Into Dust: The Industry City Trilogy - Book One

by Marlee P. Louis

  Copyright (C) 2018

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written consent of the author except where permitted by law.

  The characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Formatting by Elaine York/Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  * * *

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  For Jane

  A friend says that you can fly.

  A good friend promises that you will.

  And a best friend drags you to the edge of the cliff…and then pushes you off.

  Thank you for believing in me.

  Ruin creeps.

  Ashes triumph.

  Dust claims us all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  There wasn’t much to the streets of Industry City on a Sunday afternoon. A few stray dogs and prostitutes wandered the pavement, both with the same hungry, washed-out look. Trash littered the gutters, newspapers laying in sodden folds. It had been a thriving industrial area. Once. Now the warehouses stood empty, painted in a chaotic jumble of scrawled gang graffiti, the bright colors catching the glare of an afternoon sun. Here and there, autumn had taken hold of the few trees that managed to grow in a concrete forest, stripping their branches until only sharp skeletal fingers pointed up to the sky.

  Throughout the city, cheap housing was scattered, some in squat tenement blocks, others in brick buildings that rose above the warehouses and storefronts. Industry City was once the home of several large factories, the sprawling compounds now abandoned and rotting—remnants of a modern-day boomtown. Most of the population had cleared out when the money dried up, leaving behind only an occasional gleam of light through cracked and smeared apartment windows, evidence of life still stirring in a city long since left for dead.

  The broken pavement gritted beneath my feet as I walked along, shoulders hunched against a biting wind, a page of folded-up newspaper stuck into the back pocket of my jeans. I’d left my jacket in my car, thinking the long walk into town would be enough to keep me warm, a decision I was now sincerely regretting. The weather had gotten progressively worse over the past hour, and now the air cut through me like a knife, bleeding me of warmth. I’d come too far to turn back, though.

  “Hey baby, you lookin’ for a date?”

  I averted my gaze from the cluster of women standing on the street corner, their heavily made-up faces and barely-there clothing leaving no doubt of their chosen profession. Apparently whoring didn’t discriminate between the sexes in Industry City—or maybe they were freezing, like me, and just looking for a way to get out of the cold. I skirted around them, their catcalls and laughter following me up the sidewalk. Between bisexual streetwalkers and the wind, I was nearing my breaking point when the open sign of a thrift store caught my attention: Hidden Treasures. Judging from the dated clothing on display in the window, ‘treasures’ meant polyester pant suits and ancient cocktail dresses. I tried the door anyway, thankful for the escape when it opened.

  The smell of old fabric hit me the moment I entered, a mixture of mothballs, stale cigarette smoke and cat pee causing my eyes to water. It was warm, though, and I stood just inside the door rubbing my arms while I looked around. The shop was small; clothing racks crowded together, shelves filled with worn out shoes and ugly purses lined the walls, and at the far end a counter crammed with frizzy-haired wigs in every color imaginable stretched the width of the room. There were so many wigs that I nearly missed the small woman standing behind them, peering at me over the top, her glasses glinting under the florescent lights. She didn’t speak or emerge from behind her synthetic hair fortress, and I moved awkwardly from my spot towards the nearest clothing rack as an excuse to stay longer. I wasn’t ready to brave the wind again. Or the hookers.

  For a while there was only the scraping squeak of metal hangers on the rack as I flipped through the clothes. There was no organization to it, no sorting by type or size. Sundresses mixed with swim trunks were followed by fur coats and football jerseys. I was warmed up by the end of the first rack, but I moved to the second almost on autopilot, pushing item after item along the frame, registering its existence and then immediately forgetting it to move on to the next. Occasionally I’d glance at the back of the room, where the hovering gleam of glasses was still visible above the wigs before my attention fell back to the clothes. It wasn’t until my fingers gripped the coarse material of a green Army jacket that I stopped to take a closer look.

  There was nothing very special about the jacket—it was faded enough to show that it had been worn quite a bit, though it was still in decent shape. CARTER was embroidered across the left breast pocket in thick black letters, and I found myself staring at the name, my thumb passing absently back and forth across the thread. There was something comforting and oddly familiar about it, and I pulled the jacket from the rack to slip it on, ignoring the flare of pain from my left shoulder. It was far too big for me, but I didn’t mind—it made me feel like I could disappear into it, and a sudden sense of safety enveloped me. I didn’t know who Carter was, but in his jacket, I could pretend to be someone else. Carter was stronger and braver than I had ever been. It was Carter who walked the broken streets of an unfamiliar city in search of a place to stay, and it was Carter the girls called to from the corners—not me. I wished he was real, this perfect man I was quickly constructing in my head, all the while knowing I was being ridiculous, playing at dress up like a little girl still believing in fairytales. I knew better, though. There were no dragons, no castles, no knights in shining armor to save me. I’d learned the hard way that I’d have to save myself.

