Nightstrider: The Spaces Between

Nightstrider: The Spaces Between by Ripley King

Horror

The rare right hand of God on Earth, Nightstriders have been with us since the birth of human thought. They are the top of the mortal food chain. They protect us from evil.

Novel and Cover Illustration Copyright © 2013 Ripley King. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locals, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over, and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal. Please purchase only authorized editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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Nightstrider: The Spaces Between

One

The stench, overpowering.

Shit, piss, and blood pooled wherever it wanted on the floor. Thick pools, and none of it had dried due to the ambient humidity. Each careful footstep splished in and squelched up; sick, syrupy, sucking noises.

Fuck me running, Homicide Detective Andrew Burgess said, feeling more than a little queasy. Like walking in axle grease.

His flashlight exposed naked corpses of all sexes, ages and sizes, wired into place on a massive steel rebar framework. Heads, arms, and legs had been inserted into existing or manufactured orifices. One body led into another body, into another, into another like a human circuit board.

Frankenstein’s Tinkertoys.

Shit, Police Commissioner Fred Blocker said from somewhere behind him. That was my first thought.

You have an exaggerated talent for understatement, Andy replied. It’s going to take days to process this scene, and a good week after that to go through the whole building.

I figure four or five days on this room alone.

More or less.

Flies were thick in the air and on the bodies, Andy noted, and knew maggots would be hatching by the thousands if the bodies were not processed and placed in cold storage.

Two days or less dead, and less than two days before the tiny white worms, having gained entrance from every wound or natural orifice, began obliterating possible evidence with their insatiable hunger for rotting flesh, tunneling through the necrotic meat.

You know maggots will start popping like corn within two days, Andy said, fucking up everything we need from these folks.

No kidding? Fred said. And we’re going to be up to our ears in this the entire time.

That’s what I’m afraid of, Andy countered, ignoring Fred’s sarcasm. The enormous framework centered an open two-story work area, and looked circular.

Flesh within flesh, Fred said. Does anybody look like they’re missing anything?

Andy replied with, The Feds will want the whole thing once they’re notified. You know that, right? Too big for us local yokels.

They’re busy with other matters around the globe. Concerns over national security. Apu over at the cab company might be making bombs in his spare time.

You called ’em? I would have waited for me to show up to render an opinion.

I called them right after I called you, and that’s what I was told in not-so-many words. They’re sending a field agent to scope it out. Maybe help us pull in some outside resources. Fred then held up one hand and one finger. "Let me correct myself: possibly sending a field agent. I’m not sure, and they’re not sure. If they do, great. Otherwise, this is our baby to belch."

Shadows cast by the piercing beams of their flashlights danced around each other. It made the tangled mass before them look like a pack of young numb-nuts in a mosh pit under a strobe light, feigning life.

Andy said, I think they’ll change their minds once it’s known what we’re up against. They’re not going to pass this up. Too much of a feather in their caps if they solve it.

Major brownie points? Fred asked.

Promotions made possible from shit like this.

They do seem to pat themselves on the back as often as possible.

Usually at our expense.

Like I said, they might take it, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. They’re stretched too thin these days. Got to protect us from the convenience store clerks of the world.

Is that what I think it is? Andy asked.

Fred said, Just what it looks like.

I’ve got two separate investigations riding my desk. You know that, right?

I’m going to make a few field promotions to cover the mundane for us both. This will be our top priority for however long it takes.

And this is going to take a while.

Wells and Potoff will be here soon. I called them right after I called the Feds. They’re going to work whatever angle we want worked for the time being. Use ’em for donut retrieval for all I care.

Here’s another toddler. I hope you were more coherent over the phone with the Feds than you were with me.

A closer examination of the mass—Andy actually put on a latex glove, not-so-gently yanked a thin arm halfway out some fat man’s chest cavity—revealed arms and legs and heads had been thrust into, or had been pounded into places they shouldn’t otherwise fit. Postmortem disfiguration and discoloration was now a moot point.

I was also coherent with Wells and Potoff, Fred said, in case you were wondering. Please don’t do that again.

