#TRD: Frederick Boyd

[theredhavendelegate]

Iss. 8:

Terror On The Block!

The city begins to settle, but something may be lurking beneath the calm surface. Rumors have begun to spread concerning the presence of members of The Eudax Peace Corps in Redhaven. Informed readers may know that The Peace Corps was a branch of The Eudax Covenant’s military that specialized in infiltration, assassination, and (some whisper) even torture.

Special agents with the occupation force claim that some of these spies may still exist within the city, lying in wait to strike out against Confederation forces and government officials alike. A Frontline investigator and counter-terrorism specialist has been searching for evidence of these malefactors for several weeks and claims to have neutralized one such individual already… ---

It rains.

For the first time since the transit, clouds form in the sky and water falls in drops. The rain tamps down the dust, washes away the blood and ash, and beats against the windows of a brick building near Gerhardt Square.

A man sits inside and listens as windows and doors open outside and people step out onto the streets. They hoot and revel, voices echoing between the buildings and into the uncaring sky. Some gather up rain in buckets, wells having just begun to run dry. With all the terror and instability gripping Redhaven, a threat as complete and incurable as the water issue had seemed like the shadow of a noose, and now it was simply solved.

“A miracle by any other name,” the man mutters, rubbing the short, rough hairs on his chin and cheeks.

He wears a white button-up, suspenders, and a pair of sensible cotton slacks. His hair is short and messy, and there are bags under his eyes so old they’ve started paying rent. His skin is tanned, rough, and wrinkled, and his desk is a mess of papers, photos, and unlabeled folders.

There is a placard on the corner of his work top embossed with the phrase ”Det. Frederick Boyd, FC 1st Special Unit”. It is covered in dust.

The rain turns into a background din as Frederick reorganizes his investigation files. He places an old photograph of a young man in uniform, with a square jaw and a shining smile, next to a newer one: the same man, wrinkled and dead-eyed.

A folder ends up beneath the photos and the rest of the material goes into a stack off to one side. The detective pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls a notepad out of his pocket. He flips to one page covered in smudged chicken-scratch and focuses in on the words, ‘hangs out at warehouse 9, block 3’.

“Peace Corps,” he grumbles, rolling the words around in his mouth like the shells of sunflower seeds, spitting them out with disgust. He flexes all four of the fingers remaining on his left hand, the ghost of an index finger pulling taut around nothing.

He takes a deep breath, rises to his feet, and shuffles his files away into a locked filing cabinet. He draws a revolver from the drawer beneath it, then he dawns a coat and hat. He stares out the widow, looking over the square as a group of children run around the statue at it’s center. One rascal jumps in a puddle and then kicks a wave onto the kid nearest, laughing all the while.

“It’s a terrible day for rain,” Fred murmurs. “But not for everyone.”

---

It rains.

A man stands on a street corner beneath a faded blue canopy, situated across the street from a towering brick building. He is wearing a coat and hat, and his gaze lingers on the end of the road.

A figure emerges from around a corner, another man, this one in his late middle-ages. He is well worn, his broad build and sagging shoulders suggesting lost strength. Fred ducks back into cover as the stranger hurries along the sidewalk with a suitcase, then stops in front of a door. The man glances around and pushes his way into the massive brick behemoth.

Frederick waits, just for a minute, then crosses the street. The rain is thundering now and he’s soaked by the time he’s fully across. The door isn’t shut all the way, it’s cracked just a hair, and a shuffling sound echoes from deeper within.

The detective places his hand on the door and then stops himself from pushing it open. He glances up at the barest glint of light on glass, an empty bottle set on the top lip of the door. He pauses, takes a breath, then opens the door fully with one hand. The other snatches the bottle out of the air as it comes tumbling down and Frederick sets it on the sidewalk before allowing himself in.

The interior of the warehouse is cool. The air is damp and almost every surface is dusty or cob-webbed, clearly having been abandoned since before The Great Transit.

