Chapter 14: Chapter 11

Colin wanted to vomit. 

Tables lined the walls, covered in saws, hammers, cages filled with dead rats, and other various devices alien to the detective. Blood-soaked rags hung over racks, hooks dangling with slices of rotted flesh, a skinning knife leaning against a special stand carved to resemble a clawed hand. A torturer’s table stood as the room’s centerpiece, its wood stained a deep crimson, but the iron wheels and gears spotless, wiped clean after each use. 

In one corner sat a trio of jars, one filled with dried ears; the second with severed fingers; the third with eyes, melted down to mush over months of poor preservation. To the side of these jars sat a whip, multi-pronged black leather. Grimacing, Colin picked it up, turning the whip in his hand, spots of red staining this piece as well. “Alexia...” Putting it down, he went around the rest of the tables, Caitlin in his peripheral. 

She was picking up tools, making different faces, all in disgust, before tossing them aside. “Fuckin’ psycho,” she muttered. 

He had to agree, looking at the cages of dead rats, and seeing the holes cut into the bottom, leather covers keeping them closed off. Glancing at the torture table, he scowled, seeing no rat food kept anywhere. Could the screams be heard from outside? Would anyone care if they could? Waving the thought off, Colin put his attention back towards the tables. 

The torch’s flame, flickering and unsteady, illuminated only a few meters outwards, forcing him to search slowly, to fight through the stench permeating all around him, even his mask unable to completely block it out. “You doing okay in here?” He blurted out, turning towards Caitlin. “I mean, it smells horrid in here.” 

She shrugged, “It is, but... this is a smell I’m used to. Blood, rotting meat... death. You get used to it.” 

“Right...” He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he just nodded to himself. A thumbscrew grabbed his attention, sitting atop a leather-bound journal. Moving the torture device aside, he flipped open the journal. Hand-written notes covered its pages, sometimes neat, sometimes scrawled in a hurry, manic and unreadable. 

The first few pages started as any journal did, with a lack of surety, talking of the day-to-day minutia and airing out complaints. Usually of customers and their ridiculous demands, or of Enforcers hounding them for freebies to ‘protect his goods.’ No name was written anywhere in the journal, but it became increasingly obvious that it was Mr. Letterman’s, solidified when he referred to Alexia with care. 

Pages continued on without interest, until about a third of the way in, where a new contact was made: a man with the face of a dog, and who growled like one, every word spoken with great effort. Mr. Letterman didn’t go into too much detail, but noting the oversized arm was enough for Colin. A connection. 

He continued reading, the dog-faced man visiting on occasion to have something fixed; a knife that needed its grip refitted, a pocket watch with a faulty spring, a wooden figure of a beast, its arm missing and needing a replacement. This continued on for several weeks, until the dog-faced man came with a woman, an unusually beautiful half-ghoul wearing red. She introduced the dog-faced man as Jackal, and herself as his mother. 

They invited him to their family, Mr. Letterman too terrified to deny. Flipping a few more pages introduced the concept of an initiation, the details of which were scribbled out in heavy ink, the page slightly torn from the pressure. From here the writing becomes inconsistent, sometimes talking of his normal life, raising Alexia, others ranting about the truths he was being introduced to by his new family. Then he spoke of Alexia to the Mother, and his daughter was found unworthy, ‘lacking the Great One’s gifts.’ 

Enraged by this, Mr. Letterman began striking his daughter, belittling her, hoping to repent for his sin of ‘creating one of impure blood.’ Colin scowled, thinking back to the burns, the cuts, looking around but seeing only empty bottles and vials. Acid, and heavy-duty cleaning products, the coroner had said. 

He continued reading, finding little point to it, the writing at this point sparse, and increasingly crazed. There are several blank pages near the end, the last one bearing ink a befuddled mess of overlapping words. ‘Sin,’ ‘Must repent,’ and ‘He comes for me,’ being the only ones Colin could make out. Whatever sin he had committed to offend this Mother, it led to his death. 

Closing the journal, he turned to watch Caitlin staring at him, her eyes glittering like rubies in the torch’s flickering light. He held the journal out to her, “You might want to check this out. It’s a very... interesting read.” 

She stared at the journal for a moment before looking back up at him, deadpan. “I hope you realize that I can’t read.” 

Eyes moving between her and the journal, Colin bit his lip. “Oh... yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He opened the journal back up, paraphrasing the important bits. 

* * *

Back to Zone 8, where the crematorium stood puffing a constant torrent of black smoke, mixing with the green smog and adding to the smell of death that seeped into every surface. Where it started. 

Another scriptorium, another Enforcer to bypass. This one stood a head taller than Colin, picking his nose and barely acknowledging the two as they passed. Inside, the serfs looked closer to the corpses their sector oversaw than the living, shuffling around in silence, save the pained moans leaking through their toothless gums. Up the stairs and down the hall, straight to the head scribe’s office. 

