When I can finally tell my colon from my ear canal again, I find myself on my knees, in the same ritualistic pose as before, hands held in the air above my chest with my head thrust back. I collapse on the floor and clutch my head as a strange, horrible sensation screams through it. It’s not exactly pain, but something just as unpleasant that induces an anxious mental buzz. On top of everything, I feel horribly nauseous.

What was that about? All I know is that a revenant is some kind of ghost or zombie. Even vampires can be considered revenants. Have I been targeted?

Suddenly remembering how much time had passed when this happened before, I scramble to my feet and check the coffee maker’s clock to see that I can still expect Celestia’s call.

As if in response, the landline rings. I bounce back to it and pick up.

“Hello?” I say. A sharp voice, definitely not Celestia, comes through the receiver, but whoever is speaking sounds shaken.

“Gyre, this is Luna.” She says. I hear her draw in a short breath through her teeth. Celestia’s voice murmurs something apologetic in the background before Vice Principal Luna speaks again “Stay wherever you are, the police are on their way. Other staff members may be arriving soon. If anyone speaks to you, make sure they know to stay away from the gymnasium, do you hear me? Stay away from the gym. And don’t trust anyone yet.”

“Is everything alright?” The line is silent for a moment too long before the answer comes.

“No.” Before I can say another word, I hear the beep that signals the call was ended from the other side. Well, that was ominous.

A miniscule flare in the brightness outside the room is followed by the metallic clank of the rear doors closing. A steady beat of footsteps echoes through the corridor, drawing nearer. If Vice Principal Luna was just attacked, whoever’s coming could be the perpetrator. It could also be that school staff she mentioned, but they might be wandering into danger. Should I warn them or stay hidden? The decision is made for me as the person stops outside the door for a moment before the lock is disengaged. I position myself just underneath the camera in the corner of the room, taking up its only blind spot. If I have to use my powers to escape this person, I don’t want there to be hard evidence of it. They enter and turn on the light, blinding me for a couple seconds. They take a few steps into the room before crying out in alarm as they notice me.

“Goodness! What are ya doin’ in here?” A gentle male voice says in a milquetoast accent I’ve only ever heard when a character on television is supposed to be from quiet, naive parts of the country. I open an eye to see one of the volleyball coaches, whose name I don’t know. He’s a lean, almost lanky man, holding a soft nylon lunch box and sporting a cherry red track suit with a bald, orange scalp and a horseshoe of dark red hair. His bright green eyes lock onto mine as he tries to identify me.

“There’s something going on in the school. Cele—Principal Celestia and Vice Principal Luna are handling it, and the police should be here any second.” I say cooly, studying his reaction at the mention of police. I’m no professional interrogator, but I only detect an alarmed curiosity in his face. “It sounds pretty bad so they’re saying to stay away from the gym, for now.”

“Oh.” He says, looking dumbfounded. “But what’s a student doin’ in the school so early? And in here?”

“Community service program.” I answer, hoping he doesn’t question the ambiguity of it. He seems to remain suspicious, but doesn’t question further. Good, I don’t exactly have answers, either.

“Very well, young man. What’s yer name?” He says. I tell him and he hums a thoughtful note as he puts his lunch bag into the fridge, his tracksuit swishing and sighing obnoxiously. “By chance, are ya the nurse’s son? The one that comes by a few times a month?”

“Yes…”

“I see. Yer mother seems very nice.”

“Thank you.” I say with icy stiffness. He fidgets as he seems to be gathering courage to say something else. I think I can guess what it is.

“I-I uhm...haven’t seen yer father. Is...he still around?”

Even through my blood-starved numbness, I feel the need to hide my eyes. I disguise it with a plastic laugh as I tilt my head down and close my eyes. Plenty of people know my father was a Marine, but if this guy doesn’t even know he’s dead...

“That’s because I had two moms.” I don’t fret the implications this would have about my mother. Not only have I seen her use the same trick to ward off other men, but I doubt it’s something she would care to dispute. My annoyance passes and I look back up. Again, he seems at a loss for words. His eyes widen after a moment.

