Midnight Shift

Midnight Shift (2) - Putrid Is A Funny Word

I didn't really mean to continue Midnight Shift- it was just a small one-off- but heck here goes. This completely changes the direction of the entire story, and I don't feel it'll fare well.

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It was half an hour later that Steve noticed that Petey still hadn't returned. He had planned out (and proofread) a complete rant and had been patiently waiting for Petey to come around, lost in his own thoughts about his self-professed love for weed to pass the time.

He glanced at his fake Omega - 1:02 AM - and realised there was something wrong.

Screw it, his mind told him. It's just Petey, for crying out loud. He'll be back.

Then his smarter half took over and reminded him that this was Bruckheimer. Anything could happen.

He reluctantly stood up from his makeshift seat and headed to the precinct's bathroom. The huge building that served as home to over a hundred prisoners towered over him, leering at the insignificant speck making his way towards it.

He headed to the back entrance and after a fair bit of fumbling got his keyring out, silently congratulating himself on a new best time. It took him about five more minutes to find out which was which before he finally rammed the small golden key into the doorknob and pushed it open.

The bathroom literally stank of shit. Steve could smell it from across the hall.

He walked cautiously, keeping his eyes on the floor. Since childhood, he had had this horrible fear of cockroaches and the phobia hadn't left him much thirty years on. He noticed a crusted, dirty dollar bill on the floor and snatched it up with an eager grin, which quickly gave way to a grimace when the printed picture of George Washington morphed into that of his druggie mother. That bathroom stench is getting to me.

'You can never be too thin or too rich,' she used to say just before she inhaled another few grams of cocaine. She blew her own brains out with a shotgun when her ex-husband- Steve's father- didn't leave her anything in his will. Go figure.

Steve entered the bathroom, fingers clamping his nostrils shut. Only one stall was taken, and a quick peek in the opening below the door revealed Petey's shoes. 'Pete?' he yelled out loud. No reply. Asshole probably smoked the whole packet in one go and passed out. Douchebag.

Steve took a good step back and let fly with a kick aimed at the door. There was a loud crack but the door held fast. He tried again - harder this time - and when the door burst open, he instantly wished he hadn't.

Petey sat there on the closed toilet seat. His stomach was ripped open and his intestines were dribbling in his lap- Steve noticed a few cockroaches running in and out of them. Two of Steve's cigs were rammed up Petey's nostrils.

Steve jumped back and with great difficulty held in a scream, covering his eyes with his hands; unable to believe what he had just seen. 'Holy fuck,' he managed, breathing heavily. 'Holy fucking shit.'

He reached for his phone but realised with sudden horror that he had left it at the front gate.

The next few minutes of Steve's night shift were spent sprinting back to his makeshift chair, hyperventilating all the way, trying to make sense of what he had just seen.

He finally made it there and rummaged around in his backpack, thanking a God who he had started believing in fifteen seconds ago that it had not been stolen. The phone was at the bottom and Steve managed to dial 911 and hit the green button.

After five beeps - the longest beeps of his life - someone picked up.

'Hello, 911 emergency service. How may I help you?'

'My friend, he- he died, someone k-killed him in the bathroom oh shit shit shit!' Steve screamed into the handset, his jumbled words punctuated by occasional sobs.

'Calm down, sir. Can you tell me your location?'

Steve paused to catch his breath. 'I'm at West-'

His phone died, giving Steve a blinking 'No Battery' sign followed by a little tone as a lovely parting gift.

'Fuck!' Steve roared. 'Didn't this only happen in cheap horror movies?' He fell to his knees, holding his face in his hands, mind burning with rapid thoughts zipping back and forth about how his life had changed in a few minutes.

Tears were streaming down his unshaven face- not because of what had happened, but because of what could happen. Who killed Petey? Why? Was he next? Would he get blamed if he made it through the night? I need to get out of this fucking place. Right now. Nearest police station... roughly a mile away. I can walk. I'm fine.

Steve was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the figure looming behind him, machete in hand, a grin on its face.