Famine

As I stand, arms hanging at my sides, in the middle of an empty parking lot in spitting rain, I gaze up into the starless black sky, tracing edges of nothing in a sea of black. I tell myself I can see the clouds somehow, in spite of the buzzing lamps, the moonless sky, and the glaring fluorescent sign of the supermarket. I’m cold and wet. I hear James, his stupid black shoes smacking the wet pavement with wet slaps. I can smell his breath in my mind; overcooked fastfood beef patty, with enough onion to kill anything other than the lanky, hairy creature that he is. I turn my head to the side and leer at him, relishing the idea that it might finally bother him to be stared at. His shiny black jacket makes a soft patter in the rain. My woolen shirt does not. His brimmed cap keeps the water from his eyes. My hair does not- it actually joins the offensive at every opportunity. The thin, hairy man speaks.

“Another one.”

If there is a prize for making the most obvious, meaningless statements, James is surely in the running. The strongest contender this week is when he stepped in dog shit, looked at the bottom of his shoe, and said ‘oh, yuck’ before trying to wipe it off on the curb. But he’s definitely trying to break the record tonight. He mouths off another stellar entry.

“Shit’s getting worse.”

I look away from the travesty, and cast my eyes downward. Here is another travesty. The body of a woman. A woman’s body. She reeks of garbage, maybe sewage. I’ve never been in a sewer. I’m pretty sure I know her, knew her, back when she breathed, and had a face. To say I recognize her outright would be difficult on account of the face, but her clothes and her rank disposition spark some memory of a vagrant I must have bumped into within the last two months. Regardless of any real or imagined shared history, she’s here now. Chewed up, chewed on, chewed to bits. Her head is a pockmarked asteroid of bloody meat, her hands are mere suggestions in murky shades of rusty brown. There are chunks missing from her raggedy flannel, but whether those are recent is unclear. James nudges closer to the body and squats down. For a moment, I wonder if he, purveyor of cheap and disgusting food available after midnight, will be sampling the abandoned meal so as to learn the diner’s palette. I suppose his breath really could get more rancid. Instead, he studies her face with a sort of intensity that suggests he takes his job seriously. It’s the kind of attention I expect him to pay to a porn mag, or a drop of mustard on a wrapper.

“Really degraded. The perp, I mean. Didn’t even have the wit to mug her.”

He’s pointing to a wadded bill sticking out of her shirt. I cough and shrug, and look away, into the flashing lights of the patrol car. Everyone else has gone already. I kick the pavement a bit and shove my hands in my pockets. I stare at my jacket, laid over the headrest of the passenger seat. I hear a twangy, flimsy country singer belting out quietly from the radio. 

I suspect that the rain will be over before the body movers arrive.

Black words on off-white paper. The gritty glide of a pen scribbling out short, redundant answers. I lay the sheet into the small wire basket on the corner of my desk and sit back. Across from me, James is chewing loudly. I watch an onion ring drift up from a greasy little paper cup, across a sea of vaguely dusty air, and terminate at the breadth of his lips in two succinct, squelching crunches. I look away. The clock ticks heavily above the lieutenant’s head. His mustache twitches as he turns the page of his magazine, before turning it sideways. I look away. Through the outline of the double-wide doorway into the hall, a water fountain, radiator rattling. Paint the color of teeth. I look away.

The walkie on my desk crackles, and a brutish voice comes through, sounding as though the mouth that produces it is just as preoccupied as the one wolfing down cholesterol across from me.

“Uhhhh. Got a 10-56 here on the intersection of fifth and main. There room in the lockup?”

I flinch as the lieutenant picks up his own radio without looking away from his entertainment.

“Ah, yeah, All’s we got here is a bachelor party.”

“10-4, bringing em in.”

Faux silence returns. I open the top drawer in my desk and take out my book. The clock ticks. James crunches. The lieutenant sighs. I open the book.

She had a smile like a lit match. I could feel it, burning on my skin. Should’ve kept my mouth shut, but I just had to go and ask:

“Someone waiting for you back home?”

“My husband. Waiting might be overstating it, though.”

The smile was quenched, and it was all my fault. I wanted to apologize, but I could tell she wouldn’t listen. She stood up and looked down, as if berating the floor. Her words were for me, and maybe the tie hanging loosely around my neck.

“He’s probably sleeping. Probably watching the tube. He probably only notices I’ve been gone after I get back.”

I come up beside her, and put my hand on her shoulder, let her know I’m here for her. But when she looks up into my eyes, she doesn’t look comforted so much as vindicated. What have I gotten myself into?