“Had?” He suddenly looks to me, as if seeing me for the first time. I simply nod. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mister Strand. My condolences to ya both.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass the sentiment along.” I say. He smiles, a hint of giddiness showing through in the bounce of his step as he moves to the door.

“Well, I’d best be off.” He says, opening the door.

I think about warning him again to stay away from the gym, but before I can make a decision, a voice cuts through the air of the school like a bullhorn.

“Freeze!” The coach emits a comically feminine cry and stumbles back against the door, tripping over his own feet and tumbling to the linoleum. I see him raising his hands above his head before the door swings shut. Gods, I wish I could feel enough to laugh at that, it’d make my week. Still, the police are about to come through that door. I think it’s best I’m not laughing like a maniac when they do. I hear boots trundling up the hall before the outline of a man with his arms held out in front of him stops at the window. I hear inquisitive voices, followed by stuttered comments from the coach. A second outline joins the first, but keeps moving past, toward the coach. After some seconds, I hear a card pass through the slot and the door opens. The man that steps through, pistol pointed at the floor before him, is horribly familiar.

“Well, well, good morning, Hercules.” Officer Cuffs says. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I raise my hands as slowly as I can. “Hey, Down! Come see who it is!”

“I get it, I heard you.” Down says, with cool indifference. “It’s that kid from earlier.” He pauses and I hear him speak to the coach, “On your feet, please, back in that room.”

The coach reappears in the doorway, his hands still held in the air at his shoulders. He sidles into the room, edging around Cuffs, followed by Down. We oblige when we’re asked to sit at the table with our hands in front of us. I can see the coach’s hands shivering on the table top and hear the blood pumping through his heart a mile a minute. I feel a thirst-driven psychotic urge to cease the incessant sound. I focus on my hands in front of me by tapping out the beat of a song.

“You seem a little nervous, son.” Down says, reading me wrong. His tone is even, but I sense an edge to it.

“Is that not the appropriate response to being held in a room by two armed men while there seems to be crime afoot nearby?” I deadpan.

“Alright, smartass—” Cuffs begins, whipping out a chair opposite mine, gun in hand. Before he sits, however, his partner speaks up.

“Why don’t you check out the gym, like the lady said?” Cuffs’s head swivels around fast enough to make his neck pop.

“You check it out, I need to have a word with—” He stops, mid-sentence. I look to Down, but I see nothing other than a man with arms folded across his chest, eyebrows raised in an expression of mild inquisitiveness. Cuffs closes his mouth and turns back to glare at me. His knuckles pop as his fists close tight, one hand still gripping his gun. This might have made me wary if his trigger discipline wasn’t outstanding, index finger pressed to the barrel of the gun, rather than in the trigger loop. He may be overly aggressive, but at least he seems to take his safety training seriously.

“Fine.” Cuffs finally says, his tone deadly even. He peeks through the blinds in the windows, scanning the darkened hallway before moving to the door. “Will this card open any other doors in the building, Mr. Steps?” He says, his voice now quite calm and professional.

“Yes, sir, anything marked with the same color stripes as you see on the back.” Coach Steps says, still clearly shaken. “Should I show ya to the gym?”

“I know where I’m going. Starting point guard, back in the days when this school actually won against Crystal Prep, once in a while.” Cuffs says and opens the door into the hall, stepping through with his gun at the ready. His footsteps fade away quickly as the door closes.

Down sighs and runs his hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. He keeps hold of his gun as he takes the seat Cuffs had pulled out. When he sits, he clunks the gun down on the table between us, maintaining a loose grip. Something about this seems off.

“You know,” he begins with a knowing grin, “this is usually the part where the handsome, clever partner waits until the braggart is out of earshot before revealing a little factoid that belittles said braggart’s claims, but...well, if you ever get a chance, take a look at the records for the old scores and check the names on the trophies in the halls. Three years in a row, CHS won that championship against Crystal P, with my partner at the helm.” Down’s hand is still on the gun, but his head is turned completely away, looking at the door to the break room. I could swear it’s even closer to me, now. I look to Coach Steps who seems to hardly be in attendance at this conversation. “I’m real sorry about him, kid. Don’t know why he’s taken such a mean shine to you.” Eyes on the gun, I shift in my seat which makes a sudden, sharp creaking noise. Down’s fingers twitch on the handle, but he makes no other movement. “He’s really a good man and a great cop, you know. Same stuff that made him such a badass point guard.”

