BLOCKED

4-8-18 [Paint Yourself a Smile]

WARNING -- MATURE CONTENT, PRIMARILY SEQUENCES OF INTENSE VIOLENCE AND POTENTIALLY GRUESOME DESCRIPTIONS

Rain drizzled through the hazy mist of the side-street.

Fractured grey bricks of the side-buildings wept moisture in black streams through their bent metal ceilings. Crackling and rustling signaled rats amid the piles of refuse that edged the asphalt streets in a golden-arched, plastic bag, take-out container speckled tapestry.

"Detective Martinez, report," a crackly voice muttered through a radio.

A short man in a grey trench coat shrugged off the ran and clicked the radio receiver hanging from his collar. "I got nothin'." He turned his wrist and wiped the rain from its glass face. "It's almost midnight. I'm thinking he's a no-show."

Martinez turned his head to look past the rusted dumpsters in the ally. "C'mon out, men. This op is a dud."

The shadows in the ally rose in the form of four officers dressed in black Kevlar armor with the word "SWAT" spelled in bold white letters that was barely visible in the half-light of a nearby flickering street lamp. Water dripped from their helmets and glistened dully off the metal of their rifles as they shook their heads.

"Really, boss?" one of the uniforms muttered. "Six bloody hours in this trash heap and now we're just packing it up?"

The detective chuckled dryly. "That's the way it goes sometimes. Pack it up." He tipped his hat, letting the ring of water that had collected around the brim drip off.

The refuse of the ally muffled their steps amid the mud and dirt as they headed out of the slum. Lights shone dimly from the grimy streetlights and third-rate apartments that stared drearily into dark, concealing the silhouettes of the unfortunate.

Martinez suddenly walked into the back of one of the officers as they stopped dead in their tracks.

"Hey, Scotts, what you doing?" he barked. "Keep moving. This place gives me the creeps."

"Uh, Marty, you're going to want to see this." The SWAT members lifted their weapons slightly, stepping back so the detective could see down the ally.

It was a familiar sight. Grime-caked bricks built walls around the trash-lined ally just like any other dim city street. Rats scurried amid the dumpsters, sending the humid scent of mold and mist into the air with every step. It was a typical city ally and all the more familiar as the path they had taken into their positions that afternoon.

But a distinctly different feature had been added.

A six-foot-tall white face slashed across the black brick in a narrow scream. Wide eyelids loomed with glistening bloodshot eyes in a fanatic expression of joy. The wide mouth hung in a crazed, toothless smile that cut across the building like a bleached scar.

"What the hell..."

One of the SWAT members shuffled forward, rifled raised. His hand hesitantly reach to touch the graffiti. The black glove's fingers came away white.

"It's still wet," the uniform murmured. "Someone's been here."

"How's that possible?" another asked. "We've been here for hours. Nothing - nobody - could have gotten past without us noticing."

A loud rustling suddenly disturbed the otherwise quite scene, triggering the officer near the mural to raise his rifle. He pointed it down the side ally. "I think I see something."

"Thad," Martinez muttered. "Thad, stay back."

The officer leaned forward to peer down the ally. "Who's there?"