The door crashes open, and Beckham comes striding through, dragging a drunk by the shoulder. The duo pass by, and the rest of us give them our very best disinterested stare. The drunk is actually belligerent. He raves and lisps, and slurs heavily. He swears and mutters.

“Fuckin’ can’t fuckin’ do this t’ me, man. I got rights, rights ya know. Just walkin’ down the fuckin’ street, n’ you throw me in a fuckin’ box? Fuck you, man. Pig. Fuckin’ pig. My money, my taxes, my tax money, that’s, it’s your fuckin’ paycheck, pig man. I- you can’t do this shit- You fuckin’ nazi, you’re a nazi. All ‘f you nazi pigs. Put a guy in jail for bein’ out after dark. Fuck you.”

And so he continues, all the way across the room, stumbling, falling over himself, burping like he’s keeping vomit down, and alternating between a slow shout and a vitriolic whisper. My stomach churns just watching him reel, but James goes right on crunching. Beckham and the belligerent leave earshot down the hallway, and The Lieutenant stands and comes over to our desk. He and James undergo a trade deal; He lays his magazine down in front of James, open to a page with a woman posing with her legs spread on a couch. James holds up his flimsy cup, and the lieutenant takes one of the onion rings as payment for sharing his find. The two of them leer over the spread. James catches me watching and grins, and my stomach churns again.

“There anything like that in that little book of yours?”

I sneer and sit back in my chair, allowing the magazine to be hidden by the pathetic privacy border that separates our desks. The lieutenant pretends to be more cordial.

“What you reading this week, Shims?”

I lift the book so he can see the cover. He mouths the title to himself, then purses his lips, raises his eyebrows, and nods with feigned interest, before collecting back his magazine, and trudging across the room to deposit himself back in his chair. It’s too late, James is in the mood to talk now.

“Catch the game last night, Burns?”

“Mm. If we don’t do something about our defense, we’re dead in the water.”

The clock ticks. The water fountain rattles. James crunches, and speaks.

“Wouldn’t be so bad if we could actually score on offense.”

I stand. If I stay here, I’ll be treated to more of this. Into the hallway I go, down to the lockup. I hear metal clanking, and solid footsteps, and a conversation that is too muffled to make out over the jabbering of the latest addition to the population of the building. Down the steps, through the doorway, and into the entry. Beckham is leaning on the external half of the evidence admissions desk, chewing gum, and watching as Diana sorts folders in the filing cabinet. I watch him watch her, then continue on to the lockup itself. In the main area, an oversized cell with six residents. Five are all in sweaty buttoned white shirts, one is in a hoodie and jeans. The latter spots me and begins yelling again, hurling incomprehensible inconsequential obscenities. I focus on the five. Glitter, like sand or perhaps holy water, is scattered over them, a fine foreground to the pallor and saturation they present otherwise. They’re all seated on the bench in the middle of the cell, heads hanging low, except for one who has his head tilted back and seems to be trying to keep his balance by being utterly still. He blinks and swallows, and breathes heavily. The sixth continues to hurl insults in my direction.

I move on. Down to the isolated cells. Empty. Empty. Out of service for plumbing repairs. Empty. I arrive at the end of the row, and stare into the backmost, left cell. Dark. The light has been broken for some time. A shuffling sound from under the bed. I gaze into the black, and see a pair of shining, shimmering yellow circles gazing back at me. I suppose that I can just make out its mouth, the tattered lips, the severed nose. Gaunt, grey skin.

I crouch down and lean my elbows on my knees, peering from behind the bars. The eyes blink, slowly. A gurgling emits from its throat, and I glimpse its talon-like hand reaching up to rub the wrinkled mess of its scalp. It groans softly at me. Between us, an aluminum tray sits on the ground, utterly clean, pushed up against the cell door. Cheese in the trap. I smile.

I stand and start back. It will be a long night.

James sighs and scratches the underside of his groin, tugging his belt up, waddling a little in his otherwise confident stride. We pass an elderly woman carrying a crusty little dog in her purse, babbling in baby talk to the creature, as though it has enough of a brain to consider more than the effort it must take to shiver like it does. Bulbous black eyes behind an oily mop of yellowed white fur. A crumpled pink bow on a dingy magenta collar. James jogs up the four stairs that separate the lobby of the building from the hall we’ve now entered. I find myself staring at the back of his head, finding ever darker shadows in his curly hair. We arrive at the door. 117.

