by Tyler Hanson
Jesus, Zen; restrain yourself.
“Don’t give me that face,” she said. “I’m giving you a chance, here, to do the right thing now. Not tonight, not in seventy-two hours, now. Redeem yourself and tell me about the body at the pier. Or I can keep reintroducing you to that wall until you’re ready to marry it.” She took a threatening step forward.
“No!” Trevor spoke, raising his arms in self-defense. His voice was high and squeaky; a strange sound from the large man.
“I’ll talk,” he continued. “I didn’t want to do this anyway. It’s not my fault.”
Zen raised her hand in a beckoning gesture, her voice friendlier than before. “Tell me what happened.”
Mississippi, United States
June 21, 1989-A
The wind picked up speed, blowing the first flecks of rainwater into their faces. The boy rocked a little in the gust, but the girl held him tight, steadying herself against the tree with her other hand. The clouds reached them. She gazed in awe up at the storm, at its raw power and limitless energy, her attention rapt.
“Isn’t it amazing?” she cried over the howling of air through tree limbs.
The boy nodded, a little dumbfounded himself.
“I can’t believe that none of the people in town just stop and watch the storms,” he yelled. “They’re so beautiful, hiding in plain sight. You know, people choose to fear what they look at instead of trying to find the treasure beneath.”
The girl looked at his face, baring a broad, unabashed grin as she mirrored his earlier words. “I couldn’t’ve said it better myself.”
She leaned toward him, and he responded in kind. Chills ran up her arms as their lips touched.
Wow . . . this is what kissin’ feels like.
Their hands touched at each other’s knees, awkward but unashamed. The girl closed her eyes and embraced the moment, letting her worries and fears fade away. The people at school didn’t matter; the people in town didn’t matter; shoot, this storm didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way she felt in this moment.
Rain began to splatter against them as they pulled away, faces inches apart. The boy was grinning a stupid grin, his face flushed. He grabbed her and drew her tight, wrapping her into a new hug. Her head against his shoulder, their bodies pressed together once more. She smiled into his neck.
“I . . . I think I love you,” she said, her words lost in the loud cracking of thunder.
The tree creaked, and the hair on her arms stood up once again. Lightning flashed in the air around them, their bodies illuminated by blue light. She was convinced he hadn’t even heard her, but in the second of silence between two thunder cracks, his whisper made it to her ears.
“I know I love you,” he said.
The blue glow around them grew brighter, the rumbling sounds louder, the humid air hotter.
The boy gasped, looking into the sky over the girl’s shoulder. She smelled the rancid odor of burning hair. Buzzing, like the parade of a billion hornets, washed over the young couple in waves—
And their world exploded.
Battery’s Report
01.02: “Descent”
New York, United States
September 9, 2001-B
Why are you here?
Zen walked alone down the trail of Fort Tryon Park; the rest of the world was slow to awaken, though pre-work joggers and dog-walkers passed her on occasion.
During her interrogation with Trevor, he had been more than willing to share his own story with her. According to him, a man in a dark coat and knit cap entered his life a few weeks ago, making cocaine purchases from him in larger-than-normal amounts. It was difficult to acquire so much at once, but Trevor had some allies outside the country, and he was able to obtain what the man wanted.
A few days later, the man revealed recordings of their conversations and transactions, with enough evidence to incriminate Trevor for life. Under the pressure of blackmail, Trevor ran victimless errands for the man, stealing various electronics, chemicals, firearms, and explosives, all from untraceable sources. Trevor claimed he could see no meaningful connection between the items, so it gave him no reason to worry about his begrudged alliance with the mystery man.
Until last night.
Zen continued down the trail, looking for a stone archway, contemplating Trevor’s words.
“He showed up with a body wrapped in a plastic bag,” he’d said. “I told him no, dude, but the guy insisted that I cut up the body and ‘dispose of it’ in pieces. I asked him how, and this asshole throws some trash bags and a surgical saw onto the floor without saying anything. He started to leave; I tried to stop him, I swear I did, but he just vanished!”
