaper before hiding it as well.
Alister wore a hoodie underneath the poncho. Somehow, he’d changed outfits. He hunched over to keep a low profile and headed towards his home. The entire time, a million questions jogged his mind. Adrenaline flowed freely through his veins, and his heart throbbed with an undying fear. His eyes darted with guilt - he felt as if all the people’s gazes focused his back.
At last, he arrived home - his shabby two-room apartment. It resembled a hole cut into a large slab of concrete. The building lacked any furnishings; the boring grey tired the viewer’s eyes. When he finally climbed the final step, standing in front of his house door, he realized something felt off.
The wind whistled through the crack of the open door.
Alister’s keys stuck snugly out of the door’s lock.
He frantically searched his pockets to no avail. His keychain jingled solemnly amidst the cool draft. Alister gulped, and pulled the door wide open.
He stepped inside. Slowly, he advanced, one foot at a time, the wood creaking underneath his weight. He carefully examined each nook and cranny, his heart pounding each time he opened a new door. He sighed in relief after pulling the last cabinet open.
The lack of any signs of robbery disturbed Alister. Only twenty bucks and a hoodie went missing. He wore the hoodie, and Alister could guess where the money went. He found his suit and suitcase left behind on the floor.
“What the fuck is going on?” Alister thought. He slammed his fist against the wall. “I can’t stay here.” He frantically searched around the room. “I have to get away.” He picked up his old, dusty college backpack. “I need to get the fuck away before the cops find me.” Quickly, he gathered a couple sets of clothing and all the cash he could gather. Grimacing, he stuffed the plastic bag, filled to the brim with his guilt and evidence, and shoved it inside the backpack.
“But where the fuck do I go?” He asked himself. He slumped to the ground. “I don’t have a car anymore, and I sure as fuck can’t outbike a cop car.”
“If I’m going to run, I need a plan.” He rationalized. “In fact, I shouldn’t run. I should hide. Hide somewhere they can’t find me too easily - somewhere with food and water. Somewhere not too remote.”
Alister arrived at an epiphany. A place like that existed. A place where he could hide safely. But a certain emotion made his choice a reluctant one.
He winced at the thought, but quickly made up his mind. Packing his bag, he headed for the door.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
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For a society so hell-bent on punishing wrongdoers, a surprising amount of information filled the waves of radio, television, and internet. History existed to educate, and Alister took the information from crappy National Geographic shows to heart.
Alister avoided public transportation. Taxis, trains, and buses usually held a black box or a camera nowadays. Instead, he stole a bicycle. Somebody had left a bicycle near the grocery store a while ago and had never picked it up. For extra precautions, he drove the bicycle into a ditch long before he arrived at his destination.
For a while, one could see endless rows of white-picket fences. Only two miles later, less than five houses lined the roadsides. Unlike the well-maintained city, thick layers of golden and orange leaves layered the ground. The road slowly turned from cement to gravel. Civilization slowly fed into nature. Only half a mile ahead, the city stopped, and a forest began.
Alister felt the cheap soles dig into his skin. He started regretting his decision to abandon the bicycle, but he’d already wandered deep into the forest. No signs of civilization showed through the gaps of the treeline. No trail paved the road ahead, but that didn’t matter for Alister. He simply knew where to go.
A small cottage loomed behind the thickets. At first, the dark wooden walls blended in amongst the trees. But soon enough, Alister could make out the dull red of the roof tiles. The cottage was tiny and clearly quite aged. Despite this, reparations had clearly been done, as small patches of the walls showed no signs of the dank green moss. A small stream ran nearby.
Alister’s heartbeat stilled at the sight of a nostalgic, serene sight. He quietly stumbled towards the door, the oldest piece of all - and ran his fingers against a carving on its panels, a jagged edge worn from time, clearly marking ‘Alister’. He noticed the thin markings of bike tires grooved into the mulchy forest grounds and gulped.