Fred moves slowly, the rubber soles of his shoes barely tapping as he works his way around a stack of crates to get a better view of the warehouse floor. The ground is strewn with detritus and the center of the space isn’t as dusty as the rest. The older man is working near the opposite wall, tossing pieces of broken palette wood into a barrel and pouring petrol in after. His suitcase is set to the side.

Frederick watches the man work for a moment longer, and then he lights the flame. The contents of the barely go up with a woosh that echoes around the warehouse and shakes the high glass windows, and Fred finally comes out from his cover.

He steps into the gloom, raising his revolver with his left hand, and clears his throat. “Step back and put your hands behind your head.”

The man turns around with his hands slightly raised. “What do you want,” he groans, his expression fearful. “I don’t have anything left to take.”

Fred answers, “I want to know what’s in the suitcase. It seems to me that you’re attempting to dispose of something.”

“Dispose of something?” the man whines. “People burn their trash all the time, toss things into ditches, who cares? It’s garbage, not a crime.” His demeanor has shifted slightly. The fear is giving way to something that’s harder to read, calmer.

Fred takes a few steps forward and says, “If it’s just trash, then you won’t mind if I take a look, just to make sure?”

The man doesn’t answer and the detective takes that as permission. He sidles over to the suitcase, keeping as wide a berth as he can from his target.

He places a hand on the suitcase, keeping the revolver raised with the other, and undoes the latches one at a time. He catches sight of a uniform as the lid swings open. Dark grey with dark green trim, and his eyes fall for just a second.

There is a crash, a heavy, metallic thunk-thud as the man throws the burn-barrel to the floor. Ash and debris blow out in a cloud and embers fly through the air, landing on every flammable thing in the space. Frederick raises his gun again but lowers it when ash lands in his eye and blinds him. By the time he can clear his vision and put his finger on the trigger again, the man is gone and the back door is swinging.

Fred takes off, across the room, through the door, and into the downpour, ash running off of his hat and coat as rivulets of clay.

He pounds down the alley and rounds a corner. His target is attempting to climb a fence. He pauses to aim. The man flounders. Frederick pulls the trigger with his middle finger and the shot rings out.

His quarry fumbles off of the fence and onto the ground.

The man clutches at his leg, dark, dark red seeping out and mixing with the rainwater beneath him. He watches the detective approach, old eyes sharp with pain, but mouth silent.

Fred doesn’t lower his gun as he approaches. At around ten feet, he stops. “Were you with The Peace Corps? Do you know about any other agents in the city? Have they really all been disbanded?”

The man coughs and shrugs. Fred pulls the trigger half way, engaging the hammer and drawing it partially back. The man slumps and says, “Yes, no, and I don’t know.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The man grits his teeth, “First: I used to be, second: I don’t know of any others in the city, and third: I don’t know if they’ve been disbanded. They kicked me out several years ago, dishonorable discharge.”

Fred tilts his head slightly. “What for? Crack too many skulls?”

The man laughs at that, then winces. “No, but that’s a funny thing to say. Exact opposite, actually. I went soft, disobeyed orders, and you wouldn’t believe some of the orders they gave. They took everything from me and sent me packing. I didn’t turn into a good man, but…well…” He waits for a moment, something stirring on his face. He looks up again sorrowfully and finishes, “I could’ve been worse.”

The detective keeps his target sighted, but he pauses now. As he stares, realization grows on the his target’s face.

The wounded man asks, “What happened to your trigger finger, southpaw?”

Frederick lowers the gun slightly, tightens his lips, and mutters, “Lost it to the same folks.” The detective lowers his gun further and raises a sympathetic brow. He sticks his right hand out and says, “Look, whatever you did before, you might be able to make up for it. Why don’t you come with me, sort things out?”

The man’s eyes have gone dark, his shoulders slumped and his clothing soaked through with rain and blood. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I really am, but there are sins you can’t atone for, things that nobody can atone for.” He makes a sudden move, reaches behind himself and pulls up a dark object.

Frederick fires on reflex.

The object falls to the ground.

It’s an empty leather wallet. The detective stares at it, at the man, who seems to stare back with unblinking eyes. He can't tear his eyes away.

It’s a terrible day for rain.

---

First

Prev

Next