Trevor’s voice started to tremble as he continued. “Look, lady, I’ve done a lot of shit, but I’m no murderer. Sure, I mean people ended up dead if they messed with me sometimes, but I didn’t do it. Swear to God. So, I’m like, I don’t gotta listen to this prick. I carried the body to the nearby pier and dropped it in the river. I figured all the evidence would sink into the river and that’d be the end of it.”
What piqued Zen’s interest, though, and what brought her to the park, were the details of Trevor’s meetings with the man. The mysterious stranger instructed Trevor to meet him beneath the “small grey bridge” at Fort Tryon Park. Once there, the man told him to face the underside of the bridge with a white “S” graffitied on it. After pressing his head against the wall and closing his eyes, he felt a gush of air and heard the man’s voice. Only then would he receive directions from the man in the coat.
A gush of air, Trevor had described it. Every time.
Now, that made no sense. It hadn’t been windy in the last few days, and he described it as a consistent, mechanical puff. It sounded like something pressurized; something sealed. Maybe there was something more to the bridge.
Something hidden.
Lost in her own head, Zen was surprised to find herself already at the bridge in question. She moved underneath, the shade basking her in cool darkness. A gesture and a click preceded a cone of light as she withdrew her flashlight from her belt. It took no more than a second to locate the side of the bridge with the “S.” It was an amateur, watery graffiti job; someone had sprayed the large, uneven “S” across much of the wall, not even bothering to prevent the paint from dripping down the wall before it dried.
This wall wasn’t what interested her, though, according to Trevor’s story. She’d traveled to Fort Tryon for the stack of stones opposing the graffiti. Spinning around to face it, Zen walked until her nose almost touched the rocky surface. She traced her fingers along the cracks that separated the grey blocks, walking back and forth from one end of the support structure to the other. She peeked around the edge of the bridge, noting how the walls connected to grass-covered hills on either side.
Zen bent down, picked up a fallen branch, and turned back to the wall itself. Breaking the ends and shearing the leaves with her hands, she made quick work of the branch until she transformed it into a thick, wooden staff. She jabbed the end of the branch into the individual bricks. Each brick emitted a dulled thud as the stick struck.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
She worked her way up and down the wall, travelling inch-by-inch from one side to the other, attacking each brick along the way with her impromptu, yet determined, methodology.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Zen’s biceps burned, and she felt light sweat on her brow. She poked and prodded two-thirds of her way across the wall of the bridge, but each stab yielded the same result.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Discouragement and doubt seeped into her consciousness, slowing her efforts.
You know what they say about the definition of insanity, Zen.
Thud. Thud. Chink. Thud.
Zen stopped jabbing and returned to the previous brick. The odd square wobbled when struck, and she offered it a closer examination. It was moving a little, though it was still pressed against the wall, snug within its crac
ks. She rested her hand against it, hesitated, and pushed.
The rock resisted, but with a spongy resistance, not the resistance of stone against stone. Despite its unique qualities, Zen’s firm push did not depress it very far. She gritted her teeth, steadied her legs, and pushed again. It slid into the wall, emitting a solid click as it made contact with something behind it. A gush of air struck her face as a large, rectangular segment of the rock surface slid forward and drifted open.
“Well I’ll be damned,” she said to the secret doorway.
The secret door revealed a grey stone stairwell, lit by a line of glowing fluorescent orbs along the walls. The steps descended at least ten paces before curving at an angle, preventing Zen from seeing where it ended. She paused for a moment, considering whether to reach out to her partner.
No. You can take care of yourself. Because what about Phil? What about Jeff, with his new wife already worried sick about him every day? What about Nancy, with her two children in kindergarten? If you call this in now, the place may end up being rigged with traps. There might be a haven of armed criminals waiting to murder a wise detective, a new husband, or a mother of two. There’s no reason for someone else to get hurt when you’re already here. You know you can take it.
