The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

  Schiller hit the brakes.

  “Gotta stop this shit.”

  The two people seemed to take no notice of the car’s arrival, or the fact that Jack and his partner got out.

  For a moment, Jack debated whether he should take his hat.

  Department protocol was…always be in uniform.

  But with the rock-em, sock-em act going on there, maybe it was more urgent that they hustle and break up the battle.

  Schiller had already gotten to them and Jack realized that though his mentor was a stubby guy who looked totally out of shape, he moved fast.

  Move fast.

  Something they drilled into you at the Academy. Every few seconds mattered. The difference between a gun being aimed and a trigger pulled, the difference between surprising someone or getting surprised yourself.

  Jack ran nearly every day. Should prove useful, he thought.

  “Okay, okay,” Schaller said, “You two—let’s stop this right now.”

  A crowd had formed, young kids, a few nearby shop owners, people pausing on their way to the bus.

  It was showtime.

  The man responded by trying to slam the woman with a fist full to the face.

  But the woman – good for her – bobbed in a way that would make Ali proud.

  Then, the fatal move, she kicked her right knee up into the man’s groin.

  The mountain man immediately doubled over like a marionette with his strings cut, coughing, puking.

  The woman was about to administer another kick when Schiller put a hand on her shoulder.

  Jack became painfully aware that he had done absolutely nothing…but watch the scene.

  The woman turned to Schiller, same height, nearly eyeball to eyeball.

  And the eyes…wide, wild.

  What was it? Meth, crack, some oxy? She was flying.

  “Keep an eye on the guy,” Schiller said quickly to Jack.

  He turned to the bearded man who was in the process of recovering from having his testicles dented.

  A glance back: the woman looked as though she was going to do the same to Schiller.

  “Hang on. What’s the problem here?” Schiller said.

  The woman’s eyes stayed on fire but at least she didn’t kick the veteran cop.

  “He’s botherin’ me. That’s what’s wrong”

  The man – Jack’s eyes on him, his body positioned between the man and his sparring partner – had finally stood erect.

  “She’s hiding the food. Hiding it—and goddamned eating it.”

  The woman spun away from Schiller, loudly performing for her audience. “That’s crazy. What food? What the hell is he talking about?”

  Funny, Jack thought. The man –who also looked like he was soaring on some concoction – was so thin and lanky, and the woman…. so much larger. If they really lived together, it would seem, on observation, that he might have a case.

  “Okay, okay,” Schiller said. “I don’t know anything about that. But you two…” He paused, maybe hoping they’d flash on the fact they were now involved with the police “You two can calm down. Move this, um, dispute, off the street. Or we can run you down to the precinct. Spend the day and night until we get someone who can talk to you and sort all this out.”

  Another pause.

  “What’s it gonna be?”

  The man and the woman looked at each other. Seemed doubtful that their fury had vanished, but now – Jack guessed – they clearly understood that they might soon be some place with no access to whatever drug was fueling their fun.

  The man nodded, capitulating first, “Okay. We’re done. Yeah – ain’t that right?”

  The woman eyeballed him as if he was on a menu.

  Then: “Yeah. We got carried away, is all. Carried away. We’re okay now.”

  Eyes still on each other. Silently screaming…this isn’t over.

  Then Schiller turned to the crowd.

  “Okay, folks, today’s match is over. Everyone move along.”

  The man and woman somehow melted into the crowd. Jack moved close to his partner.

  They stood there like statues, waiting for the people to vanish.

  Then Schiller turned to Jack.

  “Welcome to the NYPD.” He laughed. “Doing God’s work here, hm?”

  Still laughing, he started back to the patrol car. But Jack, still walking beside him, asked a question.

  “Get much of that? Drugs, fights? In the daytime?”

  Schiller stopped. His face sweaty. The wet blue patches under his arms massive. The summer days so hot. Every day nearly a record.

  Schiller hesitated as if thinking over the question.

  No quick response.

  Something there, Jack thought.

  “Like that? Lately…yeah. And you know what—strangest fucking thing, Jack. Or maybe not so strange. So many of the fights…all about food.”

  Schiller opened the door and got into the car, and Jack followed.

  2 ------------------------ Lunchtime

  For a while, they drove the neighborhood without saying anything.

  Then Schiller said, “Best call in the incident to the desk sergeant. In case something happens later.” Another laugh from him. More of a grunt. “Good practice for you. Why, I’ll even let you do the paperwork on it.”

  Jack realized that whatever his first impression might have been, he liked Schiller. After all, he’d been bouncing around these streets for maybe fifteen years.

  And he seemed okay. He seemed like a cop.

  But then, another thought: is that me fifteen years from now?

  After he called in the incident as ‘disorderly conduct’ – Schiller’s suggestion, as opposed to domestic violence since it was hard to say who was thumping on whom – Jack asked his partner about what he had said.

  “You said food? You’re seeing a lot of incidents over food?”

  “Hell, yeah. Robberies. Shit like we just saw. Fights in the goddamn stores.”