I’m still sensing something strange. Even I understand a cop should know better than to hold a firearm so close to an unbound suspect, especially in a loose grip. Either he’s incompetent or he’s trying to bait me into reaching for the gun. I can test this, but I risk getting shot if he overreacts. I remain silent as he continues his speech.

“Safe to say I know my partner pretty well. Part of my job, after all. So that begs the question: ‘Why is he so interested in you, Herc?’” He says ‘Herc’ with snide acidity, as if I had picked the name for myself. “At first, I was confused, but I gotta admit, something’s smelling like bass on a summer sidewalk right about now.”

“Pardon me. W-w-when I get nervous, I—” Coach Steps chimes in, but stops after being fixed with a look by Down. I can’t tell if the coach was making a joke or admission of guilt, but he suddenly finds something utterly fascinating under his fingernails. Down continues.

“So. What, pray tell, were you doing at five-forty-five this morning, hauling ass to a place where a crime is reported less than an hour later?” He turns to face me again, eyebrows raised in a cocky expression and apparently satisfied that I’m not dumb enough to take his bait. Guys like him only act this way when they’re sure they have all the answers, which can be used against them. I think I read that in a detective story, anyway.

“I don’t know what you think I’ve done or why you’re chasing me down like I’m some kind of murder suspect—”

“Funny you should say that.” Down cuts in. I hide my eyes again. Why does anger and annoyance have to be the only things I can feel when I’m thirsty? “Because—”

Down is interrupted by a drawn-out wail. There’s no mistaking the unbridled despair in that sound. He’s on his feet in a flash, holding the transmission button down on the small radio strapped to his shoulder.

“Cuffs, this is Down, do you read? Over.” He mumbles into the device. There’s no response, but again, the man’s wail tears through the empty halls, only slightly less clear than before. “Cuffs. Do you read? Over.” Down rasps through gritted teeth. To the others, the silence in the room must be deafening, but I can hear the sobs of a grown man, drifting to me like the weeping of a ghost. I’m certain I should be shivering at the sound of it. “Shit!” He hisses, placing his gun back in its holster and drawing another pistol from his cargo pants pocket. I know precious little about guns, but this one doesn’t look much like the standard issue he seems to think is currently useless. Rather than all black, the new gun is a clean silver, with a black grip and longer barrel. Steps and I look at each other, exchanging looks of confusion, before turning back to the officer.

“You.” Down says, pointing at Steps, “Stay put.” He looks at me next. “You’re coming with me.” When I hesitate, bewildered, Down shouts. “Move, Hercules, let’s go!” I comply, joining him at the door. The landline rings, making both men jump. “Don’t answer that!” Down says as Steps seems to reach for the phone out of reflex.

“O-Okay, sir.” Steps says, raising his hands and backing away.

“Move.” Down jabs me with his elbow toward the door, gesturing with the lowered barrel of his weapon. I open the door and step through into the hallway. I’m prodded again and take the hint, starting on the path to the gym. Behind me, I hear Down’s heart beginning to pound in his chest. At this point, I imagine neither of us are under the illusion that the man crying is anyone other than Officer Cuffs. We make our way through the dimly-lit school with our footsteps synced into one perfectly matched beat, the sound of our movement like the pitch-shifted ticking of a clock, counting down to something awful. We near a narrower hall that intersects in a T-junction at the end of the long, spacious one we’ve been traversing. There are few windows in this section of the school, so the darkness thickens around the bend. A light appears over my shoulder, sweeping the tenebrous walls and floor before us.

One of the main, indoor entrances to the gym is only about thirty feet away, once we round the right-hand corner. In the eerie gloom, its location is marked by weak shafts of light that filter through the tall, slim windows of the metal double doors. I have to force myself to step closer, conscious that the gym is lit in the mornings by sunlight that shines directly through the long row of frosted, ceiling-level windows along the east wall. I hope the light coming through the doors is only from ambient reflections at this time of day. By now, I’m sure Down can hear his partner’s sobs drifting through the halls.

