5.

Dusk came without invitation and skulked at its leisure into the alleys and car parks before settling upon the rest of New Seattle. Ribbons of oxide red sheared through a sky plastered with black fingers of smog, but these too were eventually consumed and reduced to gray ash.
    In Newton’s Square, two spotlights shone upon the Minute War memorial. The single missile casing, rusted and tarnished with age, glowed the color of fresh-spilt blood. Whenever he drove past Newton’s Square at night, Amphion could always pick out the memorial -- it was like a giant red crayon, an illusion which fleeted between the park gate’s iron grill.
    It had been nearly a decade since the war had transpired. Amphion had been in high school then. Certainly, he had been in shock -- they all had -- but beyond spending many a night rehearsing speeches on the virtues and vices of nuclear arms for the school’s debate team, the war came and went without so much as overturning a single stone in the young man’s life.
    The Cuban Missile Crisis had been the incitement of the whole affair. During the ordeal, the U.S.S.R. had flung an island bird at the state of Florida: a mere threat, meant to show their commitment to ensuring Cuba’s defence. In wake of the deaths of dozens of civilians, the government had issued an ultimatum : disarm and back-down or face full-scale destruction. The Russians had seen the Americans in action before in the Bay of Pigs -- they thought the enemy had no mettle in their means, and continued their operations.
    On November 1st, 1962, the Minute War, the first and only nuclear war ever held, began and ended. When the dust settled, the U.S.S.R. lay slain in a wasteland of ruined cities, smouldering corpses, and dazed survivors. The American strike had come without warning, and much of the U.S.S.R.’s ballistic missiles were destroyed. Mutually Assured Destruction, the pact which had kept both sides at a stalemate, had for the most part failed. Surviving missiles wiped out several major U.S. cities along the coast, though by that time most civilians had been evacuated. A few cities were rebuilt, and Seattle was among them. In each new city there was a monument such as this one: an idol of danger for the sake of debunking danger; a solemn and tangible reminder of a past that could not, for the sake of greater good, be forgotten all too swiftly.
    Amphion never paid any heed to the memorial. It seemed part of a surreal history outside his own existence -- it was a headstone, not a warning.
    Currently, as he glided along the park’s outskirts in his cruiser, a burst of static hiccupped over the radio. A woman’s voice cracked, “… Reports of a four-one-five on Longwarf over Donnelson. Reporting party advises suspects are two African-American males, six-foot two and five-foot eleven respectively, one wearing a jean jacket and -- .”
    Amphion snatched the mouthpiece from its dock. “Copy, this is Officer A. Oswald. Requesting permission to investigate, code four.” No assistance needed. This was one he wanted to take on alone -- after today’s ordeal he felt the need to submerge himself in his duty. It made him feel less vulnerable.
***
    The location of the disturbance was a warehouse by the waterfront. It was a newer facility, built to house unused construction equipment.
    Amphion slipped a flashlight from his belt and probed the empty lot. Nothing. Keeping one hand poised on his holstered gun, he rounded the corner. His heart rate quickened with each step he took, as he drew closer to potential peril. Against the chilled steel of the gun, his fingers tapped a tuneless beat.
    As he turned the final corner, Amphion heard a slam. The flashlight’s beam darted into the darkness, pulling an open door into sight. It was a poorly secured side entrance, as made evident by the broken chain lock which  dangled midair, swinging like a hypnotist’s pendulum from side to side.
    Training told him he should return to the vehicle to radio-in the forced entry. Instinct, on the other hand, lead him to draw his handgun and duck through the open door.
    Inside, flood lamps buzzed and filled the space with a murky, incandescent light. An overhead track raced across the building’s ceiling. From the track’s pulley draped a thick chain with a hook at its end, meant for moving equipment from one area of the warehouse to another. It was there, hanging from the hook, where Amphion discovered his suspects.
    Each had been bound, gagged, and stabbed multiple times. Stabbed first, Amphion guessed, judging by the neat finality of the cords and knots -- they appeared to have been tied without a struggle. The ropes which bound them had been hung from the giant metal hook, and they dangled back-to-back, oddly stretched out in the dim light. Every now and then, the momentum of their bodies caused one man’s heels to knock gently against the other’s. Blood trickled from the toes of their boots, puddled on the floor, and caked their black faces like shimmering tribal masks.
    Amphion knew the men. They were pimps and dealers -- scum. He looked upon their bellies, sliced opened and allowed to drain their contents, and knew contempt in the darkest places of his heart. They belonged this way, gutted like a couple of animals.
    He holstered his gun and drew his radio, resting his thumb on the talk button, but did not call in the incident -- not just yet. There was a startling draw to the emptied, bodily sacks. Amphion craned his neck and attempted to get a better view of the men -- something had caused him to want to see their faces, to learn if there was an expression of pain or terror written upon them to seal the absolute sovereignty of the hand of death that had been exercised.
    Suddenly, he felt a sharp sting at the base of his skull, and red flooded his vision.