I had to know, Andy said.

Now you do.

His actions caused the fat man’s body to leak more bloody juice and pulverized lung tissue, which lazily oozed down one body after another to eventually drip onto the gore covered floor.

Andy said, We need a cooler for them, but not here. I don’t want to cross-contaminate the scene.

He took a small step back, being careful not to bump into anything, or anyone.

Fred replied with, I’ll arrange for cold storage in the morning.

I don’t think the killer was done with this place, Fred.

If he wasn’t, he is now. One of your rules. ‘If you get the chance, burst their bubble. Put them on the defensive. Make them slip up.’

"I was good in my day."

You still are, Andy. That’s why I wanted you to see this in all its ooey gooey glory.

That’s the Fred I know and love. Humor first, job second. Everyone seems to be intact.

Maybe, but we’ll need to see their interiors.

First we need to document their exteriors.

Andy hoped the victims were dead before this atrocity had been committed, but something in the back of his mind said kindness, here, with them, would have been a luxury.

Call it a hunch, no more than pure gut instinct, but one he would have to heed. His first and only work-related thought thus far: These people had been posed with purpose.

No word out on the streets about people by the dozens vanishing, Andy said. We would have heard something by now.

The streets have been reasonably quiet, Fred returned. I thought the department as a whole was having a good month.

It was, but this is beyond the pale.

The city, it seemed, had been holding its collective breath. Somewhere in the back of his mind Andy heard the first shoe drop.

Is this someone’s idea of art? Fred suddenly asked.

You think?

I was asking you.

Three hundred? Maybe three hundred corpses, needing to be picked over with skill and care. Any and all possible evidence collected and cataloged. Cross the t’s and dot the i’s. No murderer getting off on a technicality.

I don’t know what art is, Fred.

The last museum I haunted I was ten. It was cool, but didn’t have enough dinosaur bones to suit me. Nothing but paintings of old dead folk and modern sculpture, much of it looking like this thing. Stuff I didn’t understand then, or now. You’re talking to a man that has a painting of Elvis on black velvet over his fireplace. That’s my idea of art.

Just full of culture.

I read the Sunday comics, laugh out loud, and pyramid my empty beer cans. I like the painting of the dogs playing poker, too. Know where I can pick one up?

Well, whatever this is, somebody’s idea of art or not, they were posed with some purpose in mind. This construction has meaning, Fred.

"Then that’s where we start. Though I can’t imagine what the reason for this monstrosity would be. I bet we won’t understand the reason when we do know. Maybe this is some asshole’s warped idea of a joke."

Andy didn’t think it funny, and he was willing to bet his left nut that whoever did this, they didn’t think it funny, either.

How many twisted sisters do you think we’re dealing with? Andy asked. Two? Three?

Two to four at the most, Fred returned. Like you said, no maggots. Not yet. I don’t see one human being doing all this in such a short time. Do you?

Not really. Too much dead weight to move around for any length of time.

No gang tags. And nothing would-be Satan worshipers might scribble, unless it’s underneath them on the floor. We’re not going to see it under all this goop.

How were they discovered?

Kids looking for a place to rave. They opened the doors and bailed when the stink billowed out. One yutz was kind enough to place an anonymous call. He dialed 911 from his home phone without realizing we had him pegged.

Probably in shock. Smart kid saved us some trouble. We talk to the whole group. Piece together what little they know. See that window?

Andy pointed his light at a window just above a second story metal catwalk.

What about it? Fred asked.

Call your friend down at the fire department and have him loan us a fan? One of those big things they use to clear smoky buildings with. I’m awfully close to adding my share of gunk to the floor. I keep thinking a fly is going to land on my tongue, or crawl up my nose.

We can talk more outside.

Lead the way.

Andy pivoted and followed Fred out.

You should learn how to close your nose and breathe through your mouth, Fred said. Through your teeth.

I am breathing through my teeth. The stink keeps seeping into my sinus cavities.

The smell will probably stick to our clothes, too. I hope I have enough hot water when I get home. For me, and my clothes.