Colin knocked on the doorframe this time, the actual door missing, a shriveled face glowering from the decrepit desk within. “I see you, detective. Just come in, already.” The woman was old, her eyes sharp, pure black orbs without a hint of colour to them. Long, slender fingers tapped along the length of her desk, nails tracing the circuitous paths of the wood grain. 

They stepped inside, Colin unsure of where her black eyes were looking, the pen in her hand stilled for but a moment before she continued. “Detective Colin Black, with the EPD,” he said, the practiced introduction a rote courtesy. 

The woman sighed, “Yes, detective, I know who you are, and have been expecting you. You’ve been going around every other scriptorium, bothering them for information. So, tell me if you would, what are you looking for from my archives?” 

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Caitlin growled behind Colin, the detective fighting to keep the humour from his voice, his brazen smile hidden by the leather mask rubbing at his skin. “I just need the records for the victims who were involved in the recent spree of murders. I’m sure that shouldn’t be too difficult a task for your crew.” 

“My crew,” she scoffed. “You mean the men shambling down there, surviving off of pure desperation? Right.” Dipping the feather pen into the adjoining ink pot, she screwed her shrewd features into a sneer. “Go down there yourself, I’m sure there’s someone who can help you. And please, close the door behind you.” 

* * *

The archives were sparse in furnishings, barely a single serf to do the endless work of rotating and reorganizing the endless reports and paperwork coming in. Their ears were caved in masses of muscle, and they barely registered Colin when he asked for assistance. 

So, grumbling, the detective went down the line of shelves, no knowledge of how they were organized. Pulling documents out at random, he slowly built up an idea, using these as references for what surrounding information could be found. It took the better part of two hours, but eventually he found what he needed. Missing person’s reports, along with murder reports fitting the M.O. of the warehouse murder. 

There was little connecting the victims, their murders spread around different zones, sex nor job having any impact on the details. But any victim found with a burnt body in the area was a connection, the string of these murders going months back. Of course, they would never reach the EPD until someone up top was made an example of. 

There was, however, one discrepancy Colin saw. That wherever these murders happened, they were privately owned, the owner either already deceased, or alive but not pursuing any course of action to rectify the situation. Now, it was possible that there were other reasons, but Colin shoved that possibility aside. This was organized, and it had something to do with Jackal and this Mother of his. 

The owners of these properties who still lived would be the perfect starting point for interrogation. “Caitlin! We’re heading out.” 

“Yeah, yeah sure,” she said, clambering from the floor where she’d been napping. “About time,” she muttered. 

Colin copied down the names and addresses into his pocketbook, and put the documents back where he remembered them being. Collecting themselves, the two headed back up, leaving the archives with little noise. 

Passing the serfs, the shambling men and women swaying out of their way, Colin led the way back to his buggy. The Enforcer yawned as they passed, exaggerated and fake, his hand tightening around his blunderbuss. 

Colin’s hand hovered over his revolver, but no one made any moves. Tensions were high, but something felt off. He didn’t relax until they were several blocks away, the car’s humming a subtle comfort. 

* * *

The closest address was in Zone 9, another residential area. A body had been found in a derelict apartment complex, reported in the morning after horrible screams had been heard echoing throughout the night. The owner was reportedly still living within its confines, though Colin highly doubted this. Regardless, they had to check, though Colin kept his gun loose in its holster. 

The door was unlocked, and screeched as its rusty hinges fought against Colin. The floors were bare cement, strips of moldy carpet clinging to the edges. Barely any wallpaper clung to the halls, mismatched purples and greens clashing for attention. What light remained came from the streetlights, bleeding in through foggy windows. 

“Hello?” Colin called. “I’m Detective Colin Black, with the EPD. If anyone is here, answer me!” 

“This doesn’t feel right,” Caitlin said, brows furrowed, fangs bared. “I smell something... strange. Like tasting copper, but worse.” Looking up, she scowled. “It’s coming from above. Through the floors. It’s disgusting.” 

“Okay, well that’s concerning,” Colin muttered, heading towards the stairs. 

Evidently, the smell became worse as they went up, Caitlin coughing as they hit the second floor. “Ugh, it smells like... I don’t know, but it’s awful.” 

Colin didn’t respond, keeping his eyes forward. He couldn’t smell much through his mask, but he agreed that something was off. The floor above creaked in strange ways, as if weight was shifting. Sweat trickling down his back, the detective kept his hand over his pistol, the other against the wall, steadying himself. 

The second floor was devoid of life, so they moved on, the stairway covered in glass shards that crumpled under his shoes. There were no shattered windows, and there was too much to be a broken bottle or two. The final steps up to the third floor filled him with panic, a sense of dread he couldn’t justify. His foot cleared the final step, his head peeking around. 

The rusty barrel of a blunderbuss greeted him. 

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