Black & White. (Part 6)

The blood on it shined off the light. Frank’s breathing began to get unsteady. He turned around and closed his eyes. He repositioned his grip on the trigger of his revolver. Pressed his finger against the cold metal. His hand had started shaking once again.

Remember it. You’re in the trenches. Your finger is pressed steady against the trigger. Don’t shoot, you idiot. Don’t shoot yet. In and out. The explosions behind him shake the ground. The explosions in front of him blast his senses. The explosions beside him send his comrades flying. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Finger steady, against the trigger. Boom. Boom. Bang.

Frank opens his eyes.

There was no possible way. The only thing Frank heard while he was walking was the creaking of the floorboards and the steadiness of his breath—a steadiness that now ceased. Taking its place was rough, fast, and uncontrolled gasps. Frank started to sweat. His flashlight started to rattle, and so did his gun.

The man from the diner. It had to be him. It’s been more than an hour. If he had been on foot, there would be plenty of time for him to make it here before Frank. What about the footprints? Where they his blood? No, it can’t be his blood, unless he bled from his fucking shoes. No, Frank. He’s walked in fresh blood. The man with the injured hand; you saw him at the diner. He was unstable. He asked for meat. He took your case file. He knows something.

“Hello?”

Frank’s voice echoed in the silent darkness of the warehouse. Frank moved toward the closed door, keeping his flashlight on it. The reflection of light of the wet, bloody doorknob illuminated the bright red stain. Fingerprints were clear, Frank was sure of it. But the blood was also streaked, like fabric. Like a bandaged hand.

Frank turned around. He holsters his revolver and takes out the shotgun from his trenchcoat. Frank doesn’t know if the recoil is enough to injure his shoulder. He guesses not. He exhales sharply and decides it’s time to quicken his pace. He shines his flashlight at the ground in front of him as he keeps his sights on the far stairs. Seven steps. He ran with his shotgun down by his side. The man with the injured hand wouldn’t have an advantage over Frank, especially with that kind of wound. Just find him, Frank thought. Find out what the hell is going on.

“Who are you? Why did you take my file?”

Frank remains unanswered. He continues swiftly moving around and past the shrouded furniture across the warehouse floor.

Frank heard the crunching of broken glass under his feet. He glanced down and noticed more syringes. He thought he saw surgical gloves. He paid no attention to it. Seven steps. Get to them. Frank reached the far stairs, right beside the high shelving units. Although the warehouse’s height was shallow, Frank still felt towered by the empty units, save for one. Something covered in white tarp laid on the top shelf.

He looked at it while he made his way up the iron steps. Each one was a loud clang that echoed towards the walls of the warehouse. The railing that Frank touched was wet. He didn’t have to look at them; he knew it was blood from the way it felt. The door was bloody. This man’s blood trail was too obvious. Easy takedown. Get ready.

Frank leaned against the wall beside the closed door, stained with bloody handprints. He adjusted his grip on his flashlight, and the grip of his shotgun. Steady your hands and your head, Frank. Steady. One swift kick and the door flies open. A violent crashing sound. Frank scans the room left and right, looking for anything resembling a human figure. He saw none.

“FUCK!”

Frank kicked the door back into the frame. He put his flashlight, bulb facing upwards, beside him on a desk while he looked for a light switch. Frank’s eyes struggled to readjust with the bright lights above him. He took his flashlight, turned it off, and threw it back on the desk. He was in the administration office of the warehouse. Dust floated past Frank’s eyes, as the beams of light illuminated tiny particles. Frank waves his hand back and forth to avoid inhaling it.

The place was abandoned. Frank guesses that it was an administration office when the warehouse was operating. How long ago, Frank doesn’t know. He is tired of not knowing. Look for the case file. Where could the man have gone? There are only two rooms in this warehouse. Frank looks out the window into the dark floor below. The shadows of furniture litter the warehouse. He scratches his hair under his fedora.

He turns around again towards the window.

Below him stands the man from the diner. Frank can only see his eyes and teeth. The rest of him is shrouded in the darkness of the floor below him. Frank stands frozen, looking at him. His teeth drip of blood. His eyes are bloodshot. Frank cannot stop staring at them. They are more human than the rest of his face.

The man’s face starts twitching. Growling breaths and a low, rasping sound from his mouth. Frank can see his hands clearer now that they are in front of his face. They claw at the air as the man thrashes his head around violently. His whole body seems to contort. They begin clawing at his face. More blood appears on his red hands. The bandages on his hand from the diner have now become loose, and trail with his violent movements.

“Jesus Christ.”

 
Frank’s voice is quiet with his short breaths. His eyes follow the streaking white fabric of the man’s bloodied bandages, and the eyes that disappear behind his hands. So much blood. Who is this man? What is he doing here? Why does his face—

The man disappears in an instant.

