Sean Slater - The survivor

Striker nodded. He and Felicia left the fire hall the way they’d come and hopped back in their cruiser. When Striker started the engine and drove onto Victoria Drive, he headed north this time, and Felicia gave him a questioning glance.

‘Where we going?’ she asked.

‘To where this entire nightmare started.’

She furrowed her brow. ‘But Saint Patrick’s High is west of here.’

‘We’re not going to the school,’ Striker said. ‘We’re going to that house on Pandora Street. All the answers are there.’

Shen Sun hung up the pay phone. This was the third time he had called Father, but he was not home. Which meant he was at either the Chinese Society Social Club on Pender or playing Mah-jong somewhere in Strathcona.

His absence put Shen Sun at a disadvantage.

He slammed down the receiver and turned away just in time to see a patrol car drive by. Inside the cruiser were two young cops — a man and a woman. The woman cop gave him a long, hard look, said something to her partner, and the car immediately turned at the corner.

Circling the block.

Shen Sun cut into the north lane. His head felt swollen from fever and his legs moved like a pair of rubbery stilts. He passed through the industrial section to Raymur Street, below the overpass, where the she-males and transsexuals plied their trade. This was the so-called bad area, a place of drugs and sex and violence. Yet it was also a good place. A lot of honest hard-working people lived here. Poor people.

Like Father.

Shen Sun crossed the road and hurried across the train tracks, under the cover of shadow. On the other side of the gravel path, the ground swept upwards. It was steep, but Shen Sun climbed it. At the top, he followed the bush line a few hundred metres south to a small hollow. He crept inside. From this vantage point, he could see the valley below — the train tracks, Raymur Street and, most importantly, Father’s small town home.

Everything appeared calm.

Father’s unit faced onto Raymur Street. The front door was closed, the drapes were open. However, the living-room light was on, which was disturbing, because Father had grown up poor. Lost electricity was lost money. Leaving a light on was something he never did.

Shen Sun watched and waited. Inside the unit, there was only stillness. No one appeared to be home. And no one was on the streets either.

That bothered Shen Sun even more than the light being left on.

He had spent ten years living here. Never was Raymur Street so quiet. Since setting up in his vantage point, he had not seen one police car drive by. And that was highly unusual. It told him one important thing: undercover cops were around.

Minutes ticked by slowly. The stillness made him edgy, made him want to return home. But if Father had taught him anything in this life, it was the importance of patience.

And so Shen Sun waited.

Just as he had waited so many years ago, in the forest brush that flanked the east end of Section 21. The memory was hot, blending in with his fever, and before Shen Sun knew it, he felt as small as a child again.

As small as Child 157.

As Striker and Felicia drove towards the 1700 block of Pandora Street, angry stormclouds floated in from the north, threatening rain and turning the grey twilight a purplish black.

It was fitting for the area. Everywhere Striker looked there was nothing but square concrete building after square concrete building. Some were brown, some were grey, some were a dirty, time-stained beige. But all were the same ugly industrial design.

It was half past six, and there was little sign of life on the street. Just the odd hooker working her corner, and the binners and homeless camped out between the lots, scavenging what they could from the trash cans. Striker watched one girl take note of the undercover cruiser and drop back into the shadows.

When they reached the 1800 block of Pandora Street, the darkness deepened. There were only two sources of light: the streetlamp at the end of the road and the yellow neon glow from Tony’s Autobody Shop, on the south side. The shop was closed for the night.

Halfway down the road, Striker spotted the building he was looking for. It was the lone house — or what was left of it — sitting on the north side of the road. Nestled between a condemned warehouse and an empty lot.

As they drove nearer, the extent of the damage to the house became clearer. Half the exterior was damn near demolished. The other half, barely standing, was nothing but a burned-out shell.

Striker glanced at Felicia. ‘Looks like the last time you tried to cook.’

She smiled. ‘This coming from the man whose daughter makes his every meal.’

‘Point taken.’ Striker frowned. The mere mention of Courtney gave him pause. He tried her again, at home and on her cell.

Nothing.

‘Give it up,’ Felicia said, sensing his thoughts. ‘She’s a woman, she’ll talk to you when she’s ready.’

‘Which means never.’ He opened the car door, got out. The overpowering stench of chicken guts hit him immediately. The smell filtered down from the slaughterhouse which sat a half block to the east, and it permeated everything.

Felicia brought a hand to her nose and winced.

Striker moved on.

A narrow cement path led from the sidewalk to the remains of the house. By the time they’d reached the front porch area, the chicken smell had been overtaken by the reek of burned wood and insulation. Impressive, considering the fire had been out for weeks. The front door and frame were completely gone. On the floor, just inside the foyer, a leftover string of yellow police tape stretched horizontally from beam to beam. Hanging from the tape was a sign: Condemned by the City of Vancouver.

Striker ran his finger along the yellow tape, feeling smoothness and grit. He stepped into the hallway, the burned hardwood clunking and creaking beneath his boots. All around him, blackened pillars rose up like gnarled fingers. Some of the beams continued up past the first floor; others were burned so badly they’d broken and toppled over. Striker crossed into the room and found the one area that was least affected by the fire.

He stopped, studied the wall. Said: ‘Come here. Look at this.’

When Felicia joined him, he pointed to a series of hollows in the leftover, grey-foam latticework. He gloved up, reached out and took hold of the remaining shelf of foam. Despite the intense heat of the fire, the material had remained supple. It bent as Striker yanked on it, but remained firm.

‘This is it,’ he said.

‘It?’

‘The key to all this.’

‘ This?’ Felicia looked at the burned-away insulation. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s the stasis-foam. What Brady was talking about.’

‘I don’t get it.’

He smiled. ‘You will.’

Felicia made a face, and Striker gestured for her to follow. He led her from one room to another, through the empty pockets of blackened framework. This second room looked no different than the first, except in the far corner. A warped metal box lay on the ground with piles of what looked like melted wire surrounding it. Striker picked the box up, forced it open and studied the inside. Most of the inner panel was a clean grey colour, except the bottom half, which was blackened.

‘Fuse box. Source of the fire.’

Felicia furrowed her brow. ‘Brady said they used white gas.’

‘They did — for the second fire.’

‘ Second fire?’ Felicia looked at Striker, then at the destruction all around her. ‘You think there were two fires?’

‘I’m betting on it.’ He walked to the window, where no glass remained, and stared outside, down into the north lane of Pandora. Outside, a series of industrial garbage cans lined the lane.