woman he had been following had disappeared. Vanished. He’d been following her for several hours now, ever since she left Ashley’s Burger Joint. He had his camera and was hoping to snap a close-up shot of her, but he’d never gotten a clear glimpse of her face.
That was because he’d been keeping his distance, and now he was kicking himself for his caution. He could have gotten a half-decent shot earlier in the night but decided against it. He’d been hoping to find out where she was heading, so held off.
And now he’d lost her.
He cursed his bad luck and realized he would need to go home empty handed. He’d parked a few blocks back and one or two streets over. He wasn’t great with directions and knew he’d spend a while searching before he finally found his car.
He heard the sound of someone shouting from up ahead. It sounded like it was spilling out of a window several stories up in one of the buildings. He walked forward, curious. It sounded like it might be George who was yelling.
Suddenly he heard the sound of shattering glass and saw something heavy come flying out the third story window of one of the abandoned buildings. It thudded to the ground about four meters in front of him with a sickening wet sound and laid there.
Haatim stared at it, fiddling with his camera. It looked like a body, and he racked his brain trying to think of something else it could be. It definitely wasn’t a person, and even if it was then that person definitely wasn’t dead.
But it sure looked like George, and he wasn’t moving. His face looked like bits of skin had flaked off, and his eyes were open, staring up at the sky. He looked even fatter than Haatim remembered.
Couldn’t be him. That would be insane because Haatim had just spoken to him on the phone. And, if it was him, then that meant Haatim had just followed his murderer out here into the middle of an abandoned alleyway—
He felt his hands shaking and realized he’d stopped breathing. He sucked in a ragged breath and tried to clear his mind. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. He shouldn’t be here, and he had to leave before the woman who just killed George realized he was here.
He turned to go find his car.
A man stood in the mouth of the alley, a silhouette in the streetlights.
At first, Haatim thought it was an illusion or maybe a trick of the light, a trick the way walking into a dimly lit room can turn a coat rack into a bear or a shadow into a monster. His heart started racing, and he told it to calm down. He was overreacting and panicking, neither of which was necessary.
Then Haatim had a startling realization: panic might actually be necessary. He was trekking alone behind a broken down Starbucks off Fifteenth Avenue at two in the morning. He hadn’t heard or seen a car travel past in over twenty minutes, and the only significant light source was coming from the cross-street.
And on that street was a man whose face he couldn’t see who was casually blocking his exit.
Maybe the man couldn’t see him. Maybe it was just a homeless guy looking for a dry place to spend the night, or someone wandering by who happened to pause in the streetlight to check his watch.
Not likely.
Haatim decided he would turn around and walk (casually) the other direction. He would have to walk past George, but the alley was wide, and he could step around him. He would exit the alley onto a side street, then cross back over to Fourteenth and double back to find his car.
Haatim started moving again, executing this new plan. He ignored his sweaty palms and loosened his grip on the camera. It was expensive (worth stealing, he remembered) and he didn’t want it to break.
Lost in his thoughts, he stepped into a pothole filled with dirty rainwater. It filled his shoe and soaked his pants leg to the calf. He let out a groan, his shoe sloshing as he took a step. The water felt greasy and disgusting.
But he wasn’t about to stop, though; not for
That was because he’d been keeping his distance, and now he was kicking himself for his caution. He could have gotten a half-decent shot earlier in the night but decided against it. He’d been hoping to find out where she was heading, so held off.
And now he’d lost her.
He cursed his bad luck and realized he would need to go home empty handed. He’d parked a few blocks back and one or two streets over. He wasn’t great with directions and knew he’d spend a while searching before he finally found his car.
He heard the sound of someone shouting from up ahead. It sounded like it was spilling out of a window several stories up in one of the buildings. He walked forward, curious. It sounded like it might be George who was yelling.
Suddenly he heard the sound of shattering glass and saw something heavy come flying out the third story window of one of the abandoned buildings. It thudded to the ground about four meters in front of him with a sickening wet sound and laid there.
Haatim stared at it, fiddling with his camera. It looked like a body, and he racked his brain trying to think of something else it could be. It definitely wasn’t a person, and even if it was then that person definitely wasn’t dead.
But it sure looked like George, and he wasn’t moving. His face looked like bits of skin had flaked off, and his eyes were open, staring up at the sky. He looked even fatter than Haatim remembered.
Couldn’t be him. That would be insane because Haatim had just spoken to him on the phone. And, if it was him, then that meant Haatim had just followed his murderer out here into the middle of an abandoned alleyway—
He felt his hands shaking and realized he’d stopped breathing. He sucked in a ragged breath and tried to clear his mind. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. He shouldn’t be here, and he had to leave before the woman who just killed George realized he was here.
He turned to go find his car.
A man stood in the mouth of the alley, a silhouette in the streetlights.
At first, Haatim thought it was an illusion or maybe a trick of the light, a trick the way walking into a dimly lit room can turn a coat rack into a bear or a shadow into a monster. His heart started racing, and he told it to calm down. He was overreacting and panicking, neither of which was necessary.
Then Haatim had a startling realization: panic might actually be necessary. He was trekking alone behind a broken down Starbucks off Fifteenth Avenue at two in the morning. He hadn’t heard or seen a car travel past in over twenty minutes, and the only significant light source was coming from the cross-street.
And on that street was a man whose face he couldn’t see who was casually blocking his exit.
Maybe the man couldn’t see him. Maybe it was just a homeless guy looking for a dry place to spend the night, or someone wandering by who happened to pause in the streetlight to check his watch.
Not likely.
Haatim decided he would turn around and walk (casually) the other direction. He would have to walk past George, but the alley was wide, and he could step around him. He would exit the alley onto a side street, then cross back over to Fourteenth and double back to find his car.
Haatim started moving again, executing this new plan. He ignored his sweaty palms and loosened his grip on the camera. It was expensive (worth stealing, he remembered) and he didn’t want it to break.
Lost in his thoughts, he stepped into a pothole filled with dirty rainwater. It filled his shoe and soaked his pants leg to the calf. He let out a groan, his shoe sloshing as he took a step. The water felt greasy and disgusting.
But he wasn’t about to stop, though; not for
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