The War Gate

by Chris Stevenson

  Avy looked at Sebastian. She felt like slapping him. What kind of a ruse was he pulling? He knew what had happened.

  “Two officer-related deaths. Move along.”

  “Why is that one almost naked, sir?”

  “He got stripped.”

  “Who did this? Was there a suspect? Where did he go? Maybe I can help.”

  “Look, unless you were a witness you have no business here.”

  “I might have seen something, but I’m not sure.”

  “A homeless man was seen leaving north up this street. Did you see him?”

  “Ah, no. Maybe I was mistaken. Sorry for taking up your time. I’m very sorry about the officers.” Sebastian backed the vehicle up, then headed north. Avy watched his jaw cinch, his expression changing. He had gone back to being the angry boyfriend again, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, head swiveling side to side, watching the alleys and sidewalks.

  “Keep your nose tweaked,” said Sebastian. “I know that son-of-a-bitch is close. He couldn’t have gotten too far. He stands out like a neon sign. Somebody must have seen him.”

  Sebastian pulled over to the side of the street. A half block ahead, a uniformed officer stood on the curb interviewing pedestrians, scribbling notes in his report book. When the officer reentered his cruiser, he pulled ahead to continue down the street. Sebastian followed the cruiser. The cop hung a right at the next intersection. Once again, he pulled over to interview some people who were sitting under an umbrella at a sidewalk cafe. One of the witnesses pointed to a small alley across the street. The cop waved to the group, then took off in that direction.

  Avy’s car trailed behind at a comfortable distance. More patrol cars merged into the area, evidence that they were following a “hot” lead.

  Avy noted that Sebastian continued to keep from following too closely, apparently not wanting to arouse attention. He was using law enforcement for his own personal radar. She guessed that Sebastian, knowing that the police were closing in on their suspect, intended to be in the area for the final take-down. But then what? She didn’t understand why he didn’t tell the police what he knew.

  “They’ll show us the way,” said Sebastian. “They can’t cover all the ground. Knowing the Wax Man, he’ll just give them the slip again. Then we’ll be right there, waiting for him.”

  “Now there you go again.” Avy said, flustered. “Wax Man? What’s got into you? If you know something, spill it. If you have personal knowledge about this character you should be blabbing everything you know to the cops.”

  “Yeah, what gives?” Chubby asked over the engine noise.

  Sebastian ignored their questions. His mission was set in stone. He drove on, hiding the Jeep behind corners, slowing down when he had to, then speeding up. Avy could tell he had nothing on his mind but the breadcrumb trail, the maze through the streets and alleys.

  ###

  Evening came with a pinkish sky laced with sheet-like clouds. After hours of driving, Sebastian slowed to park by the side of a street that bordered a large field. A dozen officers occupied the field, beating the weedy bushes with their batons. A few had their weapons drawn. This was where the leads had taken the police, who had now set up a perimeter in a concentrated search area.

  “They’ve run the bastard to ground,” said Sebastian. “They think he’s in there.” He looked to his left toward a small warehouse district surrounded by chain link fences, storage garages, and rental yards. “Nobody is looking over there in that jumble of buildings. He wouldn’t be caught out in the open in a field again. He’s looking for cover.” Sebastian took off his t-shirt and tore it into three large strips. He said the cloth strips would make rudimentary masks. Avy and Chubby donned the makeshift masks, both questioning him about the reason for using them. He refused to answer.

  They continued on, driving around the many lots near the unkempt storage buildings. Whenever Sebastian found an unlocked gate, he drove onto the property and checked every square-foot. He left the vehicle several times to search inside suspect buildings. Chubby always stayed in the vehicle with Avy, panning his flashlight between the shadows.

  The search lasted late into the night. They were about to call it quits when Chubby reared up from his seat and jumped from the Jeep. The high beams illuminated a scampering figure running the course of a rain gutter on the top of a building. Avy couldn’t make out the identity of the creature, but believed it to be nothing more than a stray cat. She changed her mind when she got a better look—it looked like a giant rat.

