Chapter 4
Chapter 4: Alley Blood
He lay there. Gasping. Every inch of his body screaming.
He felt something sticky. Wet. On his face.
He tried to move. To push himself up.
Couldn't. His body wouldn't obey.
He opened his eyes.
He wasn't in white. Or black.
He was in an alley. Damp. Grimy.
The stench of garbage. Urine.
Above him, a hazy yellow sky. Smoggy.
And at his feet, splashed across his pants, was a puddle of...
Blood.
His own blood. The thought hit him. Then the pain.
A searing fire in his side. A dull ache in his head.
He coughed. A dry, hacking sound.
He tried to push himself up again. This time, a grunt escaped him.
His left arm buckled. He fell back onto the cold, wet asphalt.
He stared at the blood. Dark. Viscous. Spreading slowly.
It wasn't just on his pants. It was a pool. Under him. Around him.
He touched his side. His fingers came away slick. Warm.
He looked up. The hazy sky. The grimy brick walls.
This wasn't where he was supposed to be.
He remembered the white room. Operative Seven. The black void.
The hands. Cold. Hard. Pulling him.
He heard a groan. Not his own.
He flinched. Tried to turn his head.
His neck protested. A sharp jab of pain.
He saw a shape. Beside him. In the gloom.
Another body.
Closer. He strained his eyes.
A man. Face down. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles.
He felt another wave of nausea.
This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.
He pushed with his good arm. His right.
He managed to raise his head a few inches. Held it there. Trembling.
The man was wearing a suit. Dark. Expensive.
And the back of his head was… gone.
A crater of blood and bone.
Ethan gasped. His breath hitched.
He lowered his head. His stomach churned.
He recognized the blood. The same dark, viscous pool that surrounded him.
It wasn't his. Not all of it.
He had fallen on top of this man. This dead man.
He pushed himself up again. Gritted his teeth against the pain.
He had to get away from the body. From the blood.
He crawled. Dragging his left side.
Every movement sent a fresh jolt through him.
He reached the relative safety of a dumpster. Leaned against its cold, greasy metal.
He was shaking. Violently.
He looked back at the body. The grotesque tableau.
He was clearly dead. Splattered.
What had happened? How did he get here?
The black void. The hands. Where had they taken him?
And who was this man?
He looked down at his own clothes. Torn. Bloodied.
His shirt was ripped open on his left side. A deep, ugly gash.
He touched it again. Hesitantly.
Not a penetrating wound. A long, shallow laceration.
Sharp. Like he'd been scraped against something.
Or someone.
He remembered the slick, alien surfaces. In the void.
He closed his eyes. Tried to breathe.
He was in an alley. Dying. Or close to it.
He opened his eyes again. The light was fading. Evening.
He heard sounds. Distant traffic. Muffled voices.
This was a city. A real city.
Not the sterile white room. Not the fake apartment.
He pushed himself up further. Leaned more heavily on the dumpster.
Pain flared. He stifled a cry.
He needed to move. To hide.
He couldn't be found like this. Not with a dead man.
He looked around the alley. Narrow. Littered.
Garbage bags. Broken bottles. Scrawled graffiti.
He saw a faint light at the end of the alley. A street.
He tried to stand. His legs were weak. Uncooperative.
He pushed harder. Grunted.
He managed to get his feet under him. Stood. Swayed.
The world spun. He gripped the dumpster. Held on for dear life.
He felt lightheaded. Dizzy.
He pressed his good hand against his bleeding side. Applied pressure.
He took a tentative step. Then another.
Each movement was agony.
He shuffled forward. One slow, agonizing step at a time.
He kept his eyes on the light. The escape.
He heard a sound. A scuttling.
He froze. Looked around.
A rat. Fat. Bold. Scrambling over a pile of trash.
He watched it, mesmerized.
Then, he heard something else. Closer.
Footsteps.
He snapped his head up. Pain lanced through him.
Someone was coming into the alley. From the street side.
He ducked behind the dumpster. Pressed himself against the cold metal.
Held his breath.
The footsteps grew louder. Heavy. Deliberate.
