Ethan Thomas clutches a shotgun as he cowers in the corner of an abandoned subway station. The light down the hall flickers — the one above the teller's booth. One day, years ago, someone stood at that booth for hours a day, taking cash and handing over subway passes. Now, it's dim, dirty and serves as a warehouse for drug addicts and squatters.
Ethan is neither of those. He's a federal agent working under the Serial Crimes Unit. He's currently on the path of a serial killer. And he's scared out of his mind.
He hears someone — something — grunt from around the corner. Ethan cowers, knowing he only has one shell left in the chamber of his shotgun. It's not even his shotgun. He pried it out of the dead hands of someone he beat to death with a rusty pipe.
Ethan creeps forward. He knows he has to get out.
"Unnghhh."
Then a shuffle.
Ethan steps very carefully forward, as he tries to remain silent. The flickering florescent above him ticks sporadically.
He approaches the ticket booth and peers around the corner. He squints to see through the strobing light. He can barely hear his own frantic breath.
Boom!
A shotgun blast blows the booth's door open. Pellets embed into Ethan's forearm.
"Ah!" He shouts, slipping back.
A greasy bum approaches. His thick chocolate hair is matted against his slimy forehead.
"You want some, motherfucker?" The bum announces. His eyes are more red than white. He's on something.
Ethan stumbles and fires the remaining shell in his shotgun, missing his target.
"Fuck!" He shouts.
"Come here you motherfucker!"
The bum raises his shotgun again and Ethan scrambles to pick up a nearby sign from the ground. His ears ring. More could be on their way. He wouldn't be able to hear them if they were.
Ethan swings the aluminum sign and slices the bum's hand, sending the shotgun clattering across the floor.
"Mother fuck!"
Ethan takes two frenzied steps back, hoisting the sign by his head, ready to swing it again. The sweat his palms produce makes him unsure of his ability to keep a strong hold on it. The night has been so long, his adrenaline has no kick left.
His forearm stings. His forensics bag weighs his shoulder down. He grunts, half in anger, half in fear.
The bum reaches to a bank of lockers immediately next to him and furiously rips an open locker door off its hinges. He smiles at Ethan as he holds the sign as a makeshift baseball bat.
His teeth are stained yellow and brown.
"You're mine, bitch."
Ethan capitalizes on the bum's attempt at a speech. He rushes him and swings the sign into the bum's face. It connects. The bum yelps in pain. A tooth flies off in the distance
Both men stumble back. The bum strikes and Ethan deflects it. Every ounce of oxygen in his lungs escapes.
Ethan swings and connects again, nailing the lunging bum in the back of the head. The sign dents on impact. The bum falls and Ethan stomps into his face.
One. Two. Three kicks.
He steps back into the locker bank.
Breath in. Breath out.
God damn it.
The light around the corner is still flashing. Ethan can no longer hear it flicker. He can't hear anything but his own heart pounding in his ears.
His eyes are heavy.
Why do they always kill in such maggot-infested dumps?