Greg Gifune: Kingdom of Shadows

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“Your name.”

“My name?”

“It’s pretty. Gabrielle.”

“I didn’t realize it interested you.” She smiled as if letting him in on a secret. “You’ve never mentioned it before.”

“Never really thought about it until now, I guess.”

“Its origin is Hebrew,” she explained. “Most people don’t know that.”

“What does it mean?”

“ God is my might .”

Their eyes met, and for a moment he was lost in them, their depth and beauty. He knew her so well, and yet in many ways she seemed unfamiliar. How could that be? He focused on the writing table beneath the windows, the bills scattered about it.

“I better get in the shower,” Gaby said. “Don’t want to be late for work.”

Right , he thought. Someone’s got to earn some money around here .

“I’ll find something,” he promised. “There’s been some talk that big warehouse facility over on Dover Street’s hiring.”

“That place gives me the creeps,” she said. “What do they warehouse there anyway?”

“I don’t know. All I heard is they need some extra hands to unload trucks. It’s temporary but steady work for a week or more. Word is they’re only hiring a few people, so I want to get there early.”

“What about the phone calls?”

Fear rose from deep inside him. “What about them?”

Gaby came closer, padding across the chilly pockmarked floor in her bare feet, nails painted blood red and a dainty gold ankle bracelet adorned with tiny bells jingling as she moved. “It’s obviously important. He’s called at least half a dozen times, and at all hours, too.” She slid up behind him and wrapped her hands around his waist. She smelled vaguely of freshly cut flowers, and her breath caressed the back of his neck in slow, sensual intervals. “He says he knows you.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Are you going to call him back?” When he didn’t answer she leaned into him and brushed her lips against his ear. “He sounds so frightened , the man on the phone.”

With a sad smile, Rooster flicked his cigarette out the window. “He is.”

Beneath an oddly gray sky, Rooster walked toward the hulking shadows cast by the enormous warehouse facility at the end of Dover Street. He strode past one alley strewn with garbage, human and otherwise, and then another, the last hope for escape from the dead-end street and the monolithic structures awaiting him. His breath spilled from his nostrils like columns of smoke, partially concealing his face as he pressed on through the cold, hands buried deep in the pockets of his battered leather jacket and chin tucked to chest in an attempt to ward off the occasional bursts of winter wind blowing in off the nearby ocean. Everything was deathly still, and though the constant din of city noises could still be heard, rather than a block or two away, they seemed impossibly far off, as if they were memories of a different city altogether, a deafeningly chaotic city recalled while passing through the mysterious solitude of another.

When he reached the tall chain-link fence surrounding the facility, he noticed the gate was open, a thick padlock and chain dangling free as if left there mistakenly. He hesitated. A nearby security hut beyond was empty, the glass cracked and aged and looking as if it hadn’t been cleaned in years. On the far side of the hut, scarred with cracks and occasional tufts of weeds, an enormous parking lot led to a series of loading docks, and amidst the larger warehouses, a smaller building marked OFFICE. Forklifts and other pieces of equipment were scattered about the property as if abandoned long before, and though most of the bays were closed, the few left open revealed enormous but empty storage areas. It looked like some time ago everyone had simply picked up and left.

No one came or went from the office building, and the lone wire-meshed window facing the street was grimy and dark. Had the place gone out of business? He could’ve sworn he’d passed by here a few days before and it was alive with workers and trucks coming and going, loading and unloading. He tried to remember where he’d heard about the job opportunities here. Had someone told him? Had he seen something at the Unemployment Office? Rooster watched the area a while with the experienced and trained eye of a thief. In time he looked back at the street. It was empty but for bits of trash and debris blowing about in the wind. He checked his watch then gazed at the sky. It normally wasn’t so dreary this time of afternoon, but the drab winter sky conspired to cast everything in a dull pall reminiscent of dusk.

After another quick look around, Rooster stepped through the open gate, crossed the parking lot and slipped into the office building.

He found himself in a long, dimly lit corridor that reeked of bleach. With the dull industrial tile floors, low plaster ceilings, steel-encased light fixtures and unimaginative but practical architecture, the building more closely resembled an archaic hospital or dated mental institution than office space.

Rooster pulled off the knit hat he was wearing and held it in his hands. Though the heavy steel entrance door had closed silently behind him he could still see his breath in the hallway. Surely they had heat here, why wouldn’t it be on? A small sign protruding from the nearest doorframe read: RECEPTION.

He looked past it to the far end of the corridor, which was draped in darkness. Had something moved just then? Startled, Rooster took a step back. He was certain he’d caught a glimpse of someone shuffling into the cover of darkness, and the sudden sound of labored breath seeping down the hallway in its wake seemed to confirm it. The noise echoed along the walls, transforming into strange, indecipherable whispers.

Whispers that did not sound human.

Rooster stuffed his hat into his back pocket, took a deep breath then ran a hand over his face, eyes trained on the shadows at the end of the hall. Calm down , he thought. It’s just the nightmares again .

An unusual ticking sound drew his attention to the reception office. A lone woman well into her sixties sat behind an inordinately large desk, banging away on an old Olympia typewriter and seemingly oblivious to his presence. A series of metal file cabinets filled out the remaining space behind her. Clad in a dowdy dress and a cardigan sweater thrown over her shoulders for good measure, the receptionist’s silver hair was pulled up into a bun, and a pair of half-glasses attached to a chain strung about her neck sat along the bridge of her bulbous nose.

Rooster stepped through the doorway. “Are you still hiring?”

Without looking up from her typewriter the woman retrieved a sheet of paper from a metal bin, slapped it down and slid it over to the edge of the desk. “Fill out this application, front and back. Turn it in to me when you’re finished.”

Rooster took the form. “Is it always so cold in here?”

“Comes as a shock to most but that’s the way it is.”

He nodded like he’d understood her answer. “Are you open today?”

“We’re always open.”

“Then where is everybody?”

The woman’s head snapped up, her eyes glaring at him with demonic fury. “Where are you ?”

Rooster watched the paper fall from his hand as the familiar torment of agonizing screams came to him again. But these were not nightmares or daydreams, he could hear them bellowing from deep within the building, as if people were being tortured in the bowels of the facility. Heart crashing his chest, he backed out into the hallway, terrified. The receptionist’s mouth hung open as she panted with anger, spittle dripping from her pale, cracked lips. A quiet growl emanated from her, like the low rumbling snarl of a dog just before it attacks.