SNAFU: Heroes: An Anthology of Military Horror

I removed a small earbud, put it on, and attached an adhesive mic that looked like a mole to the side of my mouth. Two taps of the earbud connected me to Bug, the computer uber-geek who provided real-time intel for all field work. Even though this was a low-profile job, DMS protocol required that I use my combat callsign.

“Cowboy’s online,” I said.

“With you,” said Bug.

“What’ve you got?”

“We did a thermal scan on the place, but it’s cold. No one home.”

“That’s what I want to hear.”

I walked around the building. It really was a large mess. The additions and walkways looked almost like they’d grown organically, expanding out of need like a cramped animal. The paint jobs didn’t match section-to-section, and for a company with a lot of private funding the exterior of the joint was poorly maintained. Weeds, some graffiti, trash in the parking lot.

“Place is a dump,” I said.

“Better inside, from what I hear,” said Bug. “Some cool stuff.”

A red DO NOT ENTER sticker was pasted with precision to the center of the front door. I ignored it and used a preconfigured keycard to gain entry.

“Going in,” I said quietly.

“Copy that,” said Bug. “Watch your ass, Cowboy.”

“It’s on the agenda.”

The entrance lobby was small and unremarkable. A receptionist’s desk, some potted plants and the kind of frame pictures you can buy at Kmart. Bland landscapes that probably weren’t even of places in New Jersey. The lights were out, which was surprising since the key-reader was functional. The entrance hall was dark, and daylight didn’t try too hard to reach inside. When I tried the light switches all I got was a clicking sound. No lights.

I tapped my earbud. “Bug, I thought the power was still on.”

“It is.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

“Let me check.”

I removed a small flashlight from my pocket and squatted down to shine the light across the floor. The immediate entrance hallway had a thin coating of damp grime on the floor – a side effect of the building’s position near a bay and a swamp. There were footprints in the grime, but from the size and pattern it was clear most of them had been left by responding police officers. Big shoes with gum-rubber soles. The prints went inside and then they came out again. If there were prints by an intruder, they were lost to the general mess left behind by the cops. Pretty typical with crime scenes, and pretty much unavoidable. Cops have to respond and they can’t float.

I tapped my earbud again, channeling over to Church. “Cowboy to Deacon.”

“Go for Deacon.”

“Did anyone have eyes on the cops who came out of the building last night? Are we sure they weren’t carrying anything? Or had something in their pockets?”

“The ATF agents on duty last night searched each officer,” said Church. “It was not well-received.”

“I can imagine.”

And I could imagine it – responding blues getting a pat-down by a couple of Federal pricks.

“Why didn’t the ATF agents accompany them inside?” I asked.

I could hear a small sigh. “The ATF agents had left the scene to pick up a pizza.”

“Ouch.”

“Those agents have been suspended pending further disciplinary action.”

“Yeah, fair call.”

“Which is why the ATF is rather prickly about your being there.”

“Copy that.”

I channeled over to Bug.

“Where are we with those lights?”

“Working on it,” he said.

The lights stayed off, though.

There was a closed door behind the reception desk, so I opened it and entered a hallway that was as black as the pit. There was no sound, not the slightest hint that I was anything but alone in here, but regardless of that I drew my pistol. It’s hard to say if, at that moment, my caution was born out of a concern not to accidentally disturb any evidence left behind, or because the place was beginning to give me the creeps.

The hallway hit a t-juncture. Each side looked as dark and uninformative as the other, but I took the right-hand side because that was my gun-hand side. I know, I’m a bit of a superstitious idiot. Sue me.

The side hallway wasn’t straight, but jagged and curved and turned for no logical design reason that I could see. Maybe there was something about the foundation structure that required so unlikely a design plan, but I couldn’t imagine what. The result was something that – as I walked through the shadows – triggered odd little thoughts that were entirely uncomfortable. The unlikely angles combined with the mildly-curving walls and low gray-painted ceiling to give the whole place a strangely organic feel. Like a building that hadn’t so much been designed but rather allowed to grow. Like roots of a tree. Or tentacles.

Yeah, I shouldn’t be in here. I should be out in the bright sunlight watching a bunch of millionaires in white, black and orange stretch pants hit a small white ball around a grassy field.

“You’re a fruitcake,” I told myself, and I had no counter-argument.