Officer Joseph Calloway bit into his Twinkie and sighed.
It was a quiet autumn night, a solemn and mournful night that most cops didn't enjoy. Quiet nights meant no distress calls for seven hours, and a cold, dead body in a dumpster at the end of your shift. Nights like these were all sadness and no action, and nobody ever became a cop just to sit on his ass and eat Twinkies all day.
The officer mashed his Twinkie around with his tongue, chewing it thoughtfully for a few moments until he swallowed and washed it down with a generous gulp of coffee. He didn't even really like Twinkies – they were too doughy and the cream filling was too sweet. Calloway was a man dedicated to donuts, but the "fat cop" stereotype had somehow gotten the best of him tonight. He wasn't too bad-looking – at least his wife didn't think so. He was a thirty-something, chubby-but-not-fat cop with a full head of black hair, a bristly cliché moustache, bright blue eyes and a strong jaw. It wasn't that society deemed him as fat and lazy – it was just his own lack of self-confidence. So he delicately nibbled on the Twinkie instead of his usual chocolate donut; it sat golden and bruised in his hand, a miniature golden scepter that signified his crushed and uncertain mood.
He squinted and sighed, staring out of his cruiser and trying to find something to occupy his mind. He was parked in an alleyway next to a Hooters restaurant – loud music and drunken yelling could be heard even from Calloway's position outside. Taking another somber bite of his yellow snack cake, the officer silently wished to be partying too. Anything to get through this shitty night.
A hooker passed his vision – a working girl with long legs, small breasts and the ethical capacity of a cockroach. Her fake pink hair matched her pink fishnet stockings, and she sauntered down the dark street in brooding stiletto heels with the easiness and fluidity of a true professional. Her name was Valerie Endako, but on the streets they called her Dahlia. Nice girl. HIV positive.
Calloway's eyes shifted to the alleyway across from him – a man and a woman were getting intimate. They looked young, no older than nineteen, maybe. They kissed feverishly, feeling each other up and swaying back and forth with passion. The officer's trained eyes immediately waved away the possibility of rape, and he quickly decided to leave the two lovers alone. Hell, they could fuck right there in the alley, and he wouldn't mind. It was a quiet Thursday night and Calloway had bigger plans in mind than to just bust some drunken teenagers for indecent exposure.
Dispatch to all units, the scanner crackled, shattering the chilly silence of the night.
Calloway swallowed his second bite of Twinkie, casually peeling back the wrapper so that he could get another mouthful in. The cream filling fell onto his pant leg, and he wiped it off after a fair bit of complaining.
Dispatch to all units, be on the lookout for a white male, six-five, wearing a bright red hoodie. Subject is extremely homicidal and reportedly armed with a pocket knife. Last spotted in Columbus district. Permission to eliminate on sight.
The scanner fizzled and died as dispatch ended their message. Calloway was smack in the middle of the Columbus district, but he didn't worry. When you became a cop, you taught yourself not to worry – worrying is what gets people killed. Worrying is what causes unnecessary gunfire, worrying causes wrecked property, and worrying is what pushes both cops and criminals over the edge. One person worries and they all worry. It's a stupid vicious cycle.
The officer shoved the final piece of cake into his mouth, looking into his rear view mirror and sighing as he wiped the cream filling out of his moustache. He was tired of sitting around doing nothing – he hadn't arrested a son-of-a-bitch in six days. It was ridiculous. Swallowing his Twinkie, he tossed the wrapper out into the alleyway, turned his key and crawled out onto the road. The teenagers across the street saw his cruiser's lights and scattered.
"Hey there, Callie," Dahlia called to him. He saw her and kept moving, but slowed his cruiser so she could keep up in her pointy heels. She walked like a fashion model, flaunting her body as best as she could. Calloway didn't bother to look at her – he knew what the girl's face looked like, and he honestly wanted to rip the memory out of his head. Heroin had done some serious shit to her.
"I ain't seen you aroun' here in a long time," she said, sauntering alongside his car and fingering the feather boa around her neck. "Been busy bustin' bad folks, huh?"