  Chubby ran ahead of the creature, stopped in a combat stance and raised his gun. When the scampering creature passed over his head, he fired three shots. The opossum flipped into the air, then somersaulted onto the oil-soaked ground. Chubby fired two more shots point blank. Blood splattered the aluminum warehouse wall. “That’s for Gretchen.” he told it, picking it up. He swung it by its tail, bashing its head into the wall. Satisfied that it was dead, he dropped the mangled glob of fur on the ground.

  Chubby yelled at the top of his lungs, “I just killed your precious little pet. You hear me? Come get me, you filthy bastard. I’m waiting for you.”

  At first Avy thought Chubby might have lost his mind to grief, guessing that he had killed just one of the many opossums that might have been in the area. When she went to examine it with Sebastian, she changed her mind. The animal stank like no other. It reeked of that cadaverous, fetid odor. Chubby had indeed snuffed out Harry’s little partner in crime.

  Sebastian swung a piece of pipe against the warehouse wall sending up a deafening clang. He yelled at the night. “Come out and fight, you coward. I know you’re in there. You can have a piece of me now.”

  They spent the next hour driving around the property, searching for any conceivable hiding place. They found nothing. The cops had seemingly disappeared from the area, not even alerted by the gunshots. Wherever Harry had gone, he had tucked himself away real good. Avy spoke with the two men, trying to convince them that the enemy had lost his small bloodhound and the probability of finding the three of them again would be impossible. After having run out of rage-induced adrenaline, Sebastian calmed. He allowed Avy to suggest their next move, which seemed to be a form of apology. At last, he would listen to reason.

  “We call detective Bulmer,” she said. “He can furnish us with a safe house or protective custody. It’s the right way to handle this. I think you should tell him all he needs to know about your so-called Wax Man. For God’s sake, people are dying. More might end up dead if we don’t get this out in the open.”

  Chubby said, “She’s right, man. That’s our best option right now.”

  ###

  Avy made an urgent call, rousing detective Bulmer from sleep at his residence. He told her he had just arrived home after investigating the two officer homicides but he would meet them at the entrance to Police Headquarters. The detective met them at the station entrance at three in the morning, looking disheveled. But his eyes were bright, senses obviously aroused. There was no mistaking his interest in what they had to say.

  “Sebastian has some new evidence about who this man is,” said Avy while they walked down the hallway.

  “I’ll take anything I can get,” said the detective.

  Bulmer sequestered the three in a large conference room, locked the door against entry then started a tape recorder. It soon became evident that a city detective could have a “hell hath no fury” attitude about being left out of the loop concerning a major homicide investigation, when Sebastian began to open up about what he knew.

  Bulmer glared at him. “Why didn’t you speak up about this before? Two officers died in the line of duty during a time that you had full knowledge about what killed them.”

  “I wasn’t certain at first,” said Sebastian. “I didn’t know the identity of the assailant until after I witnessed the deaths. It was the way they were killed that tipped me off. I’m sorry I didn’t know sooner.”

  “Just what or who
are we dealing with here?” Bulmer pressed.

  “According to a story I heard from a friend,” Sebastian began, “there was a race of plague victims in the beginning, lepers that originated out of northern Jerusalem. They were called Emmaus. Which translates to ‘The Despised Ones.’ They were people who carried a variety of diseases that had no known cures at the time. They were rounded up to be quarantined in small isolated villages and outposts. They were shunned by society. All of the afflicted were cloistered together.”

  “Didn’t they all die from their diseases?” asked Bulmer.

  “Ninety-nine percent of these communities died out never to be seen again. But a few survived. By some biological miracle, the remaining victims developed antibodies against the pathogens. From one generation to another they became immune, even after picking up additional diseases from other sources. They scattered into the population, forming secret communities. They were once known as the ‘shadow people’, sometimes the ‘dispossessed.’They became common outcasts, synonymous with the homeless, gypsies, vagabonds, transients—call them whatever you like. Their bodies processed all the viral forms into one all-powerful plague—a master plague. But this plague was so lethal it could transfer through the pores or get picked up through the lungs.”

