Orphan X

48 Shot-to-Shit

Slatcher stood in the lobby, sparks from a shot-to-shit overhead light cascading across the yoke of his shoulders. He drew in a deep breath, rising into a rare moment of perfect posture, a grizzly on hind legs.

He moved into the west corridor, knowing already what he’d find.

White walls smeared with dark streaks. Tattered cargo pants. The sticky floor tugging at the soles of his boots.

He stepped across a prone form and then another. Corkscrewing away from a body at an exotic angle, an arm shone fish-white in the guttering glow, the fingers upthrust like some rare underwater creature.

He passed the boarded-up room and saw where the door had been kicked clear off the frame. The White woman stood backed into the corner, trembling violently, gasps escaping her bloodless lips. She held a folding knife in her limp grasp, the blade still wet. Her eyes were blank, holes in a mask with no face behind it. The mask tilted forward and dry-retched a few times without so much as a change of expression. There’d be no answers from her right now.

Slatcher brushed past the doorway, surveying the wreckage. From the meat-and-fabric bulks sprawled beneath the flickering lights to the hinge-blasted rear door lying flat on the floor, the damage was comprehensive.

Slatcher wasn’t wearing a hat, but if he had been, he would have tipped it to Orphan X.

Not the best. But maybe — at last — an equal.

A faint scratching noise reached him. He cocked his head. Pulled his boot free from a black slick and headed for the maintenance closet.

There it came again, a desperate sound, almost plaintive. Fingernails against wood.

He opened the door, the smell hitting him in the face. Looking at the sight within, he felt his dark admiration transform into rage.