Ch2: chilly fingers

16 3 2

First order of business is to see what the hell he's doing, so Dime drops to the floor and starts to tentatively slap at the concrete. He finds the tripod to the powered-down security gun and a couple empty bottles before he knocks over one lone lantern; he clutches it to his chest and twists at the base until it flickers on.

He can't tell much with the rest of the lights off but he thinks this was originally a weigh-station for midsize shipping trucks. There's a glint of metal along the back wall that could be consoles, and it's a good a guess as any what they're for.

Dime places his prize lantern onto the ground and pokes at the security gun on its tripod. The cable controlling it with the security system is easily unplugged from the back casing, so he starts with that. Then he starts twisting at the screws keeping it on the tripod to see if he can separate it.

It doesn't take long to figure out this isn't going to work. He shakes out his right hand to get rid of the sting of uncooperative metal and then picks back up the lantern, peers into the dark, and tries to think.

If he were stolen packages of chemicals, where would those assholes shove him?

The cold boxes he was strapped to are a good place to start. And bonus, the lids aren't even latched down; he just has to dig his fingertips under the lip and yank to make the cold metal separate, and then he can-- well, then he can get a really good look at an assortment of human arms and legs crammed messily into the cold box.

"Great, this is the one I was sitting on." Dime drops the lid and it lands skewed, he can still see freezer burnt flesh through the gap.

He shoves at it with his free hand. Then he puts the lantern back onto the floor and shoves at it with both hands. The lid keeps popping up, like now that it's free it just doesn't want to go back. He tries leaning his weight and it shifts a little. Maybe if he sits on it again and bounces?

A car engine pulls up outside. The headlights cut through the darkness through the small windows set into the huge garage doors along the wall behind Dime. He pauses, listens.

Car doors open and slam. Someone laughs, a murmur of an annoyed snipe, then someone else with a younger voice says, "Did we leave the lights off?"

Dime ducks behind a pile of cardboard boxes stacked precariously on top of a rickety metal desk. The metal desk is three feet off the ground and gives him a clear view of the door if he peers under it, which means they'll see him too.

He looks around for something better but then the huge doors slide open and the spotlights set up to illuminate the loading yard outside blind him for a moment.

"What the fuck?!"

Dime twists and dives behind the cold boxes full of corpses. He bangs into the open box as he goes and the lid flies clear off and lands with a loud bang onto the concrete.

"We can see where you went, dumbshit!" One of the men shouts. Dime peers over the edge of his barrier and can see the group if he squints.

The two white dumbasses who taunted him on their way out are back; there's also a pale teenager looking like they're about to puke, and Dime's dark and mysterious savior stands behind all of them with one hand over his eyes and his jaw clenched.

Dime reaches around his protection and gropes inside the opened box full of body parts. The leg he ends up grabbing has a bit of a slime-feel to it and gives him the impression he's holding a frozen sponge that happens to have a foot attached.

He lobs the limb at the group of creeps and then runs to his left where he can see the dim outline of the staircase going up to the security room.

The leg he threw hits someone with a thunk and whoever it is screeches. Someone makes a vomiting noise. Someone else bellows "Shoot him," and an automatic rifle unloads a clip into the warehouse, bullets ping off the metal walls.

Midnight FistfightWhere stories live. Discover now