  “I know there have been shortages…”

  Schiller shook his head. “Yeah, ‘kay, if that’s what you call it. Shortages. Had any juicy burgers this summer?”

  “No. I mean, the price of beef…”

  “So, what you call a ‘shortage’ is a crisis here, Jack. And you know who gets to deal with the shit? We do. All I’m saying…is that they better start getting more stuff on the shelves, at prices the goddamned schlubs here can afford. Otherwise, it’s gonna be an even longer, hotter summer.”

  Jack thought about what Schiller said.

  Sure, they had seen shortages in their new neighborhood on Staten Island. The glistening supermarket…with its shelves not looking so super. The corn desiccated, dried up things. Whole sections of meat gone.

  And the price of cereal!

  Jack wasn’t one for watching the news.

  But yeah – something was going on.

  He guessed it would all be temporary.

  Those shelves would fill up in a few months time.

  Had to be.

  Then – for the first time – a completely different thought. What if…that didn’t happen?

  What if, in fact, it got worse?

  “So—” Schiller said. “Speaking of food, I know a place where we can get a couple of dogs at not too extravagant prices. Celebrate your ‘day one’.” He grinned. “My treat.”

  “I can pay for—“

  “Sure you can. Precinct tradition though, Jack. One of the freaking perks of being your mentor,” he said, then laughed as he turned down a corner, heading to where the brackish waters of the Hudson raced to meet the Atlantic Ocean.

  “It’s that place just ahead. Usually sold out by noon. But the owner keeps a few for the boys in blue. No graft there, just a little courtesy. We pay and—“

  “Attention Squad Car 8839.”

  Schiller nodded at Jack, who picked up the radio mic.

  “8839 here. Officer Murphy.

  “Reports of noises and screams coming from
2231 Henry Street. Proceed to investigate.”

  “Roger that,” Jack said, mimicking the many times they rehearsed taking calls in the academy…now simply concerned with not sounding like a rookie.

  Schiller threw the lights and siren on, and hit the gas.

  “Guess those goddamned hot dogs will have to wait, Jack.”

  They stopped outside the address.

  Jack glanced at Schiller, who just sat there, looking at the house.

  The neighborhood…not bad. Some row houses with little plots of green ivy. Garbage neatly in bags. A few brownstones, next to a row of apartment buildings. Trees on the street.

  Didn’t look like a crack house, or a place squatters had invaded.

  What’s he doin? Jack wondered.

  “We going in?”

  Schiller nodded. Then: “Yeah. Just want, you know, to look around the place. See – house has bars on the windows. Strange…”

  The guy’s edgy, Jack thought. Too many years out here?

  “Looks quiet now,” Jack said.

  Schiller turned and looked at him, eyeballs on eyeballs. “Looks, Jacko—can be deceiving.”

  Then back to scanning the house.

  The radio crackled back to life.

  “8839 – are you at the residence yet?”

  Now Schiller grabbed the microphone. “Roger. We’re on our way in.”

  He put the mic back and got out of the car.

  Schiller knocked on the door.

  “Fuckin’ hot,” he said. “Getting to be that working nights is better than this shit. Almost a 100 degrees every goddamn day? Gimme a break.”

  Jack nodded.

  Another knock.

  And then a sound from inside. Something moving.

  “The screamer?” Jack said.

  “Someone screamed. Right? Probable cause for our going in.”

  Schiller stepped back and kicked at the door. But the door was no thin slab of wood or pressed fiber board; it was solid…maybe – given the bars – even reinforced.

  Jack started to kick with him.

  Then the training came back to him, reminding him that this was no exercise.

  “Should I go to the back?”

  “Yeah—go.”

  Back there, maybe another way in, and out.

  A chance to see who was still inside.

  Jack raced down the narrow driveway that led to a neatly painted garage.

  All the windows in the back also lined with bars. Like a prison.

  But the back door – didn’t look as heavy.

  I win, Jack thought.

  He ran up the four steps of the back porch and rammed the door open, his shoulder feeling the blow – but the door popped open.

  He walked into a kitchen.

  His hand on his gun.

  No reason to have it out.

  Felt good enough – just with his hand resting on it.

  The kitchen. White tile on the floor, white counters, white appliances. Pristine.

  But a few steps into the room, a smell. At first, like fish. Yeah, the stale smell of fried fish the next morning. But no – something stronger to this smell, a different odor.

  No noises.

  His partner at the front door.

  Jack moved more cautiously forward, down a small hallway. Rushing – so they said during training – could be the quickest way to get killed.

  Take your time.

  A gunshot, a kick. The front door, lock blown off, opening.

  Jack only feet from the living room.

  A word, a yell from the room ahead…

  “Christ!”

  By the time Jack got to it he could see what had prompted Schiller to yell.

  A body on the floor, the midsection open as if it had exploded.

  The open cavity – empty.

  “Shit,” Jack said. Then he took in the rest of the room, behind those barred windows and dark drapes.

  Boxes stacked high to the ceiling. Cans of food. And shelves filled with more cans…. bottles…jars. Enough stored food to feed an army.