He heard a sniff. A grunt.
A shadow fell over the alley entrance.
He risked a glance. Peeking around the edge of the dumpster.
A man. Large. Broad.
He was wearing a tattered trench coat. A filthy baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
He carried a large, overflowing garbage bag over his shoulder.
A homeless man.
The man shuffled further into the alley. Still grunting.
He stopped. Right by the dead body.
Ethan held his breath. His heart pounded.
The homeless man dropped his bag. It landed with a soft thud.
He knelt down. Beside the dead man.
Ethan watched. Frozen. Waiting.
The man reached out. Not to check for a pulse. Not to call for help.
He reached for the dead man's wrist.
Then, with surprising speed, he yanked.
A glint of metal. A watch.
The homeless man smiled. A flash of yellowed teeth in the dim light.
He pocketed the watch. Then started patting down the dead man's pockets.
Ethan felt a cold dread. A sick understanding.
This man wasn't here to help. He was here to pick clean the corpse.
The homeless man found a wallet. Pulled it out. Flipped it open.
He whistled softly. A low, appreciative sound.
He started pulling out bills. Stuffed them into his own pockets.
He paused. Looked up. His gaze swept the alley.
Ethan ducked further behind the dumpster. Tried to become one with the grime.
The homeless man didn't seem to see him. He went back to his work.
He pulled off the dead man's shoes. Unlaced them quickly.
Then his jacket. His shirt.
Ethan watched, horrified. Disgusted.
This was the reality he had landed in. A brutal, uncaring one.
He had to get out. Before the homeless man found him.
Before he decided Ethan had something worth taking.
He took another slow, painful step away from the dumpster.
Towards the other end of the alley. The darkness.
He had to be quiet. Silent.
He moved inch by agonizing inch. His muscles screamed.
His side throbbed.
He heard the homeless man whistle again. A different tune this time. More jaunty.
He was still rummaging.
Ethan reached the end of the dumpster. He could see the dark opening.
The other street.
He started to shuffle faster. A desperate, limping run.
He made it to the mouth of the alley. Stumbled out onto a sidewalk.
The noise of the city hit him. Harsh. Loud.
Blinking neon signs. Honking taxis. The roar of buses.
People. Crowds of them. Flowing past him.
He was back in the world. A real one.
He was a bleeding, disoriented mess.
He leaned against a lamp post. Gasping for air.
He looked back into the alley. The dark mouth.
The homeless man was gone. Or hidden.
He didn't care. He was out.
He looked at his hand. Still bloody from his side wound.
He needed help. A hospital.
But he couldn't go to a hospital. Not like this.
Not with a dead man still in that alley.
He was a suspect. A murderer. Again.
His mind flashed back to Sarah. Her still body.
No. He couldn't think about that.
He had to keep moving.
He pushed himself off the lamp post. Started walking. Or trying to.
He moved with the crowd. A ghost. Unseen. Unnoticed.
He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his chest.
His breath hitched. He doubled over.
He gripped his sternum. Felt a searing hot ache.
Not his side. His chest.
He stumbled. Collided with a man in a business suit.
"Hey! Watch it, buddy!" the man snapped.
Ethan mumbled an apology. Pushed past him.
The pain intensified. Radiating through his chest.
He felt something wet. Under his shirt.
He pulled aside the torn fabric. Looked down.
A dark stain. Spreading rapidly.
He gasped.
It wasn't his old wound. It was new.
A fresh gash. Across his chest.
Deep. Bleeding freely.
He looked at his hands. They were clean. He hadn't touched it.
How?
He felt a sudden, cold terror.
He lifted his shirt higher. Looked at the wound.
It was impossibly straight. Clean. Like a surgical incision.
But ragged at the edges.
And in the very center of it, a tiny, almost imperceptible...
Hum.
He staggered backward. Bumping into another pedestrian.
"What's wrong with you?" a woman barked.
He ignored her. Stared at the wound.
The hum intensified. A low thrum.
And then, from the depths of the gash, a tiny, metallic sphere began to emerge.
Slowly. Oozing with blood.
