Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

“Answer it,” he said to Amos.

Heisen watched as Amos kept his eyes on the big man and pulled out his phone. He lifted it to his ear. “Amos.” He listened, his brow folding.

He disconnected and turned to his officers. “At ease; that was the boss.” He shrugged “Actually, further up the chain of command.” He turned away, rubbing his arm. “Let these… agents… look around… and give them any assistance they need.” Amos turned back to the man he assumed was in charge. “What’s your name?” The older cop tilted his chin, waiting.

He was pushed aside and the agents went about their tasks. Heisen sidled up next to Amos. “Who the hell are these guys?”

Amos shrugged. “From Defense.” He began to walk away.

“Huh? Defense what — army, navy, Spezialkräfte , homeland, who?” Heisen got in front of Amos.

Amos motioned with his hand to the huge agents. “Be my guest.”

There was a woman amongst them, and Heisen switched on his most disarming smile, and approached. “Hi there, I’m…”

“Fuck off.” She kept walking.

“Thank you.” Heisen waved. He decided to watch and backed up to the wall. It seemed the Defense were going to give them nothing. He could try again, maybe beg them for information, or he could do his job. He moved away from the wall, knowing he only had a few minutes before these guys, whoever they were, shut them all down. If he wanted answers, he’d have to get them himself… and quick.

He stepped around the forensics guys down on their knees sifting and lifting minute bits of evidence from the carpet. As he went by he reached down to lift a rubber glove from one of their cases and held it loosely in his hand. He crossed to the closed door the disintegrated woman had been facing, and gripped the handle. He turned it — locked.

From behind him, Amos confirmed what was now obvious. “Locked or jammed tight, and so is the other side door — we haven’t got in there yet and the landlord doesn’t have a key. We’re waiting on a locksmith. And before you ask, we’ve already stuck a peep-pipe in, and found nothing. So… we sit tight.”

Heisen backed up looking around the old door, and then reached up to feel around the frame. From behind, Amos must have been watching.

“Done that — jammed up and no hidden keys. Be too easy wouldn’t it, Heisen?”

“Locked from the inside maybe?” Heisen rolled his eyes and half turned to speak over his shoulder. “Thanks Amos; I’ll take a poke around.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, instead sliding past the cop and then making a sharp turn down a narrow side hallway, continuing on until he came to a door he guessed was a rear exit to the room he had just tried to enter. Using the glove again, he jiggled the handle — loose but also jammed. He looked at the frame — this one was more promising — the wood looked old and damp-softened.

Heisen reached inside his jacket, slid free his handgun, and put his ear to the door. Though Amos had said they’d stuck a peep-pipe, a cord camera, into the room, he knew from experience if someone wanted to hide, they could fold themselves into a freakin’ suitcase.

Heisen let the large gun hang by his side and put his shoulder against the door. He braced one of his legs against the opposite wall in the narrow hallway, and pushed. He gently applied more and more pressure until he felt the wood crunch softly as the lock was torn from its bed in the rotten cavity. He eased the door open and stepped inside. That weird smell again, but stronger — like an electrical short. The word ozone immediately leapt into his mind.

He quickly stepped out of the doorframe’s halo of light — nothing like a little backlighting to make you an easy target. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and gradually the piles of dirty clothing, food wrappers and assorted rubbish on a bench-top took on greater definition. The only sound came from the forensics team on the other side of the far door.

Heisen remained motionless and just let his eyes slide around the room. Against the wall there was a new pair of jogging shoes, with clean socks tucked into them — incongruously neat amongst the general disarray. On the bench top, a gold chain with small heart locket, an Yves Saint Laurent wallet open and with several cards in place, a wristwatch — blue Seiko dive model — expensive. Not theft then, he thought. Unless what was taken was something completely different.

Heisen looked around, and grunted. It didn’t fit. The entire apartment block was nothing but floor upon floor of piss-smelling flophouses. The picture of the girl, nice, wholesome, the expensive shoes and personal items — just didn’t fit.

Heisen finally walked towards the centre of the room, and holstered his gun. What’s wrong with this picture? He tugged on his lip and he slowly turned in a circle. He hadn’t been in the apartment long, but as far as he could tell the place hadn’t been tossed. So, whoever had killed the Sömmer girl had found what they were looking for, or the objective was the girl herself — a hit.

Heisen sighed and put his hands on his hips. Or theory three, it was some sort of freak natural phenomenon — ball lightning, maybe? He snorted softly and finally pulled the single glove over his hand. He used a couple of fingers to lift the wallet, carefully sorting through the contents. No receipts, no paperwork, or even a bus ticket… but plenty of cash. A runner’s wallet , he thought.

He lifted open one of the sleeves and dragged out a picture of the girl — standing with a smiling young man holding an old brown skull. She wore a slightly bored expression, and was holding what looked like a weird brushed-metal fountain pen. He turned the photograph over. In small script there were three words: Klaus and me . He turned it back, now having a name to the young face.

“Klaus, huh? What did you two kids find?” He studied it for a few more seconds before slipping it into his pocket and checking the wallet’s other compartments — all empty.

Heisen sniffed again — ozone. Ozone, and piss, and stale cigarettes, and booze and sex. No Club Med, and definitely not a place you’d expect to find a pretty young girl in new running shoes wearing a Seiko dive watch. From the little information Amos had given him, she’d come here a month ago and paid her rent cash-in-advance. In places like this, residents came here for hookers, to do drugs deals, or to hide out. You didn’t stay for the atmosphere or the local restaurant’s cuisine.

He briefly pulled the picture from his pocket and looked again at the smiling face — no way do young girls from good families come here to be incinerated in a two thousand degree microburst. Instead, they come here to meet lovers their conservative parents didn’t approve of… or to hide out. He tapped his chin with a knuckle. A runners wallet , he thought again. But running from what?

He flicked the light switch but no glow came from the bulb — it was blackened inside. Looking to the door where Amos and his team worked, he saw no key sticking from the lock. On closer inspection, he could see that the locking mechanism was fused — welded shut. He frowned. Whoever came out of this room to freak Doris out and then burn her up, had then come back in here afterwards, and then made sure the door stayed closed.

Heisen looked around; whoever it was, had come out of here, come back in here … and had stayed in here. He turned slowly, the Glock hanging loosely at his side.

Where the fuck are you? he thought.

Only one place left to look. He stepped towards the old closet against the wall, and brought the gun up. He laid his hand on the doorknob. An image of the ash outline on the floor flickered in his mind, and he worked to calm his breathing.