Music City Macabre: The Low Lying Lands Saga: Vol. 1 (2 page)

Before I step out of the Jeep, I flip up the sun visor, open the door, and then I’m in the street. It’s eerily silent but for the wind passing briskly as I button up my overcoat. The fire is adding a backdrop to my night’s activities as the scent of smoke wafts in and the flames continue to climb.

I pull the Glock from the holster under my left arm. I chamber a round, then reach across and take another Glock off the passenger seat. I repeat the previous action and then slide the gun around my waistband to the small of my back. After flipping up my collar, bracing for the wind, I dig my hands into my pockets.

Standing in the dark, I take a second to clear my head. This is too important for careless mistakes. Tonight I will make the connection that has eluded me for over two years. Taking measured steps and keeping my head on a swivel, I cross the street. I can’t afford to let random Freaks get in my way tonight.

The 88
is the current name of this shithole building that has housed countless establishments going back 80 years. For one reason or another the current one never worked out and the next one always swore it would. Not that records still matter, but the building is now owned by a company called Black Hand LLC.

When Pollock mentioned Black Hand LLC, I took notice. That name meant something to me. Was it something to do with my adoptive father? I have no relationship anymore with the Prescott Family beside my connection to Emily. While I wanted to desperately be accepted by them it didn’t take long to understand a mistake had been made.

After the death of my natural parents I was angry and depressed. I lashed out. By the time the Prescotts adopted me there wasn’t anything that could be done to rein me in. When I was 18, despite protests from Emily, I left home.

There were no emotional goodbyes from the elder Prescotts. They had washed their hands of me. I bounced around for three years before joining the Marines. All the while, Emily was there for me. Emily was the lighthouse to my ship at sea. If it weren’t for Emily, I would forget the Prescotts ever existed.

The more Pollock dug into
The 88
, the less there was to find. We discussed this at length. I had heard that name before. I was sure of it. The Black Hand was like an annoying gnat that followed me around. I’d swat at it but to no avail. Nobody could ever give us the rundown on it. According to the general public, Black Hand LLC did not exist prior to the purchase of this building. Public records? Cute.

The most interesting aspect of this search was the reaction to my inquiries. Fear. There was no information to be had, from anyone. But there
was
fear. It meant that
this
Black Hand LLC was real. If Emily was tied up in this organization, I had to get to the bottom of it.

I pull open the solid oak entry door and I’m overwhelmed with the stench of cigarettes, shit, and puke. I also catch the faint metallic smell of blood. The six people lingering on the stools look to be dead, at first glance. There is an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. I wouldn’t have thought humans could be like this if I didn’t see it; if these are Freaks, I’m totally fucked. I stand at the entrance, trying to sell that I’m looking for someone. I obviously don’t belong.

The jukebox is droning the chorus to “Paint it Black” as I step uneasily across the room toward the bar. Drab local décor consisting of pennants for the Bears, Cubs, White Sox, and Blackhawks hang meaninglessly on the walls. It’s a cold reminder of how things like professional sports used to be important and how they are now trivial. Dim lighting and a few other outdated signs and banners complete the décor. Off to the right side of the bar, there’s a large metal sliding door that must lead to a back room, but no other entrances or exits.

I’m dressed in jeans, a button down shirt with a tie, and a knee length overcoat. The six patrons inside have never seen a tie. The bartender notices me immediately and his body language tenses. A couple of years ago his tension would’ve meant he thought I was a cop.

“You don’t belong here mister. Turn around and fuck off.”

“I don’t want any trouble. My name is Prescott.”

I hand him my card. Despite a massive societal collapse a simple thing like a business card still has merit. Addresses? Not so important. Contact information like a cell phone, though, is worth its weight in gold.

“I give a fuck, why?” He shrugs and throws my card in the trash without looking at it.

This guy’s an a
sshole
.

He wears a stained mechanic’s shirt and his jeans were last washed in 1986. Upon his shirt is a formerly white oval and the name “Rick” is stitched in cursive. I’ve never met Rick but over the years I’ve met many like him.

“I need some information, Rick. I’m looking for someone. A woman, blonde hair, 35 years old,” I said, starting off friendly. The way he looks at me is setting off warnings. He is doing this hand clenching thing that is making me nervous.

I have to tread carefully. If Rick is a Freak, then the rest of them are too. I’m a good shot, but with this many targets, no one’s that good. I feel a bead of sweat slide from my neck and make its way slowly down my back.

“I don’t make it my business to know shit about anyone’s business,” snarls Rick.

I reach into my inside coat pocket and peel off two twenties and put them on the bar. Rick looks at them, and then back up at me.

“Money! That’s rich man! Get the fuck outta here!”

I’ve got to keep my anger in check. I shake my head a few times, crush my eyes closed and take a breath. Looking again at the miserable son of a bitch in front of me, I proceed.

“The woman I’m looking for, where is she?” I say in a voice I barely recognize.

His asshole vibe vanishes and his posture becomes perfect. I blink a few times and focus on Rick as he practically stares through me. All six of the barflies shift, as if awakening, and look at me.

“Now Mr. Prescott… What makes you think I would tell you? I can’t rightly say he wants you to know,” says Rick mockingly.

“What? Who is He?”

“Like I would te...” I grab his shirt, jerk him over the counter and push him hard to the floor. His head connects with a sharp crack and his eyes roll back for a second before returning. My first inclination is to beat a fucking hole in this guy’s face, but that won’t help me find her. I need information. I can feel it; I’m close.

