No case file, no leads; no people to tail or sources to consult. Frank was doing no investigating or trailing. He was not detecting.
Frank presses sternly on the brakes of his car with his foot. The brakes squeal in strain and the tires compress the loose gravel on the pavement of the road, making a rough-sounding squish that Frank can hear from his seat. His windows are slightly open as the rain has died down to a light drizzle.
Frank hits his dashboard with a clenched fist. He hits it again. And again. Cursing under his breath with every strike. His hand had begun to hurt. Frank buries his head in those hands, pressing against the steering wheel. Frank's car rumbles in idle and remains the only vehicle in sight along 3rd street.
No more pattering. Just faint sounds on his windshield. The wipers scrape back and forth. Frank breathes heavily, matching the rhythm of the wipers. In and out; through the nose and out the mouth. He rubs his face with his hands moving up and down quickly. A couple of blinks and the twist of his neck. Crack in the back of his spine. Another long sigh. A look into an empty passenger seat. It's not going to get any easier.
He looks at the warehouse from across the street. The darkness of night seems to be contrasted by the darkness of the warehouse. The red bricks are faded and stained with various substances. Two shallow levels. Frank could jump off the top of the building and live. He did not plan to do so, however. Bottom level windows are boarded up with two planks of plywood. Thin enough to shoot and break through, Frank thought. If the time came for that. Upper level windows, strangely, were untouched. The windows of these rooms were dusty and opaque. Frank looked closer, sticking his head out of the open window. The light drizzle splashes onto the brim of his fedora, like the splashes his shoes makes against the wet pavement.
There was a handprint on one of these windows. Frank began to open the door and step out, scanning the upper level windows with more detail. The blackness of the night did not help. He noticed on the far right corner of the warehouse a broken window. A circular hole just above the center of the window's crossed wooden frame. Four inches at most in diameter. Frank stood in the middle of the empty road looking up at this window. The light drizzle refreshed his face, more than the coffee seemed to do.
He made his way towards the warehouse's untouched door. A few dents along the frame; the door's hinges were intact however, shining and cleansed in the rain. A brownish-bronze coloured streak of a stain along the hinges of the door ended in similar coloured stain washing away with rainwater on the concrete. The door had been used before.
The handle twisted easily as Frank opened a slither of the door. Immediate darkness. Darker than outside, as Frank had predicted. He pulled out the revolver from his belt. He couldn't see it when he raised it up. He used his other hand and pressed against his shirt and pants. Finding his lighter in his pant pocket, he flipped it open and lighted it quickly. One fluid motion. Frank was getting his senses back. He could now see four feet in front of him.
What he saw confused his senses once again. Large objects shrouded in white plastic sheeting. A river of them, extending past Frank's field of vision. Frank did not move another inch. He scanned everything he could see with the lighter, and noticed a natural pathway formed by the large shrouded objects. Roughly, they were shaped like furniture. Tables and chairs, tall dressers and several couches. Nothing seemed to be left uncovered.
"...The hell."
Frank took one step forward, expecting something to sound off; an alarm maybe, something under his feet that he wouldn't dare to look down at--something alive. Or dead. Either way, the thought made Frank grip the gun in his hand like glue. Knuckles white and the parts of the gun rattling in his shaking hand. The sweat from his head had reached his eyes. He wipes his forehead with the hand holding the lighter. No light in front of him for two seconds. Like a cue, a faint shattering sound is heard in the distance. Far end of the warehouse. That was the alarm, Frank guessed. It did its job.
Frank was scared out of his god damn mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment