Chapter 1

It was dark inside the top floor of the deserted building. The man was crouched down behind an old desk that didn’t look like it had been used in some thirty years.

This was the old Burroughs Building, located in downtown Langford. He remembered seeing the year the building was built etched in the bricks somewhere a long time ago. That was back when he was younger and noticed stuff like that. He couldn’t remember the exact year the building was built, only that it was in the early 1920s.

The Burroughs Building had been vacant for several years, just like several other buildings in the once thriving downtown. Part of the ceiling had given way thanks to numerous leaks in the roof and the rotted material hung toward the floor in several locations. Aaron Sanders was only in his mid-twenties, but already his knees were hurting from sitting in this position.

His hair was a little long in the back and short on the sides, almost a mullet look. He wore a dark tee shirt, jeans and a pair of white Nike's that stood out like a sore thumb.

With each breath, he tried to hold down the noise. His heart was thumping loud enough that he feared anybody in a block could hear.

Thump..thump..thump it beat. It almost sounded like a drum beaten with a baseball bat.

It was cool outside and cold inside the building. It stunk of rotted wood and the feces that seemed to be everywhere. Despite the cool temperatures, Aaron had sweat pouring down the front of his face. The beads were burning his eyes and he wanted to wipe them away, but knew that would be a bad move.

Whoever was chasing him was here somewhere, looking for him. Aaron looked toward the window and saw the shadows on the floor that made all the different objects in the room appear to be several times their actual size.

He wished the street light outside wasn’t working, like so many others throughout town. But the electric company had this one blaring out light at full strength. He heard a noise somewhere behind him. He held his breath, hoping it was one of the numerous pigeons that had made this building their home. Or possibly a rat. Aaron hated rats and the thought of one scooting across his foot scared him almost as bad as the men chasing him.

His tee shirt was torn in the front, just above his right chest. That was courtesy of a nail on the stairway he used to find this hiding place. Along with part of the shirt, the nail took some skin just for the heck of it.

Aaron had been in the bottom part of the building before, back when it was a pool hall and later a clothing store that did not last long. But this was the first time he had been upstairs. He wasn't impressed.

There were several rooms that had once been apartments a long time ago, each in about as bad of shape as the room he hid in.

He was hurting, both from the scratch on his chest and the ankle he twisted badly while running in the alley, stepping in a pothole that was concealed by darkness and water. Aaron had limped into the building, feeling a relief that the back door was not locked. He had tried to put the door back into its prior position, but it never closed properly.

The old floor creaked from something heavier than a pigeon or rat. He hoped it was from something else, but at the same time knew he was no longer alone. Aaron tried to scoot even further under his cover. As he did, the desk moved, making a noise that sounded about as loud as an airplane flying just a few feet above his head.

There! Another footstep scraping on the old wooden floor. The pursuer bumped into something and grunted. At any other time, it might have been funny. But not now, that was for sure.

He held his breath and looked to his left at the old brick wall. He could see the shadow moving, one of a man holding something that looked much like a pistol in front of him.

The man was moving slowly. Aaron took no comfort from this. It would take a miracle to save him and he was not feeling lucky.

A siren started wailing outside somewhere in Langford. He saw the shadow stop for a second. Aaron hoped it was a police man coming to rescue him, but knew from the sound of the siren that it was the Langford volunteer fire department leaving their building two blocks away to the north.

Aaron looked to his left and saw the man’s boot, the cowboy variety, made up of some animal skin. The light almost seemed to reflect off them. Aaron knew if he could see this well that the man could probably see just as good.

A flashlight turned on. Aaron felt the beam shine into his face. He closed his eyes for the last time and waited. Aaron didn't have to wait long.

"Well, there you are,” the other man said in a drawl that was not from around here. “This will only hurt for a second.”

He laughed as Aaron braced for the end, one he never felt.

------

Michael Hunt was trying to wrap things up for the day when he heard the gunshot. It sounded close, way too close for a man who had people shooting at him only a short time before. The gunshot sounded like it was across the street.

Michael hit the floor, wondering if this was another bullet aimed in his direction. This time, he didn’t hear any glass break and he sighed in relief. He hoped that it was some stray animal that one of the members of the Langford Police Department had just put out of its misery.

He slowly raised and looked over his desk toward the front of the building. The glass door was still in place, thank goodness. Michael had already replaced the glass in the door once and didn’t want to have to shell out the money again.

The money was not the problem like it had been a few months earlier, but he didn’t want to spend any money on anything that wasn’t necessary.

Michael slowly walked to the front and looked outside. Something was moving on the road between the Burroughs Building and the empty lot to the north. He saw a man disappear into the alley, moving at a rapid pace.

At about that time, a truck skidded to a stop at the front of the Langford Review, where Michael was working until the gunshot disturbed him. He knew this truck way too well and tried to hide, not wanting to bother with the driver and his sidekick.

Michael knew it wasn’t any use. He opened the door and looked outside just as the one man, a small and skinny one hopped out of what could be considered a monster truck. A monster, ugly truck at that. It was jacked up beyond belief, so high that one almost needed a ladder instead of steps to enter and exit.

The driver came running up to the door. His dirty hat was cocked to the side. He had a chew of tobacco in his mouth that made his face looked deformed.

Just behind him, the other door opened and the other fellow came jogging up toward the front of the building. The second man tripped on the steps and looked like a baserunner sliding face first into second base.

The first man saw this and stopped to enjoy the scene. “Safe!” he said and threw his arms out like an umpire, with a bit of tobacco juice dribbling off of his chin.

“Ugh,” said the second man, who somehow managed to hold on to the beer bottle in his right hand without spilling a drop.

“Mule, you look like a dadgum retard,” the driver said. He was also sporting a beer bottle that was half full of spit. The driver went by the moniker “Squiggy”, one that he had recently attempted to have tattooed on both arms.

Squiggy was pretty proud of his tattoos until Michael pointed out that it spelled “Squeaky” instead of “Squiggy”. “Reckon I can change my nickname to Squeaky?” he had asked Michael.

Slowly, Mule sat up. He was wearing camo shorts despite the frigid temperatures and a short that had once been a button-up, long sleeved one that he had cut the sleeves off with a pocket knife.

Squiggy turned his attention back to Michael. “They shooting at you again?”

“Not this time,” Michael said. He stood in the doorway, looking across the street. He was of average size, wearing tan slacks and a white dress shirt that proved wrinkle free did not exist at the end of a work day. His hair was tinted with a touch of grey and receding rapidly, showing a forehead that was covered up until a few years ago.

A police car came pulling up in front, without the lights on. The car pulled in close to Squiggy’s truck, at an angle that would prevent the truck from leaving without taking the front bumper of the cruiser with it.

The front door opened and out came a short, plump man with an enormous gut that sagged over the front of his jeans. Even in the darkness, it was easy to see what looked like the remains of a coney splattered across the front of his shirt. He fumbled with his holster, trying to extract a pistol that seemed too large for the short man.

“Dadgummit!” Police Chief Arnold bellowed, loud enough that the Hispanics gathered in the road a block away started to stare.

“Need some help, Porky?” Squiggy said.

“Not from you,” the police chief said. He was still a little peeved at the little man for taking and wrecking this same vehicle almost a year earlier during the worst ice storm Langford had seen in some five years.

Squiggy noticed some of the dents on the car and tried to keep from laughing. He failed. “When you gonna fix them dents?”

“Probably as soon as you pay for them,” Chief Arnold fired back. “You almost cost me my dadgum job. Somebody shooting around here?”

“I thought they was trying to kill Mikey again,” Mule said. He proceeded to open his shirt and look at a large bump on his chest.

“What the crap is that?” Squiggy asked. “It looks alive!”

“I think it’s one of them ingrown hairs,” Mule said. He tried to squeeze the sore. “Dang, that hurt.”

Squiggy leaned in for a closer look. “Dadgum, that almost looks like a third nip.”

“Did you pop it?” Chief Arnold asked, taking way too much interest in the act. “I do like to pop a pimple. Want me to try?”

Mule had to think about this for a second. He didn’t like to pop his own pimples and surely wasn’t crazy about letting somebody who was carrying a gun have a go at it. “I’ll get it later.”

Chief Arnold eyed the sore. “I see a whitehead!” It was said with way too much enthusiasm. “Let me get it! Please!”

Squiggy was the first to notice. “Dadgum, Porky, you’re drooling! You gonna eat it?”

The chief stepped back. “Uh, no, I just wanna pop it.”

“Excuse me,” Michael said. The three men turned to look at him. “I know that pimple’s really exciting, but I saw somebody running off after I heard the shot.”

“So?” Chief Arnold asked. He stole a couple of glimpses at Mule’s chest.

“So…I think somebody might've been shot.”