He sighed and sipped his coffee, a depressed smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He stared blankly out into the lifeless road ahead, choosing his next words carefully. "I've been busting some folks, all right. But what about you? You've been alright out here? Not doing anything illegal, are you? You know we've got you on the Biohazard list, now."
"I'm just walkin'. Nothing wrong with that, Callie," she said, tossing her bangs out of her eyes.
The officer took another sip of coffee and nodded. "Not a thing wrong." Suddenly, he stopped the car and quietly beckoned the girl over. She rolled her eyes and took a few long, meandering steps toward him before she relaxed and leaned on his door. "Yeah, officer?"
Up close, Calloway noticed her crooked teeth and her pimpled jaw, her reddened eyes and her chapped lips, poorly covered in cheap pink lipstick. She smelled faintly of sex and strongly of vomit. He stared at her for a moment, and finally muttered, "Don't do anything stupid, Val."
She smiled that ugly smile of hers, rubbing her eyes and gently clearing her throat. "I think I done enough stupid shit for one life, ya' think?"
Calloway sighed again and nodded, putting the cruiser into gear and driving off. "Be careful out there, Val," he called out.
"That's Dahlia to you, Callie!"
Calloway shook his head and smiled, idly tapping his fingers on the dashboard.
Nice girl.
The dull night streets passed him by, not hiding any serious crimes. In this slow night, the streets began to meld together until he didn't really notice them anymore. They intertwined, and started to become a blank and lifeless portrait of cliché violence and boring domestic outcries. The city was dead, and her citizens were huddled into corners, perhaps cooking drugs, perhaps instigating anarchy and death. Calloway was a proud figure of authority, but tonight… tonight he was just another cop. Just another cop doing just enough to get by, finishing his shift in just enough time to go home to his fat wife and ignore her screeching voice just long enough to get just enough sleep. And he would wake up to a better day, hopefully.
"You're a fucking disgrace, Joe," he muttered to himself. And on this unexciting night, on this solemn evening, he believed every word of it. He puttered along in his little cruiser, bored and disheartened.
His eyes caught something. It was small, but the trained officer was able to spot a needle in a field of safety pins, even when his mind was miles away. Jumping at the chance for real action, he slammed his feet on the brakes and peered out of his open window.
Across the street was the parking lot of a veterinary office. It was completely barren of any cars or people, and a lonely, arching streetlamp stood broken and fizzling. The semi-golden light blinked on and off at a feverish pace, giving the surrounding area a demonic, nightmarish atmosphere. But it wasn't the lack of cars or the violently flickering light that caught Calloway's attention. He stared unblinkingly at the vet's office; the glass door had been shattered, lying in a sparkling crystal puddle on the asphalt.
Calloway's mind began to race frantically, the sudden adrenaline pumping through his veins. He laughed quietly to himself, shifting in his seat as he fumbled for his radio. "Dispatch, this is Ninety-One-Oh-Nine. I'm gonna need backup for a possible break-in on Charleston and Murdoch, Columbus District."
The radio fizzled out a garbled response, and Calloway proceeded to slide out of his car, trembling with excitement. He flicked the button over his leather holster and grabbed the pistol; the black gunmetal felt cool and familiar on his sticky palms. It almost seemed to melt into his hand, fusing with him to become the lethal law-enforcement entity that had possessed Calloway for fifteen years. He was ready, now.
The officer quietly closed his door and stalked along the gravel parking. In a matter of thirty seconds, he had reached the crystal puddle. His trained eyes scanned over the broken remnants of the door, analyzing the pointed shards and trying to find anything out of place.
There. It stood out like a sore thumb – blood was smeared along the giant shards of glass. It was fresh, shiny and extraordinarily red, glinting against the fizzling light of the broken streetlamp. Calloway squatted down, peering at the bloodstains.
"Jesus," he muttered, half-smiling in anticipation. "These druggies get more determined every day."
He quietly stood up again, squinting into the darkness of the store. There was no alarm, only the quietly chaotic noise of various animals wailing. Carefully flicking his flashlight on, Calloway gripped his pistol and tiptoed into the darkness. He stepped carefully, his senses feverishly pulsing about him. A cool summer breeze blew in through the broken door behind him. Animals of all kinds were making a terrible noise – birds squawked, dogs howled and cats cried in long, screaming meows. The dull beam of his flashlight shot across the waiting room, barely illuminating the almost pitch-black office.