It was black. Shiny. The size of a marble.
And it was vibrating.
He watched, horrified, as it pushed its way out of his flesh.
He felt no pain from it. Only a strange, cold pressure.
It was almost out.
He could see its full shape now. Perfect. Spherical.
And then, with a final squelch, it popped free.
It rolled down his chest. Bounced off his hip.
And landed on the grimy sidewalk.
Ethan stared at it. His breath caught in his throat.
The sphere pulsed. A faint, internal glow.
He heard a distant siren. Getting closer.
He looked up. Saw the flashing blue and red lights.
They were coming for him.
He looked back at the sphere.
It rolled a few inches. Then stopped.
It clicked.
And then, from its perfectly smooth surface, a miniature lens extended.
It swiveled. Pointed directly at him.
A faint, almost imperceptible red light blinked on.
He stumbled backward. His mind reeling.
What was that thing?
He heard footsteps. Running. Getting closer.
They were shouting.
He didn't understand the words. Just the urgency.
He looked around desperately. Nowhere to go.
The alley. Too far.
The crowd. Too thick.
He looked at the sphere. Still watching him.
The red light pulsed.
"Freeze!" a voice boomed.
He flinched. Looked up.
Three figures. In uniforms. Identical to Operative Seven.
Visors. Dark. Impenetrable.
They were pointing weapons at him. Sleek. Black. Unfamiliar.
"Hands where I can see them!"
He raised his hands. Slowly. Painfully.
His eyes darted back to the sphere.
It pulsed faster.
He heard a faint, high-pitched whine. Coming from it.
One of the figures took a step forward. His weapon raised.
"Do not move, Mr. Cole."
Ethan opened his mouth to speak. To ask. To scream.
But before he could, the sphere on the pavement pulsed one last, violent time.
And then, it erupted.
Not with an explosion. But with light.
A blinding, impossible white light.
It engulfed him. Burned his eyes.
He screamed.
He felt himself being torn. Apart.
Pulled. Into the light.
He heard the operatives shout. Heard the whine of their weapons.
But it was too late.
The light consumed him.
He was gone.
He felt something sticky. Wet. On his face.
He tried to move. To push himself up.
Couldn't. His body wouldn't obey.
He opened his eyes.
He wasn't in white. Or black.
He was in an alley. Damp. Grimy.
The stench of garbage. Urine.
Above him, a hazy yellow sky. Smoggy.
And at his feet, splashed across his pants, was a puddle of...
Blood.
His own blood. The thought hit him. Then the pain.
A searing fire in his side. A dull ache in his head.
He coughed. A dry, hacking sound.
He tried to push himself up again. This time, a grunt escaped him.
His left arm buckled. He fell back onto the cold, wet asphalt.
He stared at the blood. Dark. Viscous. Spreading slowly.
It wasn't just on his pants. It was a pool. Under him. Around him.
He touched his side. His fingers came away slick. Warm.
He looked up. The hazy sky. The grimy brick walls.
This wasn't where he was supposed to be.
He remembered the white room. Operative Seven. The black void.
The hands. Cold. Hard. Pulling him.
He heard a groan. Not his own.
He flinched. Tried to turn his head.
His neck protested. A sharp jab of pain.
He saw a shape. Beside him. In the gloom.
Another body.
Closer. He strained his eyes.
A man. Face down. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles.
He felt another wave of nausea.
This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.
He pushed with his good arm. His right.
He managed to raise his head a few inches. Held it there. Trembling.
The man was wearing a suit. Dark. Expensive.
And the back of his head was… gone.
A crater of blood and bone.
Ethan gasped. His breath hitched.
He lowered his head. His stomach churned.
He recognized the blood. The same dark, viscous pool that surrounded him.
It wasn't his. Not all of it.
He had fallen on top of this man. This dead man.
He pushed himself up again. Gritted his teeth against the pain.
He had to get away from the body. From the blood.
He crawled. Dragging his left side.
Every movement sent a fresh jolt through him.
He reached the relative safety of a dumpster. Leaned against its cold, greasy metal.
He was shaking. Violently.