He loosened the wooden wedge hidden behind a flowerpot. His hand guided itself automatically, grabbing the rusting little key without difficulties. Alister undid the padlock and stepped inside.
The homely earthy aroma enveloped him. The interior looked shabby, but cosy; in a way that only a wooden cabin could be. A single-seat table faced the only window to the right. A simple folding chair stood against it. On the opposite wall, a couch-bed leaned, the red wool fibers coming apart due to age. Next to it stood the wooden shelf, in which various trinkets sat; everything from a wrist rocket to comic books.
He finally relaxed as he sat on the couch. Only two people in this entire world knew of this place.
Some things had changed since he'd last been there. A screen hung against the wall. An old game console sat underneath, two controllers plugged in. A small solar panel fed wires into both boxes. Alister smiled. The place had become what he'd always envisioned as the perfect secret hideout.
The bag leaning against his leg reminded him of his purpose here. He jolted up and moved to the side of the couch. He shoved it aside, revealing a loose set of wooden panels. Alister lifted the panels up. Underneath gaped an arm-long hole, which a bucket filled. A crude magic marker labelled the lid: ‘Apocahlypse Rahtions’, it read. He expected it to be filled with long-expired cans. Alister opened the bucket and felt both relief and a pang of guilt.
A stock full of spam, beans, and other assorted goods sat neatly inside. All ubiquitously fresh.
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“You’re telling me you don’t remember anything?”
A fist slammed against a cheap aluminium desk. The legs shivered, a shrill squeak escaping from the thin legs. A cheap lamp hung over the dark room, rocking gently from left to right. The walls of concrete echoed the shouts. Only one door led out of a room, and a policeman stood guard on its side.
A large mirror dominated the center of the northern wall. It spanned the entire length of the wall and most of its height. That glass surface reflected the scene. A lanky man sat on a cheap foldable chair, cowering. Opposite to him, standing in front of another chair, frowned an officer, staring him down. His blue eyes glared at the man scornfully. The officer dressed out of uniform, but wore his badge proudly. His wild brown hair peeked out of his hat.
“You shot this man, and you don’t remember anything? You think I’ll buy that horseshit?”
The officer kicked his chair, another rumble emanating from the table. The cowering man crawled itself into a defensive ball, averting his gaze from the officer. He shivered. “N- No.” The man mumbled out, his words falling on deaf ears. The officer raised his fist, clenched tight into a ball, when the security officer walked up to him, clasping his hand against the arm.
“Look, Harry, I think you ain’t getting anything more from this guy.” He said. “How about we go for the good cop routine now, eh? You go take a break.”
Harry sighed. He tapped his colleague’s back and headed for the exit. Before he exited, he gave the suspect one final glare, earning himself a wince. Frowning, he walked through the door.
On the other side, an inspector stood waiting. His colleague stood behind the one-way mirror. Another officer sat by an office table, typing the entire conversation down. Harry lumbered towards his colleague.
“Tough nut to crack, eh?” His friend smiled, offering him a fistbump. “Guess the mighty Harry Jackson ain’t all that after all.”
“Shut up, Lewis.” Harry grinned. He flicked Lewis the finger. “Give me some more time and he’ll cave. Amnesia, fuckin’ ay…” He said, searching his pockets.
“Can’t smoke indoors anymore, remember?” Lewis said.
“Goddamnit.” Harry said. “This case has been pissing me off. I better get a bonus for this.”
“Well, prepared to get more annoyed, then.” Lewis said with a smug grin. “You’re being delegated a new case. Came here to tell you about it, actually. I’m taking over this one.”
“New case? Oh boy.” Harry stomped the ground. “Can’t wait for that. What does the boss want? Should I trail his wife to see who she’s fucking?”
“I don’t want you in my bedroom.” Lewis chuckled. “But jokes aside, it’s a dead politician. Brian Fox, Republican. Found today around noon.”
“A politician, eh?” Harry grimaced. “That’s not going to be much fun for us, is it?”
Lewis nodded. “The media’s gonna hound our ass if we fuck up.”