Zen moved down the first two steps, and a faint beep sounded. She looked behind her to see a motion sensor change its light from green to red. The secret door slid closed with a whisper and a burst of wind. To Zen’s relief, the lights retained their glow, at least for now. She moved down the stairs, moving as fast as she could while also being aware of her surroundings. She reached a curve and passed it to continue her descent. The stairs ended with a flat stone floor, and an endless tunnel stretched before her. As if by instinct, Zen reached for the Taser on her belt.
Stop, Zen. You weren’t claustrophobic before, and nothing has happened to change that.
She sighed and jogged forward. The orbs, still producing their white light, passed by in a blur as she picked up her pace. The walls never changed, never highlighting anything other than grey stone. Zen began to regret her decision as she approached what she estimated to be a mile into the tunnel.
As she considered turning back, she noticed that the walls ballooned ahead of her, opening out into a wide, pearl-white room. Zen’s jogging pace slowed as she reached the room; skidding to a stop, she looked around. White plastic chairs haphazardly surrounded three white plastic tables. Crumpled junk food wrappers dotted the floor. Square monitors lined the wall to the right of Zen’s entrance, each screen showing a black-and-white sea of cars and faces. Were they traffic cameras?
No. This doesn’t seem like any kind of state facility.
With nothing more to glean from the room, Zen walked through the space to an opening on the opposite side. The tunnel continued ahead, so she gathered her energy and resumed her journey.
Zen ran through several more rooms on her journey, and it became clear that the tunnel made its transition at regular intervals. Each room was different; some contained surveillance equipment, like the first room, while others contained wardrobes full of clothing or tables covered in chemistry equipment. In one room, she uncovered wooden boxes filled with automatic rifles with filed off serial numbers. Uneasiness stirred within Zen, not just in response to the contents of the rooms, but also due to the lack of other people. Whatever this place was, it was clean, it was neat, and it was far too modernized—all signs of a well-staffed facility.
So where is all the staff?
After she reached the tenth or eleventh room, Zen was somewhat winded. She stopped in the next room, panting and wiping a hand across her glistening brow. As her arm fell back to her side, a shape caught the corner of her eye. Mounted against the right wall was a silver ladder, ascending into an unlit space above her head. The ladder was not what drew Zen’s attention, however; rather, it was the dark coat draped over one of the ladder’s rungs.
Why hello there, mysterious friend.
Zen stepped forward, reaching for the coat, but pieces of metal slid beneath her feet, disrupting her balance. She picked up one of a dozen industrial screws piled onto the floor, each a foot long and as thick as a Cuban cigar. Zen brushed the coat onto the floor and dropped the screw onto it, muffling any noise the fall would have created. Flexing her fingers, the detective gripped the rungs of the ladder, scaling it with the speed and grace of a Central Park squirrel.
She climbed for several minutes before she reached a steel porthole in the ceiling. Zen pushed the door open a few inches, aligning her eye with the crack. The window of visibility was too small, though, and she pressed her face forward to better view her surroundings.
Peering past the dim shadows cast by incandescent bulbs, Zen’s eyes adjusted to reveal rows and rows of dust-covered shelves, each full of what appeared to be cleaning supplies. She saw containers of soaps and acids, rolls of paper towels, and an eclectic assortment of vacuum cleaners, brooms, mops and buckets. She couldn’t see any signs of movement, nor could she hear any noise over the dull roar of a nearby fan or generator. Zen lifted the porthole door, wary of any creaking hinges, and slid onto the concrete floor.
The ground was cold and hard, and she could smell animal urine.
Or . . . is that ammonia?
She climbed to her feet, using a nearby wall to steady herself. Her hand touched something cold and metallic, and it offered a gentle, vibrating response as her skin made contact. Zen jerked her hand away as if she had touched a hot stove. Curious, she moved closer to examine the object.