  A price tag dangled from the sleeve, five dollars scrawled in black ink. I knew I shouldn’t be buying clothes, even secondhand ones, but I also knew there was no way I was leaving the shop without it. I dug the money from my pocket and looked to the back of the store again, only to find that the woman was gone. I blinked in confusion—she hadn’t passed by me, and there were no other doors in the shop for her to leave through. I stood at the counter for a few minutes until it was clear she wasn’t going to reappear, half wondering if I’d imagined her before I gave up, left the money beside the register and walked out.

  Outside the wind hit me immediately, but this time I was protected from the worst of it—turning up the collar on my jacket and hunching into it until it swallowed most of my upper half. I hurried down the sidewalk, pleased that I was now largely ignored by the few people I passed. Maybe that was all it took to fit in here—a willingness to lose yourself. A need to disappear.

  That thought stayed with me as I continued on, more aware of my surroundings now that I wasn’t
rushing through them to escape the cold. Most of the buildings I passed were closed and boarded up, their broken frontage plastered over with faded flyers, as were the telephone poles—the paper layered so thick in some places it was impossible to see the wood beneath. I ignored them at first, until the same word kept glaring out at me:

  MISSING.

  The names and faces on the flyers all changed, but that single word seemed to follow me down every street. A ripple of fear passed through me, but I quickly shook it off, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket and reminding myself that Carter wouldn’t be afraid. I kept walking, counting off street numbers until the building I was looking for rose before me. Or maybe loomed was a better way to describe it: twelve stories of crumbling brick with an empty lot on one side and a bar with a dim neon sign flashing Duke’s on the other.

  The building itself looked ready to collapse at any minute, with an impressive collection of rusty cans and broken bottles littering a scrap of dirt out front that had been meant for grass. Nothing would dare grow there now. Outside of Duke’s a motley assortment of people milled around the door, and I could feel their eyes on me while I stood staring at the narrow steps.

  I hadn’t chosen this building for its looks or location, and I knew without even going inside that the apartments would be miniscule, the kind where the appliances are all scaled down to size. It didn’t matter--I needed a place, and fast, though my mind refused to wrap itself around my current situation. It was easier to focus on the present, and the present included not spending another night sleeping in my broken-down car. A look through a tattered old phonebook had shown the only motel in Industry City was on the opposite side of town and too far on foot, which left renting as my only option. I wanted something that rented weekly without a lot of fuss, unable to even consider the idea of staying longer than that in this shithole of a town.

  “You need some help, honey?” I glanced to my left at the woman who called over, only registering that her cleavage was about to fall out of her low-cut top before looking away again.

  “Nope,” I muttered, pushing through the front door of the building.

  The inside of the building was worse than the exterior. Outside, the brick had only the weather and neglect to contend with, but inside it had been worn down by the hundred wasted lives who’d dragged themselves through the tiny lobby over the years. A bank of mailboxes stood to the right, all of them missing doors. Black and white tile that had once been laid in a pattern was all but obscured now with dirt and missing pieces. At the far end, a broken-down elevator stood with the doors closed and a red X spray painted across them, leaving only the narrow stairwell providing access to the floors above.

  I took the stairs up to the second floor, where the ad listed the building manager in 2A. From behind the door I could hear the television blaring, and it took three tries before a woman answered my knock. She gave me the name Connie and not much else, her hair dyed a garish red and styled in short, unkempt curls that stuck out at all angles. A faded bathrobe was wrapped around her thin frame with the belt knotted so fiercely I wonder if she ever took it off, her feet shoved into shapeless house slippers. She smelled of gin and about sixty years of decay; a cigarette with an unbelievably long finger of ash hanging from her lips.

  “9A,” she said in response to the listing I showed her, the graveled edge of her voice grating when she spoke, “It’s still open. I’ll take you up.”

  She left me to stand awkwardly in the doorway while she disappeared inside, yelling at her fat lump of a husband to help her find the keys. He never moved from his prone position in a battered recliner, and I distracted myself by watching him carefully to make sure he was still breathing. Connie reappeared with a ring of keys and motioned me up the stairs with a hacking cough, muttering to herself with every step. The stairs themselves were filthy, blackened with the memory of countless footsteps. They were bordered with an old, waist-high iron banister with thin metal rails that bent in decorative arches, a remnant of a time when the building had been young and hopeful. Now it was rusted and creaked with every step we took, and I moved towards the wall for safety as we climbed.

  There was a man sleeping in the stairwell on the seventh floor, a paper bag-wrapped bottle propped in his lap with his fingers curled possessively around it. He didn’t stir when Connie kicked him sharply in the leg, but she said nothing as we moved past him, wheezing us up two more floors before stopping.