“
Where. Is. She?”
I say in a guttural whisper, the spittle falling from my mouth onto the man’s steely face.

Before he can answer, I feel a number of fists and boots connecting with multiple parts of my body. I take the beating, it goes with the territory.
This was not supposed to go down like this.

BEFORE

My name is Prescott. With two T’s. Don’t fuck that up. I don’t do many things well, in fact, I do most things poorly. There is one thing I do exceptionally well, though. I find things. Whatever it is you lost, for whatever reason, I will find it.

That used to work well for me, before The Descent. Now, mostly what I do is connect people who’ve been separated by the collapse. Before, yeah, I made good money but none of that matters now. While there are still factions of society left in the safe zones, I can’t turn my back on those who need me. Like I said, I’ve been doing this a long time. What else would I do?

I used to get asked all the time, “How did you end up in the
finding
business?” It can be an odd question to ask. It started when I was twelve when I lost my pocketknife. It was one of the first possessions I could truly call mine. It was included in a box of things that belonged to my parents before they died. I was angry, as angry as any kid would be after losing such a sentimental possession. It was like I had lost a piece of myself.

I spent two weeks looking for it. I questioned the Prescotts, all of them. My sister, Emily, claimed I was an idiot and could find my own knife. My adoptive mother did her best to placate me, but her valuable time could not be used looking for my “toy” as she called it.

My adoptive father was a different story. He sat me down in his study and we talked about it. Trust me, I get it. In all of those stories you read growing up, it always seems like the protagonist has some well-to-do father who dispenses wisdom from his study. Well, this was no different. He did. The first thing he told me was he wasn’t going to help me
look
for it. He would, however assist me in
finding
it.

“
Possessions
rule the world. It’s elementary. What you possess is truly the sum of your person.” He explained. “The
possessions
on which you place the greatest value dictate to the rest of us what matters most to you. Right now at a very young and naïve age you have chosen to place great value on an insignificant pocket knife.”

“It’s not just a pocket knife. If I can use your word Mr. Prescott, that knife is my first possession,” I said with passion.

“Very well then, let me provide you with some tools to find it,” Mr. Prescott offered.

We talked about points. My father told me that in between the time a possession is lost until the time it is found, there are
points
. He explained that, “Time makes no difference. If something is lost for a day or 100 years,” he coached, “link the points together from beginning to end and there will be a
connection.
There, at the connection, you will have found what you are looking for.”

“How do you know you’re beginning at the right point?”

He laughed heartily. “Any point where you begin that leads to a connection is the right one.”

He rose from his brown leather chair, put his right arm lightly on my back, and with his left he gestured toward the door as he questioned me, “For something that you seemed to cherish, how did you manage to take so little care of it that you lost it?” I’ve never forgotten that. One sentence can be a man’s legacy. Twenty-two words that over twenty years later would still cut deep into my heart, stealing a part of my spirit and soul like a thief in the night.

The pursuit of my pocketknife moved me to neighbors, friends, classmates, and teachers. Rather quickly connecting point after point. I never stopped looking.

The information I had gathered led me to Billy Summers. He had stolen the knife from my backpack when I had set it down to go through the lunch line. I had spoken with the shy kid nobody else talks to, and he had suspected Billy of several cafeteria thefts. He suggested I speak to R.D. the janitor because, “He sees everything.” I followed up with R.D. and he indeed had seen Summers take my knife.

I spied Billy Summers with it at recess that same day.
What a satisfying feeling. I had found the knife.
But I needed to get it back. This is how it happened:

Me: Hey jerk-face! Give me back my knife.

Billy: Screw off!”

I punched him in the face. That was my first “connection.”

NOW

Slowly, the room appears out of the darkness. My entire body is a resounding beacon of pain. My head…
Fuck
…it’s pounding. I hear talking, but the words are more like echoes. The first thing I notice is that my hands are tied uncomfortably behind my back to a cool metal chair. Both of my hands have gone numb while I was out, and I struggle to regain any feeling.

What else is going on here? The group that put the beat down on me is gathered around a table playing poker and taking no notice of me. I’m brimming with rage at what happened earlier. How could I have let this happen?
Think, Prescott, what are you missing? What are the points?

I close my eyes, lower my head, and play it all back. Practically empty parking lot, the fire, nobody at the door, and not a single person noticed when I walked in. Each point by itself doesn’t say much but together…they knew. They were waiting for me. How could I be so careless?

“Hey! Pardon the interruption,” I growl. “I’m sure it’s a real meeting of the minds over there, but can I get a drink of water?”

Rick turns and shows me a glare, revealing his eyes are completely red. He takes a rag from his pocket and wipes a bloody tear as it escapes his eye.
Oh shit
,
I’m so fucked!
Wait a second. This guy is a Freak and he broke. How can he be acting so...calm?

There are five Freaks sitting at that table, playing poker. All the players are covered in blood. I have never seen anything like this before. All of my knowledge and experience since The Descent says, once a Freak breaks, they are mindless psychopaths. I have to laugh at the complete disaster this has turned into, at how little I apparently knew going in.

In spite of the immediate danger, there are a couple of important questions that creep into my head. Is there an evolutionary aspect to BH-2014? Somebody surely would have seen this before and we would know, right? Or is there someone with the talent and ability to train these creatures?