Hungry

A detective must back down from the force, even though she was so close to her goal. Going to a small town is supposed to be boring and relaxing. The town, on the other hand, doesn't agree.

People sway on the street with giggling laughter absorbing into the window. Alive with eyes, the building stares as a silent historian to save the information. A light gray building stands out with garbage bag window decorations.

              “Loosen up Officer McLain,” Officer Jones said as he pats my shoulder. “You're supposed to be my senior. If anything I should be nervous.”   

              “Adine, its time to wake up!” my mother said.

              She tosses me out, throwing clothes at me saying I have to get ready for work. Right, it's my day back to work. On the drive, the absence of loud honks of cars and people talking over one another. Or the stench of gasoline spilling into the nostrils.

              Officer Jones follows behind me as we trail up a flight of rick-a-dee stairs. Every other step had a small pool of mysterious substance that smelled similarly like piss. Apartment number 420, fitting for a drug dealer to live in a home with the numbers indicating the use of drugs.

              A five-year-old girl with pigtails and cleft lip hold a slender black object. Her hands tremble with the object.

              “Drop the weapon little girl...” Officer Jones said.

              She looks at him with glistening eyes waver from her object and Officer Jones. My hand brushes against my own slender object; its cold metallic casing sends a shiver up my arm. Or was it the girl? Officer Jones treads to the girl, voice like a mother who soothes a crying child. With a smile, he reaches to the girl. She shoots. Blood covers the ground and her sobs echo.

              At the police department carries rows of officers, seated at their desk. Some are busy typing away while most are gathered in small groups conversing amongst themselves. All in which they had their eyes glaring at me, giggles and winks fly my way. In Mark’s office, his conversation with a moderately young man quickly comes to a stop.

              “Ah, Adine!” Mark guides me by my back to the person opposite of his desk. “This is Nate, he will be your partner on the case.”

              “Nice to meet you,” Nate said.

              He outstretches a hand, to quickly be polite, before station in one of the chairs. With baggy jeans and a button up red collared shirt, his usage as a colleague is slim.

              “I’m better alone,” I said.

              “Really?” Mark pulls out a file. “This says you’re not according to your psychologist.” Nate’s curiosity peaks into the file, only to find my fist slammed down on it. “Just because you lost your previous partner-“

              “Don’t”

              The room becomes hot and my throat feels swollen. Nate shrinks back into his chair with his head sings low, his attention now on the pattern of the ground.

              “Your partners and that’s final.”

              Mark waves his hand to the door, where Nate and I drag our tails through. An empty desk with a blank screen flickers to me, my work calling. Nate occupies the computer parallel to mine, where trinkets of small toys scatter. He plops down the chair and skids across the floor. Being uncomfortably close.

              “Just email me the case files,” I said.

              “All ready did,” he spins my chair facing his. “Tell me about yourself.”

              I sigh and continue logging into the computer and opening the case file. Repeated taps on my shoulder and faint winning crawl through my ears, scratching the base of my brain. Pushing his hands, I start to dissect the file. Movement of a human body scotches away, with occasional squeaks, to its original home. The body dethatches itself from the chair to join in with the blurred crowd of people. Finally.

              Multiple cases of missing children in the span of six months and the urgency of needing a detective in the case can only mean a kidnapping. All have different races and genders. No irregularity of family households to lead to the children having abusive parents. Friends and family testify that the children didn’t experience any state of depression or anxiety of wanting to leave home life. They all also go to different schools. No connections, no ideal target. The kidnappings could be random, but need to have a source of attraction to the thief.

              “Nate,” I said.

              He peaks over the group of officers who wipe away at tears threating to fall. A motion to him with my head and I began to stride to the parking lot. The other male's cackle and imitations of a dog yips trail behind. Nate stumbles out of the department, scurrying over. 

              “Where’s your car?” I said.

              He fumbles with his key and points to the bright blue car, standing out against the gray and white. The car responds with a high pitch yelp, to which he climbed in enthusiastically. I pass him the directions to one of the victim’s house. The car roars to life, speeding away on the road. Nate lightly to bounces in his seat, rocking the car slightly. His eyes d/art back and forth from the road to me.

              “What do you want?”

              He jumps once more in his seat, a deep breath escapes his lungs. Continuing to fidget, his jaw overworking itself without a single word spilling.

              “I-I just wanted to know if you would talk more about yourself,” he mumbled into his lap. More of self-assertion then a question.

              I inhale deeply, “You have three questions. Go.”

              He eyes open wider and sit up properly, “Well how about an easy one. Why did you come back?”

              “I needed to get a break.”

              “A break from what.”

              “The big city.”

              “Did something happen when you were up there?”

              “Yes.”

              “What was it?”

              “Time.”