  Yet – and Jack had to admit this – it looked like someone had ripped this man open.

  Ripped him open…

  And feasted on his body.

  The smell, the ooze…fresh.

  Then he heard a sound.

  Schiller was on his radio.

  “We have a homicide. Send backup asap.”

  Jack turned to Schiller, who he saw had his gun in his hand.

  “The guy…he was in here, Jack. Minutes ago. Had to be.”

  God—was the killer still here somewhere? Dripping blood?

  He couldn’t get out from the front or the back.

  Was there another way out?

  Jack remembered passing the basement door, slightly open.

  “Downstairs,” he said, and without waiting for an okay from Schiller, he turned back to the basement and started racing down the stairs.

  Jack had his gun was out by the time he was halfway down.

  So dark down here except for a few rectangular squares of light from smaller barred windows.

  Except—one of those windows didn’t have bars. Someone had chipped or dug around them, and the bars had fallen out.

  Jack raced to the dank basement’s window, at the same time spinning around, trying to see in the darkness if someone could still be down here, hiding, ready to jump on him.

  Steps—as Schiller finally came down.

  Jack got to the window and looked out.

  He saw someone racing away, running through the back yards of the row of brownstones, climbing fences, leaping.

  Jack turned to Schiller, feeling the adrenaline rish hit him hard. “There he is!”

  Then saying something that immediately felt hollow, almost stupid.

  “We can get him.”

  “Backup’s on its way—” Schiller started, “just hold—”

  But Jack took the steps back upstairs two at a time, running full out.

  I’m a runner, Jack thought.

  I’m going to run and catch that sick bastard.

  Jack bolted, holstering his gun so he could grab the top of the fences that separated the houses.

  He was fast, but the guy he chased seemed to be able to get over those fences with a near manic ease.

  Far behind him, he heard Schiller yelling.

  “Can’t get him, Jack.”

  Then: “Wait.”

  But Jack pumped harder, the distance closing, even as the guy he chased reached a wall – the brick wall of the first in a row of small apartment buildings.

  In a minute, Jack would have him.

  Except, the building’s fire escape was right there, and the guy leaped up – an amazing leap – and caught the bottom rung of the escape ladder, and as if in a demented video game, started crab-crawling his way up.

  Jack reached the bottom of the ladder. He looked up. Only seven stories high. Then the roof.

  Something about this made Jack not want to give up, unable to wait for more cops to show up, for backup to cordon off the block, to pen the guy in.

  Something told him that whatever had…

  …eviscerated…

  …the man in the apartment wouldn’t be cordoned off so easily.

  First leap, and Jack missed the bottom rung. Then again, another leap, wishing he was taller, and another miss.

  Then, into a deep crouch, and he reached up with both hands to latch on.

  In the best shape of his life, he caught the lowest rung.

  Then releasing one hand for a wild swing, he hit the release which sent the ladder unfolding and rolling down to the ground.

  In case Schiller ever caught up.

  In case Schiller wanted to follow.

  Jack climbed up as fast as he could, wondering: why am I doing this?

  What the hell is driving me?

  A brief moment thinking about his wife, Christie, and their three year old, Kate. And the newborn, Simon.

  Family.
>
  Immediately pushing that thought away.

  Only one totally and completely mindful thought now: climb.

  Climb fast.

  3 ------------------------ Up on the Roof

  The mad climb triggered oxygen debt, but Jack opened his mouth wide, forcing air in, gasping in order to keep on going.

  Until he was able to grab the curved stone edge of the roof, and scramble onto the roof, thinking that the killer could be standing right there, ready to kick him down again.

  But when Jack rolled over, all he could feel was the sticky tar of the roof melting under the blazing sun. And ahead the killer kept running straight across the roof.

  Jack sprang to his feet, now taking out his gun.

  Could take a shot at him, he thought.

  Could take aim, bring him the fuck down.

  But if there was a chance he could stop the guy without blowing his brains out, he was going to take it.

  Now, running flat, Jack closed the distance again.

  The man reached the edge of the apartment and then, as if he had done it a thousand times, without slowing down, leaped from one building…. to the other.

  Like an animal. Like a gazelle.

  No. Not like that.

  Like a predator, throwing itself into the air.

  The crazed person who ripped open that man back at that house ran the rooftops like it was something he did all the time.

  Jack kept following, racing as fast as he could and then leapt, awkwardly, one leg in front of the other, from one roof…. to the other, amazed that he actually made it.

  A voice in his head…shoot him. Shoot the sick bastard.

  The gun was there. A shot possible.

  But there was only one more building ahead. No more jumps left.

  The man would stop or Jack would indeed take him down.

  Which is when the man…

  What had once been a man…

  Turned.

  Jack stopped cold.

  The person looking at him was covered in blood.

  But it was the man’s eyes that Jack stared right into. Like dark, open holes, like someone on the wildest narcotic concoction possible, and that still didn’t capture the insane look.

  And the hands, so bloody too…. but that wasn’t the thing that Jack noticed about them.

  Dripping red, they were curled into near claws.