“Yeah, shit. What’re the details?” Harry asked.
“We got the call around eleven. It was down some dumpy alleyway, so nobody noticed until it smelled.” Lewis grimaced. “Although, apparently there was some call early morning. They thought it was a prank, though.”
“Why?” Lewis said.
“Because he just hung up. No name, no address, nothing. Just said there was a body.” Lewis shrugged. “Guess he was right. Panicked, maybe?”
Harry groaned. “Well, shit. Ain’t I pumped.”
“Yeah, well, I’m happy I ain’t you right now,” Lewis said. “There’s surprisingly less to go by. The culprit didn’t leave much behind - we’ve got forensics down there, though. You should drop by.”
“Aight.” Harry nodded. He walked towards the door, next to which the coat rack stood. He reached for his jacket and shoved the door open. “I’ll be back.”
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Harry promptly drove to Washington Avenue. The grey sky permeated a somber mood in the air. Rows of bemused and frightful spectators crowded the streets, trying to capture a picture with their smartphones. Harry rudely shoved his way in. Nobody questioned his authority. When journalists asked questions, he curtly gave replied akin to, but not quite exactly, “Fuck off”.
The alley hid a bit out of the way; it curved slightly inwards. Crude graffiti filled the walls to the brim, from juvenile penises to modern ‘art’. Harry could immediately tell a murder had taken place. The smell of iron poked his nostrils. Although the large blotch of dried blood on the ground helped mark the spot.
The body had been removed for an autopsy. Only a white, blank tape marked the spot where once a man had died. Harry tipped his hat in respect to the dead. He then turned around, looking for the most important-looking guy around. He soon found his man.
“Jenkins.” Harry said, offering his hand. “You’re on this case?”
“Seems like I am, Harry.” Jenkins shook his hand firmly. “Nice to know we’ve got someone competent in the works for once.”
“Always a pleasure.” Harry replied. “Anyways, you got anything’ for me?”
Jenkins sighed, glancing at the white tape. “Nothing much, sadly.” He shook his head. “Whoever did this was prepared, it seems. Doesn’t help that it’s a dirty alleyway either. We’ve got everything here; from hobo pubes to cat hair.”
“Ugh,” Harry pinched his nose. “You’re jokin’ about that one, right?”
“God, I wish I was.” Jenkins laughed. “Well, that’s why we called you. Have a look-around, will ya? We’ve got some gloves for you.” Jenkins handed him a pair of rubber latex gloves.
“Asshole,” Harry said, punching Jenkins lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t tell me all that shit next time. I’d really rather not know.” He grumbled, but quickly put the gloves on.
Harry silently dug around each nook and cranny. He grimaced, finding odd spots here and there. Somebody had handed him a forensics kit, in which many small plastic bags and q-tips lie. He quickly searched the area, not expecting to find anything new, but still doing his duties.
Harry felt his stomach clench when he opened a nearby trash can. He lifted the bags out, revealing a mass of sticky liquid stuck on the side walls. The odor of bile assaulted his sense of smell, and he held his mouth shut. He turned to Jenkins.
“You guys get this yet?” He asked, pointing at the pile of bile. “This looks fresh.”
“Is that puke?” Jenkins asked, raising his glasses. “We’ll take some samples of that.”
“Please do,” Harry said. “Before I puke myself.”
“Pansy.” Jenkins chuckled. He quickly submerged two q-tips into the bile and placed it gently into evidence bags. “This consistency’s worrying, though. It’s mostly bile.”
Harry quickly shut the can. “That a problem?”
“Bile’s primarily acid, you see.” Jenkins nodded. “Means cellular data’s harder to extract. We’re gonna have to send this one in. Our lab’s a bit too basic.”
“How long’s it gonna take?” Harry said.
“Five days, give or take.” Jenkins said, after a pause. “A week at the latest.”
“Looking forward to that.” Harry said. “I think I’m done here. You call me as soon as results are in, alright?”