He looked back at the body. The grotesque tableau.
He was clearly dead. Splattered.
What had happened? How did he get here?
The black void. The hands. Where had they taken him?
And who was this man?
He looked down at his own clothes. Torn. Bloodied.
His shirt was ripped open on his left side. A deep, ugly gash.
He touched it again. Hesitantly.
Not a penetrating wound. A long, shallow laceration.
Sharp. Like he'd been scraped against something.
Or someone.
He remembered the slick, alien surfaces. In the void.
He closed his eyes. Tried to breathe.
He was in an alley. Dying. Or close to it.
He opened his eyes again. The light was fading. Evening.
He heard sounds. Distant traffic. Muffled voices.
This was a city. A real city.
Not the sterile white room. Not the fake apartment.
He pushed himself up further. Leaned more heavily on the dumpster.
Pain flared. He stifled a cry.
He needed to move. To hide.
He couldn't be found like this. Not with a dead man.
He looked around the alley. Narrow. Littered.
Garbage bags. Broken bottles. Scrawled graffiti.
He saw a faint light at the end of the alley. A street.
He tried to stand. His legs were weak. Uncooperative.
He pushed harder. Grunted.
He managed to get his feet under him. Stood. Swayed.
The world spun. He gripped the dumpster. Held on for dear life.
He felt lightheaded. Dizzy.
He pressed his good hand against his bleeding side. Applied pressure.
He took a tentative step. Then another.
Each movement was agony.
He shuffled forward. One slow, agonizing step at a time.
He kept his eyes on the light. The escape.
He heard a sound. A scuttling.
He froze. Looked around.
A rat. Fat. Bold. Scrambling over a pile of trash.
He watched it, mesmerized.
Then, he heard something else. Closer.
Footsteps.
He snapped his head up. Pain lanced through him.
Someone was coming into the alley. From the street side.
He ducked behind the dumpster. Pressed himself against the cold metal.
Held his breath.
The footsteps grew louder. Heavy. Deliberate.
He heard a sniff. A grunt.
A shadow fell over the alley entrance.
He risked a glance. Peeking around the edge of the dumpster.
A man. Large. Broad.
He was wearing a tattered trench coat. A filthy baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
He carried a large, overflowing garbage bag over his shoulder.
A homeless man.
The man shuffled further into the alley. Still grunting.
He stopped. Right by the dead body.
Ethan held his breath. His heart pounded.
The homeless man dropped his bag. It landed with a soft thud.
He knelt down. Beside the dead man.
Ethan watched. Frozen. Waiting.
The man reached out. Not to check for a pulse. Not to call for help.
He reached for the dead man's wrist.
Then, with surprising speed, he yanked.
A glint of metal. A watch.
The homeless man smiled. A flash of yellowed teeth in the dim light.
He pocketed the watch. Then started patting down the dead man's pockets.
Ethan felt a cold dread. A sick understanding.
This man wasn't here to help. He was here to pick clean the corpse.
The homeless man found a wallet. Pulled it out. Flipped it open.
He whistled softly. A low, appreciative sound.
He started pulling out bills. Stuffed them into his own pockets.
He paused. Looked up. His gaze swept the alley.
Ethan ducked further behind the dumpster. Tried to become one with the grime.
The homeless man didn't seem to see him. He went back to his work.
He pulled off the dead man's shoes. Unlaced them quickly.
Then his jacket. His shirt.
Ethan watched, horrified. Disgusted.
This was the reality he had landed in. A brutal, uncaring one.
He had to get out. Before the homeless man found him.
Before he decided Ethan had something worth taking.
He took another slow, painful step away from the dumpster.
Towards the other end of the alley. The darkness.
He had to be quiet. Silent.
He moved inch by agonizing inch. His muscles screamed.
His side throbbed.
He heard the homeless man whistle again. A different tune this time. More jaunty.
He was still rummaging.
Ethan reached the end of the dumpster. He could see the dark opening.
The other street.
He started to shuffle faster. A desperate, limping run.
He made it to the mouth of the alley. Stumbled out onto a sidewalk.