James raps his knuckles against the door, ignoring the knocker. I look down the hall. I hear a muffled thunk, and turn my head. I hear a man’s voice echo the word ‘before’ and the repeating clump of steps up a staircase. James knocks again, but the door opens halfway through, leaving him shaking his fist in empty air.

The little man in the apartment scowls at us. His foam baseball cap makes me smile despite myself. James puts his hands on his belt, one thump against the grip of his gun.

“Scuse me sir, I’m Detective Denhim, this is Dr. Miranda Whit, she’s consulting with us on a few cases. Can we come in?”

I have to silently applaud his casual demeanor. Another example of why I do not take part in poker night when invited. The man is not deceived so easily.

“What you want with me?”

His face is shiny, his forehead is ruddy pink, his eyes are squinting involuntarily. His wife-beater is strangely fresh. The leather coat hanging from his shoulders is heavily scored and faded. A wispy, scraggly bush of hair clings to his chin. James waves his hand and sighs.

“It’s nothing serious y’see. The eggheads-”

He juts his thumb at me. I straighten the glasses that make the shiny face far too clear.

“- Say your name pops up as uh- tanger-tanti-tangentially related, so, of course, I gotta come down and bother you, waste both our time.”

I shove my hands in my pockets. I look away. The man rubs his awkward little beard. James leans on the doorframe, his foot halfway in the apartment. Something falls inside. Like clockwork, James pushes in.

“Is anyone else home sir? Sounds like trouble.”

I’m right behind him. The man tries to protest, but stammers as a gun appears in each of our hands. I hear something else fall, something that shatters loudly, splashes too. We advance. The man tries to tug at us, but things have changed now. Talk is no longer in our list of priorities. Unfortunately, the man pushes in front of us, and tries to block our way, just as something moves behind him. James shoots him. He falls into a coffee table, scatters cups and papers, and a tissue box.

“Are you ready? Shims, you hear me?”

“Yes.”

A high pitched gargling noise comes from our left, and James pivots, ready for the stumbling figure that approaches. She’s quite far gone, just as he theorized. I sigh, and James chuckles.

“No rest for the wicked, huh bud?”

“I guess not.”

She stumbles into view, and I step past James. Her mouth is stained brown with blood, her nose is shriveled. She’s stark naked, and dark grey. But all the same, when our eyes meet, she shivers as if she can feel the chill of the september air again. I flinch as her eyebrows sink in confusion, then arch in concern. Then the fear hits, and she shrieks. She knows what I am. Too late, too late. Her eyes become vacant, and she falls to the floor, docile. James holsters his gun.

“Well. Nice and easy.”

I taste ash. The world spins. I feel handcuffs close around my wrists as my vision fades. I crumple to the floor too.

I open my eyes. I press a hand to my face, and sigh in relief. The nose is back. I shrug, twist, and lazily push up from the ground. I see color returning to my arms. James is busy lifting the body of Dr. Miranda Whit up over his shoulder. Her mummified visage grins at me, her shining yellow eyes boring a hole into my chest.

“J-jah… jay…”

“I know, I know. Got yourself a looker this time, shims.”

He tosses me my coat and pants, and I suit up, grunting at the numbness in my fingers. Dr. Whit was tall. I’m short, skinny, my pants need to be shored up by my belt. James is holding my gun, doesn’t offer it to my stiff fingers. We slip out of the apartment, after James pulls a hood over the doctor’s head and has me help guide her with my shoulder.

“Been a while since you had a dick, huh, shims?”

“Guhh. Shuuuh… Tup.”

He laughs, and we stumble out the lobby, and usher the doctor’s shrivelled remains into the back of the cruiser. I clamber into the passenger seat, and settle in, adjusting the seat. I practice flexing my fingers, shooing away rigor mortis.

“Well, I s’pose you’ve earned a break. Once we drop the bag of bones off, let’s get lunch. Just gimme a mo to call cleanup, let em know they can head in-”

He pauses, and watches a trio of guys in yellow hazmat gear tromp past, laughing and chatting as they check their gear before pushing through the main doors.

“Huh. That was quick. I’ll double check, then we’ll go.”

He climbs back out of the seat, out into the chill. Leaves me alone, more or less. I peer back over the seat, and meet the shimmering yellow glinting out from dilated pupils, sunken into a face contorted by age. My lips curl into a grin on their own, and I feel the light shining out from my own eyes, savoring the last dregs of Dr. Whit. I suppose I’ll have ice-cream tonight, to mark a job well done.