Outside in the fresh air, Andy turned to Fred Blocker and said, I want this whole scene digitally documented body by body, every angle imaginable and then some. Nothing gets moved until that’s done. As many pictures as it takes. I want these people pulled apart one by one, and documented top to bottom, front and back. Make sure the forensic team has their laptops with them. Forward their memory card downloads as they work. Multiple copies. Also, I want every butt picked up out of the parking lot, and every boot print. Any juice to the building?

I didn’t look for a light switch or the breaker box, Fred said.

We’re going to need the lights on. I don’t like working in the dark.

Adds to the mood.

Mood my ass. Those kids must have thought this building powered. First, the fan.

A good idea if I ever heard one. I’m not going back in without it.

This is somebody’s totem place, Fred. Whatever this is, it’s important to them, whoever they are.

I hate the weird ones.

If you can spare them, have four extra cars patrol the area. I want them to stop and document anyone who has the inclination to wander in this direction, starting now. I don’t care if it’s God taking his nightly jaunt. Car or on foot, I want them all cataloged. Names, addresses, phone numbers.

I’ll see what I can do.

Two

Two hours before, Police Commissioner Fred Blocker had been burning the midnight oil.

He had been working on a report due in the Mayor’s office early in the morning, detailing the seven unsolved homicides still on the books from the past ten years. Not a bad number for a city with nearly three million documented citizens, trying to live life one day at a time with a grain of comfort.

Working cold cases, he was in the process of explaining to the Mayor’s hastily improvised, reelection-motivated task force on crime, wasn’t like what they saw on the boob tube every Thursday night at nine Pacific, eight Central.

Fred was trying hard to explain how real life could produce nothing to work with, and using nice words his grandma would approve of, seasoned investigators couldn’t pull miracles out of their assholes on demand.

Sometimes life sucked hind tit, and wasn’t able to give even the best investigator one damn thing to help solve a case. Not one clear fingerprint, ready to monologue perp, or willing to blab witness with excellent eyesight. No gummy fiber stuck to the body, fresh cigarette butt by the door, with handy spot of criminal DNA on said object of interest, or conveniently signed confession, waiting to be found.

Sometimes life presented them with nothing but a blank crime scene, a dead body that couldn’t speak for itself, other than the obvious the Medical Examiner put in her short or lengthy report, depending.

Not that he could easily explain those obvious real-world facts to the pencil-pushing bureaucrats that ran the city he spent a lifetime protecting. Evidence was collected, bagged, tagged, and boxed, along with any DNA salvaged from each crime scene, but that didn’t mean the city could afford to process it all.

Without witnesses, and the evidence ambiguous at best, chances were as more time passed, the more likely the crime would go unsolved.

When it came to cracking the city’s bear-trap wallet to fund the crime-tip hotline, he had a hard enough time convincing those same pencil-necks what his job was, what his job meant to the city overall, and why the tip hotline was a necessary evil.

Well, that wasn’t true. Not really. He knew his job all too well, and that meant he did what he could with what he had. Tools of the trade. Victims, evidence, stoolies, braggarts, or witnesses.

The department could beg the citizenry to come forward with any reward-promised information, and comb through the shit-storm of tips one by one, albeit that method was a craps shoot at best.

It wasn’t his department’s fault, his officer’s fault, the crime lab’s fault, or the victim’s fault. Life is what it is, he wanted to say, get used to it.

Johnson’s call from Dispatch was an appreciated distraction. Fred welcomed the opportunity not to insert a long string of improvised expletives (stuffed in for fun, taken out later) from his report.

The implications sounded ominous when Johnson used the words lots of bodies instead of body. Johnson then played the 911 call for him. Fred told Johnson to send three squad cars down to check it out. Approach with caution. He would be there shortly.

When Fred arrived at the packing plant, most everybody looked sick, and for good reason. Fred grabbed a flashlight from a uniform, walked in, and freaked.

He really didn’t have a first thought, or a second. In fact it took more than five minutes after he backed out of the doorway for his mind to suggest he call Andy. So, that’s what he did. The fact he barked like a dumb dog at a full moon hadn’t escaped his notice.