  Bulmer sighed. “You’re talking about instantaneous death.”

  “Yes. Just being close to the person with the contagion can make you sick as hell. There is no cure for it. Death is certain with direct contact.”

  Bulmer looked incensed. “Why don’t they die from their own contagion? I mean, what keeps the line going?”

  “Like I said, the few who have survived are immune. They don’t live past their late twenties—in fact, the teenagers of the species, I guess you would call them, are the most active. They breed within their own bloodline.”

  “It doesn’t sound plausible. How is it that we’ve never seen them before?”

  “They’re masters of stealth,” said Sebastian in a mystic tone. “It’s a small network of individuals who always keep hidden away. Look, you can’t find something that won’t show itself.”

  Detective Bulmer appeared woozy for a moment, like he was trying to shake off a bad drunk. “How do they survive? How do they live?”

  “They’re dumpster divers—they eat out of the trash. Sometimes they kill livestock or domesticated pets. Some prey on the homeless—robbing or murdering them. They kill our homeless people because they can get away with it. The homeless are never missed. You have to admit, sir, that even prostitute homicides get better investigations than our homeless population.”

  Bulmer grunted. “I think I remember something about a Typhoid Mary, but this sounds ten times worse.”

  “Yeah,” said Sebastian. “Mary was called a ‘healthy carrier.’ Over time, the Emmaus die from the demands of the disease, but not before birthing a new line.”

  “Jesus,” Bulmer swore. “What do they look like? All the same?”

  “They’re not pretty, showing all kinds of boils, sores, and rashes. You don’t even want to get within a few yards of one without protection. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get some protective suits on your officers. At least the ones who are assigned to the task force.”

  “I’ll get right on that.” The detective paused the recorder after a knock sounded at the door. He answered it, receiving a slip of paper from a clerk. He took a seat at the table, then read the document. After he turned the recorder back on he said, “This is a lab report about the autopsy findings on the first officer fatality. The diagnosis for cause of death states that it was a contagious unknown pathogen, which caused a cardiopulmonary arrest. From what you’ve told me, it looks like your story pans out. Would you have a best guess of where we might find this—”

  “Harry,” said Avy. “He calls himself Harry. Like in ‘Typhoid Harry.’ Sick joke.”

  “He’s also been called the Wax Man,” said Sebastian. “But rumor says he doesn’t like the name.”

  “Neither do I,” said Bulmer. “‘Operation Harry’ looks better on a task force report. Now, is there anything else you can tell me about him? Where can we contact the person that supplied you with this information to begin with?”

  Sebastian cleared his throat. “My source moved out of the area. We’ve lost touch. It was years ago. I don’t think you could find him now. I’m afraid I don’t have any additional information.”

  Avy clenched her fist so hard her knuckles crackled. She knew that Sebastian’s Wax Man informant had been Janus. She slapped the tabletop. “That’s all you have? Great gods in heaven, thanks for letting Chubby and me in on this little tidbit. Don’t ever offer to alert me in case of a national disaster. You know, like a hurricane, flood, earthquake or an asteroid?”

  Sebastian shoved his palms hard against his temples. “I didn’t know what I was dealing with. Stop being sarcastic.”

  Detective Bulmer held his hands out. “Please. Misdirected anger doesn’t solve anything. I’d like you to write down a small map of this warehouse, the place where you think you encountered the pet of this Harry.”

  “I know that filthy opossum belonged to him,” said Chubby. “I put so much lead into him you could use him for a boat anchor.”

  Bulmer frowned. “What did I tell you about discharging weapons?”

  Chubby’s mouth moved, but no words came out. He’d tripped himself up.