              Unknowingly he pulled up to the home. I slam the car door, pounding on the cement surface. Nate closes the door and jogs behind all the way to the door. A dark wooden door the home decorations to welcome all into their home. A woman in her late thirties, a frail one that constantly runs her hands through a piece of table clothe. Inside paint of fading yellows, warm browns, and soothing whites. Both Nate and I sink farther into the lathery couch, each passing repetitive question, we sink further into the earth. By now the woman, Mrs. Prather, have mass amounts of tears pooling down the sides of her face.

              “Mam’, do you mind we take a look around your home?”

              She nods. Nate preoccupies her by asking more simple questions, while I roam the home. Multiple trinkets and decoration, each one holding a memory. Though it wasn’t the foreign sculptures or the abstract art that caught my attention, a family portrait hangs on the wall with a small child standing out from the rest.

              “Mam’ is this your son?” I said pointing at the African-American child in the photo.

              “Yes. We adopted him at the nearby orphanage,” she said.

              It was a possibility, but asking can’t hurt. “Do you happen to know these children?” I flip open the file and lay the children’s profile onto the black coffee table.

              “I told you already I don’t-“

              “Then look at their names,” I stare deeply into her weaken eyes. “There might be a chance to save them, but only if you try.”

              She pulls her gaze away from me, to the children and nods. One by one, she brushes over their picture, tears continuing to streak down. She pauses on one of the little girls, bringing her face close to her.

              “I don’t know the child…” Her breath stutters. “But I know of the last name. I never knew they also adopted a kid.”

              “Wait she’s adopted?”

              “Yes, Mary Blank she can’t have kids, because an infection she got since high school.”

              A lead. Thanking her for the information, I gather the file and head back to the car, instantly pulling out my phone and searching the nearby orphanage.

              “Alright, so both are adopted. So what?” Nate said.

              “It’s more of a lead that we’ve had before.”

              “But how can going to the orphanage help.”

              “Stop doubting me and listen.”

              “Then stop holding secrets!” Nate slams his hands onto the steering wheel, speeding through an intersection. The cars around us scream in terror; we keep on driving. No apologies, and no forgiveness. Nate starts to apologize, but a toad loges itself into his throat causing to swell and mumble.

              “I had a partner before,” my hands furiously shake and my voice inside tells me to shut up. “We were on a drug-dealing case. When we went to his address, a child was there instead. She killed my partner. She had a cleft lip and said if she didn’t kill him, the nice man wouldn’t fix her.”

              My voice squeaks out in betrayal. Nate’s body folds in on himself, uttering an apology of pushing for revealing too much information. By then we already arrived. The building stands out from the rest for its large plot of land and overpowering size. Large steal doors announce our entrance. Nuns open the door and allow us to follow her inside, bring us to the headmaster’s office. Sister Ana helps answer our questions about the two children’s adoption forms. Her smile widens with each passing minute, but her eyes narrow. Pulling out the other three children, Sister Ana was easily able to attain their files. She allows us to roam the halls; most are empty except an occasional nun every so often. Rooms decorated in drawings and toys. Small shoes pair up respectfully in front of their homes.

              “Weird for an orphanage to hold children, has none inside,” Nate said.

              “Indeed.”

              Treading up to another nun, the question of children still present. She explains that they are at school. Following her out back, another building reaches to the sky with a beaming cross. Holy music dedicated to their religion emits from the stain glass windows. A group of at least fifteen children huddles around the pope, giving a teaching on how Christ will save the chosen ones. Nate squirms under his lecture of enlightenment.

              “Reminds me of my mom,” he said.

              Then one of the girls starts having a coughing fit. The pope crawls back in horror and calls for the nun to bring the girl to the doctor.

              “The doctor?” I said.

              “He’s the orphanage’s nurse, but since he has a doctrine degree he calls the doctor,” the pope happily explains as he watches the child leave.

              The doctor is the only person we haven’t met; yet. The nun’s heels clacked against the tile floors. She drags the little girl by her wrist, who’s coughing only became worse. Nate tries reaching out to the nun; I slap his wrist away, silently shaking my head. The doctor’s office was pure white, edges of where walls meet unseen by the brightness. A man strides out wearing a rubber black apron. He’s overly happy over the fact of a sick child. He washes his black glove that streams red liquids down the drain.

              “Excuse me but why is there blood on your gloves,” I ask.

              He wheezes a chuckle, “I eat a lot of meat.” Urging the girl out of the office and into a connecting bedroom. “I kill my own meat, off the ground of course. You don’t want the kids to be frightened.”

              I breathe a deep sigh and leave the orphanage. It was a waste of time, just as Nate protest. Back at the police officer, all the lights are off and crickets chirp from outside. Footsteps echo off the walls, with a large hand on my shoulder. Nate tries rubbing my back with the children’s faces watching back at us.

              “I thought we had something,” my hands jumbled my voice.