The noise of the city hit him. Harsh. Loud.
Blinking neon signs. Honking taxis. The roar of buses.
People. Crowds of them. Flowing past him.
He was back in the world. A real one.
He was a bleeding, disoriented mess.
He leaned against a lamp post. Gasping for air.
He looked back into the alley. The dark mouth.
The homeless man was gone. Or hidden.
He didn't care. He was out.
He looked at his hand. Still bloody from his side wound.
He needed help. A hospital.
But he couldn't go to a hospital. Not like this.
Not with a dead man still in that alley.
He was a suspect. A murderer. Again.
His mind flashed back to Sarah. Her still body.
No. He couldn't think about that.
He had to keep moving.
He pushed himself off the lamp post. Started walking. Or trying to.
He moved with the crowd. A ghost. Unseen. Unnoticed.
He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his chest.
His breath hitched. He doubled over.
He gripped his sternum. Felt a searing hot ache.
Not his side. His chest.
He stumbled. Collided with a man in a business suit.
"Hey! Watch it, buddy!" the man snapped.
Ethan mumbled an apology. Pushed past him.
The pain intensified. Radiating through his chest.
He felt something wet. Under his shirt.
He pulled aside the torn fabric. Looked down.
A dark stain. Spreading rapidly.
He gasped.
It wasn't his old wound. It was new.
A fresh gash. Across his chest.
Deep. Bleeding freely.
He looked at his hands. They were clean. He hadn't touched it.
How?
He felt a sudden, cold terror.
He lifted his shirt higher. Looked at the wound.
It was impossibly straight. Clean. Like a surgical incision.
But ragged at the edges.
And in the very center of it, a tiny, almost imperceptible...
Hum.
He staggered backward. Bumping into another pedestrian.
"What's wrong with you?" a woman barked.
He ignored her. Stared at the wound.
The hum intensified. A low thrum.
And then, from the depths of the gash, a tiny, metallic sphere began to emerge.
Slowly. Oozing with blood.
It was black. Shiny. The size of a marble.
And it was vibrating.
He watched, horrified, as it pushed its way out of his flesh.
He felt no pain from it. Only a strange, cold pressure.
It was almost out.
He could see its full shape now. Perfect. Spherical.
And then, with a final squelch, it popped free.
It rolled down his chest. Bounced off his hip.
And landed on the grimy sidewalk.
Ethan stared at it. His breath caught in his throat.
The sphere pulsed. A faint, internal glow.
He heard a distant siren. Getting closer.
He looked up. Saw the flashing blue and red lights.
They were coming for him.
He looked back at the sphere.
It rolled a few inches. Then stopped.
It clicked.
And then, from its perfectly smooth surface, a miniature lens extended.
It swiveled. Pointed directly at him.
A faint, almost imperceptible red light blinked on.
He stumbled backward. His mind reeling.
What was that thing?
He heard footsteps. Running. Getting closer.
They were shouting.
He didn't understand the words. Just the urgency.
He looked around desperately. Nowhere to go.
The alley. Too far.
The crowd. Too thick.
He looked at the sphere. Still watching him.
The red light pulsed.
"Freeze!" a voice boomed.
He flinched. Looked up.
Three figures. In uniforms. Identical to Operative Seven.
Visors. Dark. Impenetrable.
They were pointing weapons at him. Sleek. Black. Unfamiliar.
"Hands where I can see them!"
He raised his hands. Slowly. Painfully.
His eyes darted back to the sphere.
It pulsed faster.
He heard a faint, high-pitched whine. Coming from it.
One of the figures took a step forward. His weapon raised.
"Do not move, Mr. Cole."
Ethan opened his mouth to speak. To ask. To scream.
But before he could, the sphere on the pavement pulsed one last, violent time.
And then, it erupted.
Not with an explosion. But with light.
A blinding, impossible white light.
It engulfed him. Burned his eyes.
He screamed.
He felt himself being torn. Apart.
Pulled. Into the light.
He heard the operatives shout. Heard the whine of their weapons.
But it was too late.
The light consumed him.
He was gone.