Calloway inched forward, his hands becoming sweaty with anxiety. "Fucking teenagers trying to get high on animal tranquilizers," he muttered reassuringly. The animals' wailing seemed to get louder.
He waved the flashlight back and forth, trying to find a trace of the criminal. But there was nothing – nothing but glass and blood, smeared in little increments on the floor. Footprints. He snuck carefully through the carpeted waiting room, following the bloody trail of footprints to the door that led into the doctor's office. The lock had been smashed apart, and the door hung slightly ajar. As Calloway neared closer to the office, the wailing of the animals slowly turned to screaming. Animals of all kinds… screaming… screaming in torturous agony. Something was very, very wrong here.
Quickly, he pressed his gun against the door and pushed it – it swung open just enough for the man to fit through. The officer slid inside and nervously shined his flashlight into the gloom. The floor was tile now, and Calloway nearly lost his footing on another bloody footprint. He regained himself and gulped, starting to consider if going in alone was the smartest thing to do. Maybe he should just come back the way he came, and wait for backup. Yeah… yeah, that's the smart thing.
He began to turn around and run, but something caught his eye. His flashlight whipped around, and the beam landed on a large dog cage in the corner.
Blood was everywhere.
It flowed steadily in a little stream from the cage, covering the floor, the walls, even the ceiling. And in the center of it all…
Calloway suddenly vomited his Twinkie, and a pasty yellow-brown waterfall splattered all over his uniform. It was sticky and syrupy, and it smelled strongly of bile and sugar. He finished puking, coughed and fell to the ground, half-crying in fear. He quickly fumbled with his flashlight and aimed it at the dog cage. Hunched in the corner, cradling the bloody and disfigured carcass of a bulldog… was a creature. It was squatting down, gnawing on the dog's neck until it reached the bone.
"Oh… ohhhh… fuck…" Calloway gasped, fumbling with his pistol. Never, not in fifteen years of law enforcement, had he ever seen anything like this. The bloody man nibbled on the lifeless dog for a few more moments, and then slowly arched his head, staring directly into the officer's flashlight. Its eyes were silvery-blue, and glinted brilliantly in the dull light – like a frightened deer in the middle of the road. Its skin was snow-white, and blood drenched his entire lower jaw. The creature stared at him without emotion, without fear or hatred or insanity. It opened its mouth and flashed its bloody, razorblade teeth. Golden-green veins streaked across its bald head, making little tributaries on his shining flesh. He wore bloody jeans and a black suit coat – underneath, Calloway could see his bare, slightly bloodied chest.
The flashlight shook violently as Officer Calloway shuddered from his position on the ground. He was too stricken to remember that he had a gun.
Without warning, the creature let the dog's carcass slip out of its hands and plop onto the floor. Blood spurted weakly out of the animal's throat, and it seemed to twitch a little as the last bits of life leaked away. The white, bloody figure slowly rose to its feet, licking the crimson from its fingers. All the time, its eyes were glued directly at Calloway's flashlight.
Unit 9109, do you copy? Unit 9109? Backup has arrived! Unit 9109, respond!
Calloway didn't dare touch his radio. The screaming of the animals intensified as the demon began to walk towards the officer. His steps came in sauntering glides, swooping across the sticky floor as if it were ice. His arms swayed exhaustedly at his sides, and his fingers curled and uncurled randomly, like muscular little caterpillars. The entire time, its thin and bloodied lips were bent into a soulless frown. The smell of blood became stronger and stronger, until it finally covered up the nasty stench of vomit. And by then, the creature and Calloway were no more than an inch apart.
They were so close that Calloway could count the freckles on the creature's bloodstained porcelain cheeks. The flashlight shook viciously in the officer's grip – a white hand, stained red from the kill, reached up and crushed the heavy light in its fingers. Chips of glass and black plastic clattered to the ground, and the room was plunged into darkness.
Darkness. Animals, still screaming. The sickening, alkaline smell of blood, overpowering the nostrils. Cold flesh against warm flesh.
Pain.