Scorpio

Chapter VIII

Claren looked down at the map on his phone and then back up at the deserted brick building. No one else was roaming the streets in this post-apocalyptic part of town. The brightness of the sun accentuated the ragged angles and uneven lines in the decrepit structures and dilapidated, rusting machinery.

Litter and disintegrating flyers were strewn on the sidewalk like the remains of a sleepwalking mummy. Weeds poked through numerous pavement cracks. Some of the buildings had boarded-up windows and doors. Mortar was flaking off the brick buildings. Concrete steps were often chipped. Graffiti staked claims on the lower levels—the only shots of neon vibrance in a locale that was otherwise dismal, sooty, and gray.

He checked the map again and peered at the abandoned warehouse in front of him. A chill trembled up his back. This was definitely the place. What a s——ty way to kick off the weekend. Why couldn't they have picked somewhere a bit more upbeat?

He got it that they had to maintain a certain level of mystery, but this place was overkill, and that was coming from someone like him who had grown up in a not-so-nice neighborhood. Maybe this was the whole point, though, because if you freaked yourself out, they'd have less work to do.

Ari had told him about these sad creatures called fainting goats. They had some genetic trait that made them seize up and fall over whenever they encountered sudden stress. He wondered why a trait like that would develop, because the last thing a goat would want to do when—say—a wolf ambles along is to flat out faint. But she had insisted that there was actually a whole organization that was dedicated to preserving the genetic integrity of the fainting goat species. Why? He could only imagine that it was for human entertainment. Boy, weren't we all sick, sick, sick—laughing at animals that can't help it when they faint?

He shook his head quickly from side to side and cleared the tangential thoughts crowding nervously in his brain. Not the time to be thinking of that now. He was here for one purpose and one purpose only, the culmination of all the chats and favors and sucking-it-up he'd done for the past one-and-a-half months. Time to get the show on the road.

He walked up to the door and pushed it open with a raspy creak. He stepped in, and his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting. The door slowly swung shut. This room of the warehouse was empty and lit only by a single flickering light dangling from the ceiling beams. His footsteps echoed on the dusty concrete floor, reverberating with ghostly clangs in the large, hollow room. He couldn't see anyone else there.

"Hello?"

The single word disappeared into the darkness.

Eerie creeps slithered down his spine. God, did they have to make this into a horror movie? In a place set up like this, he was expecting Hannibal Lester to spring out of the shadows and chew his face off any minute. At least it was a one-and-done deal. He'd never have to go through this again.

"Greetings," a low, staticky voice grumbled from a speaker that had been placed directly under the weak circle of light.

His heart pounded, and he spun around, trying to see if the real person talking was in the room, but only shadows reigned. Hadn't Ned said he'd be here? Where was that that guy?

"Who is that?" he asked, his voice shaking. He clenched his fists. His palms felt cold and clammy.

"That does not concern you," the deep-throated mechanical voice replied. "It only matters that we know you, Claren."

He reminded himself that this was just like those haunted houses for Halloween. As scary as they may seem, they were run by people, and those people only scared you by preying on your imagination. They were just dudes wearing masks and smeared with fake blood, not real monsters. This kid or whatever group of people was here—they were probably using some kind of voice filter and huddling in a distant corner where he wouldn't be able to see them.