  9A was the first apartment coming from the stairs. Even though I’d been prepared for the worst, I couldn’t help but grimace when I stepped inside. It was a tiny single room, the carpet so threadbare the wood showed beneath, the walls water-stained with peeling green paint, and in the kitchenette a large section of the linoleum was scorched and melted. Apparently, someone had decided the apartment was a suitable place for a bonfire. I could see how that would be an easy mistake to make.

  “Hundred bucks a week, due on Monday by noon. Fifty bucks deposit.”

  I winced. That would take just about everything I had. “Alright,” I started, but she kept on.

  “Don’t flush the toilet between one and three in the afternoon. That’s important, you hear me? And there’s one boiler for the whole building, so don’t be taking any long showers.”

  I’d seen the bathroom. She really didn’t have to worry about that. “Okay,” I tried again, only to bite back a smile when she continued.

  “It’ll be twenty-five dollars every time I have to replace your key. And another twenty-five every time you make me climb those goddamn stairs to let you in. My husband goes to bed around nine, so I like it nice and quiet in the halls after that.” She paused, taking a long drag on her cigarette, “I’ll kill anyone who wakes that sonofabitch up.”

  There was more. Connie seemed to have an endless supply of rules for a building that looked ready to topple over, her roughened voice rasping on seemingly without the need to draw breath, save when she lifted her cigarette to her mouth.

  I stopped listening after a few minutes, my attention instead moving into the hallway where a loud voice was coming through the open door. Shouting that had started muffled grew louder, finally catching Connie’s attention and she fell silent as the words suddenly became clear.

  “You bitch! I live here!”

  I glanced at Connie with a raised eyebrow, to which the older woman shrugged. “9B. Got evicted.”

  We drew back into the apartment as footsteps pounded up the hallway, a man’s hulking form filling the open door. I had a moment to take in the stained wife-beater and jeans that hung unzipped below a protruding stomach before he pushed his bulk into the room and pointed a fat, dirty finger in Connie’s face.

  “You changed the fucking locks? Give me the key!”

  Connie blew out a heavy cloud of smoke with a deadpan expression. “Rent’s due,” she told him.

  “Fuck your rent,” he snarled. His hands reached for her and she cringed backwards when his fingers fastened on her thin shoulders, shaking her hard.

  “Hey!” I gave him a shot to the side to get his attention, “Let her go, asshole!”

  It was enough to turn his eyes my way, and that was enough for Connie to raise her cigarette up and press the burning end firmly against his cheek. He let out a howl of agony and let go, stumbling back, his hands flying to his face.

  “Give me the fucking key!” He bellowed at her from a safe distance.

  Connie had lit another cigarette almost the moment he’d released her, holding it with a barely perceptible shake to her fingers and using it to wave at him in dismissal, her tone clearly bored with the situation. “Nope.”

  Fat hands clenched into tight fists, and his bloodshot eyes swung from Connie to me. I was certain he was going to come barreling at me, but instead he spat on the ruined carpet and walked out.

  I sagged under the weight of my jacket, barely having time to register that he’d gone before a heavy crash shook the floor beneath my feet. Connie and I exchanged a single
look of alarm before we both advanced warily towards the door, peering out at the hallway before stepping into it. 9B was standing with his back to the ancient hall railing, rubbing his shoulder where a red mark was quickly blooming. As we watched, he threw himself forward, hitting the door with a sound of splintering wood. It held, and he growled—catching sight of Connie and me.

  “Fuck your key,” he sneered, stepping back at a quick run to make another charge. Just as he neared the rusted railing, he tripped, his feet catching in the low sag of his unzipped jeans. He stumbled, one arm shooting out to grab at the railing behind him, the full of his massive form colliding into the frame. There was a high grating sound of metal giving way, time seeming to slow as the railing bent out, his arms pinwheeling for balance, the rust crumbling and breaking beneath him. I took an instinctive step forward, his wide-eyes meeting mine in a moment of terror--and then he fell, his blood-chilling scream filling the building until it ended abruptly with the dull, sickening sound of impact.

  Up and down the narrow stairwell people began to filter out from their apartments at the commotion. It was only late afternoon, but many of them were in various stages of undress. Either they were calling it an early evening, or they’d never bothered getting dressed to begin with. One by one they moved to the rusty railing, their attention focused below. Connie joined them while I stood rooted to the floor in horror, staring at the spot where a man had been standing just moments ago, the sound of his body hitting the floor still echoing in my head. There was still the faint hope that he might have survived the fall, and it was that thought that pushed me to the railing to look down. The splayed body of 9B lay still at the bottom of the stairwell, a puddle of blood around his head making it unlikely that he’d be getting up again.

  “Is he dead?” My voice was shaking when I glanced over at Connie.