Frank pushes off the open window the office and runs towards the door. As he swings open the door, he grabs his flashlight and turns it on. His feet clang the iron steps, echoing in the background as he jumps the last three. Frank drops the flashlight from his mouth. While on the ground, he turns it on and stumbles forwards, regaining his balance. He places his shotgun on his shoulder as he leaps over the shrouded furniture.

The cool, dry air of the warehouse races past his matted, sweaty hair. His fedora shifts up his head. Frank sprints towards the back of the warehouse, looking for any blood trails.

 
As he turns into the third aisle of empty shelves, blood drops litter the floor. Frank turns in a circle to gather a bearing on its direction. He follows the trail towards the third aisle at the back of the warehouse, into the far corner. Frank sprints towards the back wall and turns towards the far corner.

The man from the diner smacks his head against the cement wall. Frank lowers his shotgun. His panting seems to go with each hit. Pat. Pat. The wet sound of it makes Frank cringe. Frank tries to quiet his breathing. Pat. Pat. Drip. The pool of blood below the man spreads out as more blood falls from his swollen face. His rasping growls pause with each hit against the hard cement.

“What the hell are you doing? Hey! Turn around! STOP!”

Frank prods the back of the man. Pat. The man’s face stays against the wall. Frank steps back. The growls turn into grunts. The man’s eyes are as wide as they were from the office window. His teeth are jagged, rotting and falling out from the impact of each hit. His forehead swells into a large lump, discoloured into purple and yellow. But his eyes, they remain locked onto Frank, and Frank does not shift his focus.

“Oh, God.” Frank turns away from the putrid smell coming from the man’s mouth.

 
It opens, despite the constant growling emanating from his throat.

“Tun...gah.”

“What?”

“Tunng...ska. Guh. Gahska.” The man’s eyes seem to cease their life for a brief moment.

Frank’s eyes widen in clarity. Tunguska.

“What do you know about Tunguska? What is it? Is it a place? Who are you and what’s your job? Whose blood is this? Why do you smell so bad? Where the hell—”

“M..Meat.”

The man rushes at Frank with raised, dirty, bloodied hands. Frank can smell his mouth while he lunges at him. Frank remembers the smell from the trenches. The man’s fingernails are sharp and jagged, like his teeth, and yellow, like his swelling forehead. What look like pustules litter the skin of his hand. The dried blood rakes Frank’s face as he frantically attempts to push the man off of him.

Both men topple over as Frank drops the flashlight beside him. The man’s hands do nothing but obscure Frank’s face. They do not form fists and try to punch Frank. The man’s mouth attempts to grab a hold of Frank’s fingers, as he tries to push the man off him by his face. Frank’s forefinger slips into the man’s open mouth. The man clamps down.

“AH, GOD DAMMIT!”

Frank instinctively takes his other hand and reaches around his torso, grabbing his revolver from the holster. It takes three shots for the man to fall limply to the side, letting go of Frank’s finger.

“Shit. Fuck. Who the hell are you?!”

Frank can see bone. The cut is deep, and is bleeding profusely. Frank looks around for anything to stop the blood. He feels around the ground for his flashlight, and finds the fabric of the man’s bandage. Ignoring the dried and wet blood staining it, he rips it off with his teeth and wraps it around his injured and middle finger, joining them together. Frank grimaces in pain as he wraps it as tight as possible. Frank can still move his finger’s joints. He wasn’t aware that so much blood could come out of one finger.

He finds the flashlight shining away from the whole scuffle. Frank wasn’t aware that it was on. He shines it at the man’s face.

“Ah!”

The man’s eyes dart back and forth in front of Frank. He can still hear the silent deflating growls from his half-open mouth. They stop and stare at Frank once again. Frank points the gun at the man’s heart as he leans closer.

“Tunnnguh..Guhska. Mmm...”

“Meat? You want meat, you crazy bastard?”

“Mm. Mmmm.”

The man’s mumbling can hardly be heard. His eyes point downward towards his crumpled body. Frank follows them towards the man’s pointed finger. It uncurls slowly; the movement is stuttered and pained. Frank looks at what the man is pointing at. He shines his flashlight on the cement wall.

“What the hell?”

Frank stares at a three foot wide, four foot tall hole in the wall. It leads into more darkness. He turns back towards the man. His mouth has begun foaming and small convulsions shake Frank who sits beside him.

Frank stands up and backs away. He unloads his revolver and replaces the bullets. A swift movement and it clicks back into the chamber. He holsters it and picks up the shotgun off of the floor. Frank stares one final time at the man. His eyes have rolled to the back of his head.

Frank steps towards the hole and shines his flashlight into it. The ground is made of dirt, and the tunnel that the hole leads into dips downwards. Faint light can be seen under the edge. Frank can hear distant humming of machinery. Clicking sounds are the only thing he can make out besides the ambience of humming.

“My case file better be in this damn hole.”