It was a black, metal box about the size and shape of a luggage case. Someone had mounted it to the concrete wall with four long metal screws, each screw piercing one of its four corners. A thin panel covered the front face of the box. Maintaining a steady hand, Zen reached out and opened it to reveal a keypad and screen underneath. The screen’s display was an old-school LED, like an alarm clock, and it exhibited one word in bright yellow: PENDING.
Zen moved her gaze away from the box, past the shelves, and to the adjacent wall. Another box was mounted there, too. She crept over to it and peered behind the door.
PENDING.
A muffled noise drew Zen’s focus from the device, and she whipped around. Past the racks of cleaning supplies that stood between her and the opposite side of the small room, she saw movement.
Zen unsnapped her holster and slid her gun from her belt, moving in silence. She held it in front of her, but kept it pointed toward the ground. It wasn’t in her nature to use lethal force, but she suspected that she knew what the devices were. If she was correct, her moral code came secondary to the safety of New York’s citizens. Zen held her breath as she reached the far side of a shelf stocked end-to-end with bleach. Once she felt ready, she poked her head around the corner.
A man in a loose-fitting white shirt and blue jeans quietly hummed, lost in his work. As Trevor had described, a black-knit cap covered his crown. His skin was not quite white; rather, it was a light grey, and its texture was almost fuzzy, like a down-feather blanket. He held a small black remote in one hand, typing on the keypad of a third wall-mounted box with the other. Zen recognized the tune he was humming, though she couldn’t quite remember the words.
Hmmm hm-hm hm hm, hmmm hm-hm hm . . .
Realization struck. It was a children’s nursery rhyme.
The man stiffened, the fur on his skin sticking into the air as if alerting him to danger. He looked over his shoulder toward Zen. Where human eyes should have been were only black orbs, dull and glassy like shark’s eyes.
Zen seized the opportunity to level her pistol at him and take control. “NYPD. Step away from the bomb or I will shoot you.”
He continued humming, and her brain filled in the words.
Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree top . . .
The man turned to face her, his movements slow and relaxed. For a brief moment, it seemed he might comply. Then he grinned, baring long, sharp teeth, as if he’d filed them into points. His hands lowered to h
is sides, palms facing Zen. Before her eyes, the ends of his fingers blackened and grew into claws. His loose-fitting shirt squirmed and tightened, as if it housed a pack of wild animals hungry for escape. All the while, he never stopped humming.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock . . .
The white shirt split and ripped along his back, releasing two large, feathery wings. Spanning at least twenty feet across, they were a dirty grey color with two black stripes on each wingtip, much like the colors of a pigeon. They stretched and flexed, as if they had slept for decades, before resting half-open around the man’s shoulders.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall . . .
Zen stepped back. “What the hell is this?”
The man curled his claws and took two short, menacing steps forward. The barrel of her gun twitched, still aimed at his chest.
She said, “Stop. Last chance!”
He either didn’t understand her or he didn’t care, because he stepped closer, the distance shortening enough to make Zen uncomfortable. She squeezed the trigger of her pistol four times in quick succession. The muzzle flashes lit the dim room, and the sound of gunfire bounced around the concrete walls.
The expended ammunition never reached his body, though. The moment her finger began to squeeze the trigger, his wings curled in front of him to create a shield. The bullets disappeared into the feathers, leaving no marks beyond a slight ruffle where they struck.
The man flicked his wings apart, and Zen could hear the faint tinkling of the spent rounds falling onto the floor. As the wings parted, he revealed a short, boxy gun with a long magazine.
Is that a MAC-10? If so, she needed to move. Now.
Flicking his arm toward her with the deftness and aim of a dueling cowboy, the man depressed the MAC-10’s trigger. An immediate, deafening wasp’s nest of machine-gun fire buzzed at her, and white-hot bullets sprayed across the room in a wide fan. Zen dropped to one knee and rolled to the left, behind a supply shelf, but it was too late. She felt the intense, burning impact in her chest, stomach, and right arm and leg. The pain spread until her whole body felt like one giant, open wound.