Only with Andy, he thought.

Fred continued sucking fresh air.

While he was waiting for Andy to arrive, he made a few more calls.

The call to the Feds wasn’t the easiest of his life. He had to sound like he deserved to be on the phone, and that his request wasn’t out of the ordinary given the circumstances.

The arrogant little prick on the other end of the line listened politely enough, but then told him flat out it was pretty much his case. They had National Security Concerns to worry about. But, if they could help, they’d get back to him. Maybe, maybe they would send a field agent out to look things over.

Rather than say something he probably wouldn’t regret, Fred hung up.

The Feds screwed the pooch when it came to 9/11, not listening to their own people, and they knew it, and they knew everybody else knew it, too.

They got called into the public woodshed more than once, and spanked hard. Making up for past indiscretions meant actually minding the store for a pleasant change. No sneaking out the back door for a quick smoke on the loading dock.

Fred knew how far he was stretching his neck across the political chopping block with this case. He called Wells and Potoff at home. Promoted them to Detective then and there. Told them to get their funeral clothes on, and their asses moving.

He knew the only way to deal with bullshit this heavy, having learned the intricacies of local and state politics a long time ago, was to hit it hard, using everything and everybody within reach.

Once word over what they found got back to whoever was interested, those same-said pencil-necks would become scared, really scared, and demand more from him and his men than was reasonable. He had to nip that in the bud.

Fred knew fear had its way with things. Fear was like grabbing a man by the balls, leading him around the room, squeezing harder with each lap. He had to be on top of this chaos, able to answer any and all questions.

With his own command it was simply an exercise of his will to make things happen. With this . . . this was going to be a team effort whether anyone liked it or not, and Andy would be leading the team.

Not many of the team’s players would be happy with Andy as coach, but Andy was the best.

When Andy arrived, their easy banter over a difficult task was from years spent working the streets together, before he had been promoted over Andy.

Andy had been offered a new partner, but had politely declined. Fred let Andy fly solo after that, out of respect for the man and his abilities. Andy, they both knew, was the better cop.

The truth was (and it took many nights drinking beer together to figure out why Fred had been promoted first) Andy was the better cop, and the powers-that-be wanted Andy to stay on the streets where he could do the most good. If that wasn’t a kick in the head.

Andy accepted their decision with true humility and a hefty raise, but it made Fred feel bitchy for all the right reasons.

It was hard for him to reconcile the fact he was a better desk jockey than street cop. That he was promoted over Andy for that reason, when Andy clearly deserved better.

Fred pulled his phone and called for the fan.

Before you say anything, Todd, this is official business. I need a professional favor. We need one of those big smoke fans . . . .

Now he owed Todd.

Most likely we don’t have electricity . . . .

Fred thought about what he needed to do back at the office to coordinate Andy’s efforts.

No fire. An indoor crime scene with an oppressive stench . . . .

Marcy, his secretary/assistant, would be a big help.

A massive, stinky, indoor crime scene . . . .

Yet he couldn’t call her in early. She had the husband and kids to worry about each morning.

See if you can run that down for us to use for a few days. Now, if possible . . . .

Fred knew he was going to become very unpopular within his peer group, but he wasn’t a cop for the popularity points.

It’s not pleasant where I am, no . . . .

He’d have to start a wall chart or two to keep track of things.

Thanks, Todd. I’ll see you when you get here. The old meat packing plant, west side of the docks. I’ll meet you at the gate.

Fred then called Fatjo and Collins, and walked up to the plant’s gate to wave Todd in when he arrived.

Three

One hour before, Homicide Detective Andrew Burgess was tucked into bed, the long day before obliterated by sleep’s perfect blankness. That was when the phone bellowed for the first time, delivering his consciousness back into the tired old world.

It woke him from his profound slumber with the word "shit," floating around his mind as his only intelligible thought, just on the verge of being expressed in no uncertain terms to the person on the other end of the receiver.

The voice on the other end of the line made the statement: You need to come down here and see this, Andy.

Deleting any hope of a good night’s sleep for a very long time to come.

See what? he then asked Fred through