Kingdom of Shadows

-2-

Beneath an oddly gray sky, Rooster walked toward the hulking shadows cast by the enormous warehouse facility at the end of Dover Street. He strode past one alley strewn with garbage, human and otherwise, and then another, the last hope for escape from the dead-end street and the monolithic structures awaiting him. His breath spilled from his nostrils like columns of smoke, partially concealing his face as he pressed on through the cold, hands buried deep in the pockets of his battered leather jacket and chin tucked to chest in an attempt to ward off the occasional bursts of winter wind blowing in off the nearby ocean. Everything was deathly still, and though the constant din of city noises could still be heard, rather than a block or two away, they seemed impossibly far off, as if they were memories of a different city altogether, a deafeningly chaotic city recalled while passing through the mysterious solitude of another.

When he reached the tall chain-link fence surrounding the facility, he noticed the gate was open, a thick padlock and chain dangling free as if left there mistakenly. He hesitated. A nearby security hut beyond was empty, the glass cracked and aged and looking as if it hadn’t been cleaned in years. On the far side of the hut, scarred with cracks and occasional tufts of weeds, an enormous parking lot led to a series of loading docks, and amidst the larger warehouses, a smaller building marked OFFICE. Forklifts and other pieces of equipment were scattered about the property as if abandoned long before, and though most of the bays were closed, the few left open revealed enormous but empty storage areas. It looked like some time ago everyone had simply picked up and left.

No one came or went from the office building, and the lone wire-meshed window facing the street was grimy and dark. Had the place gone out of business? He could’ve sworn he’d passed by here a few days before and it was alive with workers and trucks coming and going, loading and unloading. He tried to remember where he’d heard about the job opportunities here. Had someone told him? Had he seen something at the Unemployment Office? Rooster watched the area a while with the experienced and trained eye of a thief. In time he looked back at the street. It was empty but for bits of trash and debris blowing about in the wind. He checked his watch then gazed at the sky. It normally wasn’t so dreary this time of afternoon, but the drab winter sky conspired to cast everything in a dull pall reminiscent of dusk.

After another quick look around, Rooster stepped through the open gate, crossed the parking lot and slipped into the office building.

He found himself in a long, dimly lit corridor that reeked of bleach. With the dull industrial tile floors, low plaster ceilings, steel-encased light fixtures and unimaginative but practical architecture, the building more closely resembled an archaic hospital or dated mental institution than office space.

Rooster pulled off the knit hat he was wearing and held it in his hands. Though the heavy steel entrance door had closed silently behind him he could still see his breath in the hallway. Surely they had heat here, why wouldn’t it be on? A small sign protruding from the nearest doorframe read: RECEPTION.

He looked past it to the far end of the corridor, which was draped in darkness. Had something moved just then? Startled, Rooster took a step back. He was certain he’d caught a glimpse of someone shuffling into the cover of darkness, and the sudden sound of labored breath seeping down the hallway in its wake seemed to confirm it. The noise echoed along the walls, transforming into strange, indecipherable whispers.

Whispers that did not sound human.

Rooster stuffed his hat into his back pocket, took a deep breath then ran a hand over his face, eyes trained on the shadows at the end of the hall. Calm down, he thought. It’s just the nightmares again.

An unusual ticking sound drew his attention to the reception office. A lone woman well into her sixties sat behind an inordinately large desk, banging away on an old Olympia typewriter and seemingly oblivious to his presence. A series of metal file cabinets filled out the remaining space behind her. Clad in a dowdy dress and a cardigan sweater thrown over her shoulders for good measure, the receptionist’s silver hair was pulled up into a bun, and a pair of half-glasses attached to a chain strung about her neck sat along the bridge of her bulbous nose.

Rooster stepped through the doorway. “Are you still hiring?”

Without looking up from her typewriter the woman retrieved a sheet of paper from a metal bin, slapped it down and slid it over to the edge of the desk. “Fill out this application, front and back. Turn it in to me when you’re finished.”

Rooster took the form. “Is it always so cold in here?”

“Comes as a shock to most but that’s the way it is.”

He nodded like he’d understood her answer. “Are you open today?”

“We’re always open.”

“Then where is everybody?”

The woman’s head snapped up, her eyes glaring at him with demonic fury. “Where are you?”

Rooster watched the paper fall from his hand as the familiar torment of agonizing screams came to him again. But these were not nightmares or daydreams, he could hear them bellowing from deep within the building, as if people were being tortured in the bowels of the facility. Heart crashing his chest, he backed out into the hallway, terrified. The receptionist’s mouth hung open as she panted with anger, spittle dripping from her pale, cracked lips. A quiet growl emanated from her, like the low rumbling snarl of a dog just before it attacks.

He turned and bolted for the front door, slamming into it with his shoulder and stumbling out into the parking lot as it gave way. Staggering forward, he nearly pitched face-first onto the pavement but regained his balance at the last moment and in one frantic, uninterrupted motion, broke into a full run.

He did not look back.

The payphone on the corner was occupied by a rotund woman carrying a brown paper bag filled with groceries. Across the street, Rooster waited, watching from the burned out doorway of an abandoned building only a few blocks from his apartment in the housing projects. Though he couldn’t hear what the woman was saying, she was clearly upset and quite animated. He remained huddled in his hiding place until she finally slammed the phone down and stormed from the booth, a look of desperation and confusion creasing her face as she toddled toward the top of the street.

He checked the boulevard in both directions. It was empty. Not even a car or city bus to be found. Moving quickly, he crossed the street, ducked into the phone booth and dug a shred of paper from his jacket pocket. Jotted across it was the information Gaby had written down the last time a call came in. Rooster dropped a dime and punched the numbers.

The connection crackled and hissed but eventually went through and began to ring.

“Hello.”

Even after all this time Rooster knew that voice. “Snow.”

An exhale of relief and then: “Rooster-man.”

He gripped the phone tight and spun around so he could watch the street. “You’ve been calling me.”

“I can’t believe it’s really you. Didn’t know if I’d be able to track you down after all this time.”

“Are you here, in the city?”

“Where else would I be?”

“What do you want?”

“We gotta talk.”

“I’m not in the life anymore.”

“You got no idea what life you’re in.”

A sharp pain stabbed Rooster’s temple. He flinched. “What’s that mean?”

“What the hell you think it means? Means I need to talk to you, bro.”

“Whatever you’re into these days I’m not interested.”

“This is serious shit.”

“Snow, what do you want?”

“I need to see you.”

The receptionist’s demonic eyes tore through Rooster’s memory in strobe-like flashes. “Just leave me alone, man. I got enough problems.”

“Motherfucker, I’m trying to help you!”

The visions faded. The fear remained. “Stop calling me.”

“You don’t hear nothing else I say you better hear this.” A crackling hiss bled through the line again. “You need to know what I know.”

A burst of wind forced the phone booth door open. He pinned the phone to his shoulder with his ear and sparked a cigarette, making sure to cup the flame until he got it going. “What do you know?”

“I know what you’re going through. The headaches, the nightmares. Hearing things, seeing things. Bad things. Evil things.”

Rooster’s eyes watered. He told himself the cold was to blame as a black Crown Vic with a tinted windshield and windows turned at the head of the street and slowly rolled by. Cop car, he thought, feeling the muscles in his stomach clench. He hadn’t been a criminal in years, but old habits, old fears, died hard. He watched the car until it was out of sight.

“There ain’t a lot of time,” Snow pressed. “I need to see you.”

Rooster breathed heavily into the phone in quick nervous bursts. “When?”

“Today.”