After what feels like hours, we finally reach the doors. An incomplete repair on the narrow metal partition beam between the doors has left a jagged edge showing. A few dark threads hang from a menacing shard of painted steel with fresh, glistening droplets of blood dotting the floor on my side of the door. The sniffling and whimpering is coming from just beyond the doorway. I step near the light and surreptitiously test it with a couple bare fingers. Nothing. I continue into it and peer through the nearest window. The first thing I see is the dark blue of Cuffs’s uniform, stretched tight across his back. His head hangs over his lap and he rocks, forward and back. I catch glimpses of an unmistakable red smeared across the floor, further into the gym.

“Stop.” Down commands. I take one more step and halt. From this window, I can see enough to know I’ll later wish I hadn’t looked.

Beyond the doors is Officer Cuffs, his gun lying on the floor next to his feet, and several streaks of dark blood leading up to something almost unrecognizable at first glance. The torn clothing and general shape is all that gives away its nature. A human body lies chest-down on the gleaming, lacquered boards. Behind it, a trail of drying blood traces a curved path to the center of the basketball court, almost twenty feet long. It’s spotted, along its length, with oblong marks that look to be in the vague shape of a boot, as if someone had walked across it. This idea is further supported by the trail of red prints leading back into the gym, fading soon after leaving the vicinity of the blood pooled around the corpse. From where I stand, I can’t make out any significant details of the corpse and Cuffs’s shuddering body blocks my view of the head. By now, I’ve grown used to the stench and realize that it holds a certain familiarity. I’ve smelled a corpse before; the scent of human death is nothing new to me, but it’s the blood. The fetid, cold liquid is as offensive as fresh vomit or a hot, out-gassing dumpster shared by a one-star restaurant and a cheap pet lodge. Now that I’m even closer, I can smell something else, something much older. A dry, sour odor of advanced decomposition.

“Open that door.” Down commands in a hushed tone, using his gun to indicate the one nearest me. I lift the bar handle and back away at a smooth pace. More of the stench billows out, causing Down to visibly grimace. “Put down that kickstand and back away. Sit against that wall, hands out in front of you.” He points to a shallow alcove in the wall, a product of aesthetics rather than practical architecture. I put my back to the wall and sit with my forearms propped on my knees, peering down the halls, wondering why I haven’t seen the principals yet. “Cuffs, partner, you need to step away from the crime scene.” Down says. Cuffs doesn’t respond, only letting out a long, pathetic whimper. Down passes through the doorway, gun out in front of him, scanning the interior space of the fold-able bleachers that flank the entrance. He seems satisfied that no threats are present and moves further in, approaching Cuffs. Before he reaches him, however, his shoulders and arms go limp and his combat posture loosens. “Oh...gods...”

For some reason, this seems to refresh Cuffs’s anguish and another series of mournful sobs escapes him. He then utters his first comprehensible words since we found him.

“My baby boy…” He whines.

“Steel, please...you need to put that down and come with me.” Down says, his voice soft, sympathetic. Cuffs looks up at him. I can’t see his face, but all the pain in the world is concentrated in his voice.

“But this is my boy. My baby boy…oh...” He begins to weep again, curling into himself and I can see now that his arms are wrapped around something in his lap.

“Cuffs, come on, you’ve done enough damage, buddy. You have to drop that...thing.” Down says, crouching down to put a hand on his partner’s shoulder.

“Thing?” Cuffs responds, almost immediately. “Thing? This is my son you sick fuck! Look at him!” With that, Cuffs thrusts the object at Down and I can finally see the severed head’s face. Through the blood and tattered flesh, I make out the blood-stained, ivory streaks running through navy hair that frames the stormy grey features I’ve grown to despise over the years. A face that had become my symbol of suffering and humiliation, a promise that I would never know peace in my childhood.

Ace Longshot, my personal bully since elementary school has been brutally murdered.

Sound Off The Sirens - Sam Tinnesz

Two chapters next week!