  Sebastian got busy sketching out a map. When he finished it, he handed to the detective.

  Bulmer looked at the rendering. “We’ll check this whole area out. Now, it looks like we might be able to provide you with some relocation. At least somewhere off the beaten path where we can station a couple of units to provide security. It won’t be the Ritz. You’ll have to stay indoors. When we apprehend the suspect we’ll cut you loose. Not a minute before though. Are you in agreement with that?”

  Avy nodded. She didn’t want any trouble and would follow his orders by the book. Out of the three, she thought she’d be the one most willing to follow the guidelines. Her male companions were having trouble controlling their tempers.

  “Fine then. Oh, there’s one more thing. I want your firearms turned over to our custody for safekeeping. This minute. Check them at the sergeant’s desk. He’ll book them into our property room.”

  Sebastian cringed. Chubby just hunched his shoulders.

  Bulmer turned the recorder off. “Okay, just a short session with a sketch artist, then we’ll roll.”

  Chapter 21

  The safe house sat on the west side of Raleigh on a quiet lane. Cracker box size in dimensions, it was an old, one-story clapboard with most of its better days behind it. Bulmer said it had been acquired in a drug seizure, but it served as a good safe house since an additional unit could be stationed in the back alley. A chain link fence separated the alley from the large backyard, providing an unencumbered view of the rear. A swing gate allowed swift access in case the officers had to storm the property. A unit would be stationed out in front to monitor the front and sides of the house. A high cinderblock wall topped with barbed wire separated the safe house from residences on either side. All windows were equipped with wrought iron security bars. The doors were steel-reinforced.

  Standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, Avy listened to the instructions of the officer who would be stationed across the street. Chubby and Sebastian seemed indifferent to the spiel, which irritated her to no end.

  “I’ll be right here,” said the officer. “I'll check in with headquarters every thirty minutes. I also have a direct line to the phone inside. You can call if you need anything. In the event that the phone becomes inoperable, flash the porch light several times to get our attention. We’ll have some breakfast for you in the morning. Try to get some sleep. We’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Sebastian grumbled, “it’s almost morning now. We haven’t had any sleep. Bring dinner. We’ll be up then. Please keep an eye on the Suzuki behind your unit. It’s
packed with some expensive gear.”

  “Dinner it is then. The car will be safe.”

  Avy watched the plainclothes officer walk across the street, then enter his unmarked vehicle. She noted that the female officer sitting next to him hadn’t donned her mask or put gloves on, which went against the direct orders that Bulmer had given them at the station.

  With the key provided them, clothes bags in hand, they entered the house. Avy walked across the wooden living room floor, causing it to give an annoying creak. She investigated the kitchen and bathrooms, finding both moderately clean. She went back into the living room and found both men standing just inside the front door. They had moved mere inches. Each eyed their surroundings with what she guessed to be uneasiness.

  “It’s not going to get any better,” said Avy. “It’s all we have right now.”

  The men tossed their small carryall packs on the couch.

  Sebastian collapsed in a flower-print easy chair. “They could have at least given us a large guard dog. I feel like I’m shackled now. I’ve always had to depend on myself. Now I have to trust somebody else.”

  “I don’t feel comfortable without my piece,” Chubby remarked. “I’m a better shot than I am a boxer or wrestler.”

  Sebastian unzipped a side pocket on his pack. He pulled out a double-barreled silver derringer. He brought an eye over the tiny sights. “I had this tucked away just in case. It’s chambered for twenty-five. That’s enough to do some damage. But I just have two rounds. I forgot to pick up extras.”

  “Good for you.” Chubby perked up. “Now I don’t feel so helpless.”

  Men and their guns, thought Avy. She supposed they were necessary. It gave her a twinge of comfort knowing that Sebastian had hidden one away. She still believed the police would serve the best protective role. Weren’t they the professionals? Didn’t they have every gadget and tactic known to man designed to handle every emergency? Why the big fuss?