              Nate soothes me like the crying Mrs. Prather back at the house. But there is still no motive, no reason, and no leads. A shrill ring buzzes through the department; Nate picks it up, only to fumble with it before answering. Distorted voice booms through the phone, Nate quickly grabbing pen and paper writing whatever the person is saying.

              “Can I have a name for who’s calling,” Nate asks.

              The voice laughs before hanging up. Nate slams the phone, causing it to fall on the ground. He dashes over to his desk, typing away onto the computer and eyes darting all around. Every small movement is done with precision, something Nate isn’t quite well versed in.

              “What was that all about?” I get up from my chair and lean over his. On the screen was the doctor’s record with coordinates on the top right-hand side. Yet it wasn’t the doctor’s medical record, but his criminal.

              “Nate, what is all this about?”

               “That phone call was about the doctor,” Nate spins around in his chair and starts to speak with his hand. “Apparently back when he was in his late twenties, he did a ton of drugs. To the point where the smoke bath salts and went rampant.” Nate brings up a case where a man caved in face lies on a street pavement.

              “He went ballistic and ate a guy’s face. When going to be arrested, he disappeared,” Nate said.

              “And this is related how?”

              “He says he still works in meat,” Nate springs out of his chair and grabs his coat. “Doesn’t hurt to look where he makes his meat.”

              The car speeds across the road, twice as fast the speed limit. Our minds racing with possibility. If we are right, we found the kidnapper; but we might be too late to save them. Sunrise looms above the lodge, far from any civilization.  The car crunches over the pebbles, grinding them into dust. Both of us draw our guns close and barging in through the front door. Pitch-black darkness with small streaks of sunlight pierces through the veil. Nothing strikes as abnormal, except for multiple different types of tanks and pipes. Heading outback, another outline of a building looming in the distance; and a loud shrill scream. Nate and I split into two, him taking the building, and me to the scream.

              The voice becomes louder with every second, and the clinking noise of metal slamming against each other. A little boy lies on a plank of wood, arms and legs chained, and a crank slowly straining on the boy’s body in different directions. His screams turning into wails. I grab a nearby stick and jab at the crank. A popping noise overwhelms the boy’s cry for help. The popping is replaced with the sounds of something shredding and tearing. A slam hits the ground and the machine whirls itself off. Beats of rhythmic pounding slam against my ears.  Two arm and two legs strung onto the board with a small mass of a body lying on the ground. My heart clenches, and a camera stares back at me.

              “You're sick! You know that!”

              I jog back to the lodge, to meet up with Nate shaking on the porch and hands folded in prayer. He jumps out of his skin at my slight touch. Heaving a heavy sigh he hugs me, squeezing the life out of me.

              “There’s something I need to show you,” he said.

              “Later we need to call for backup!”

              “I already did that!”

              He drags me by my hand to the worn down shack. The exterior smells of rotten flesh and my stomach sinks into my feet. Inside was the monster’s home. Eyeballs hang on large metal hooks, slabs of meat and tongues on a clothing line. In the middle of it all, Ethan Prather’s head with a gouge out eyes rests on the pedestal. Liquid bile scorches its way through my throat. Police sirens ring out in the background, with Nate shaking me into what happens to be a reality. Hands wrap around my arms, dragging me away. I can’t hear anything, but the burning sensations turn into a throbbing raw stabbing pain.

              The doctor sits in for questioning, a sly smirk sneering at the camera. Both Nate and I take our seats, steading my breathing so I wouldn’t stop his. The doctor rattles his cuff buy placing them on the table. Nate takes the liberty to place the case file in front of the doctor.

              “Do you know why you’re here a doctor?” Nate said.

              “It’s because of the bodies you found on my property correct?”

              “So you don’t deny that you killed off at least fifty children who you would later consume?”

              He leans back with a chuckle, “Only fifty?”

              Gaining a confession, Nate signals in the police officer to transfer him to the state prison. The other officers’ cheer over the case, champagne spills over the floor and into others open mouth. Nate happily makes himself at home, tossing me a wave and a glass he prepared. The doctor and his flanking officers stride over. They claim instead of having a phone call, he wants last parting words.

              The doctor’s everlasting grin haunts me, “There is only one person I regret not tasting before being locked behind bars.” He leans in, only a few centimeters away from my face. “I wonder what Officer Jones taste like. Only the girl will ever know.”

              “Take him out of my sight this instance.”

              His maddening laughter mixes in with the cheerful ones. The phrase repeats itself and the laughter intensifies the pounding in my chest. My breathing is getting shallow and the world is spinning. I hear Nate in the background, but the invitation of the cold ground is more appealing.

Author's Note

I wrote this at like 3 am so I would greatly appreciate if there needs to have some editing. Also, I wrote this for my creative writing class which had a word limit, but now I want to make sure the story makes sense and wouldn't mind making it longer.