Derek Barton's Blog, page 29

Lost Within the Trees…

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Are you ready to step out of the inky shadows, march down the twisted path and stride boldly into the shining sunlight?

In other words, your first novel has gone through a dozen  rewrites and you’ve made all the adjustments recommended by your book critiques (either from professionals or beta-readers) –  so what exactly is your next move?

Well, be prepared!  Not only will you have to sell your work of art, but it is now time to sell YOU!

M A R K E T I N G

Ugh… That word alone causes an immediate case of cold shivers down the spine to most of us new indie writers.  I know that I had no real idea what to do.  Even up through today, I am still looking out for new ideas, original techniques or alternative options to get my book and my name out there.

Now questions you will need to ask yourself are:

what are your expectations with the marketing?
what are your resources?
what are the outcomes that you want and are they realistic?

If your expectations are to get immediate sales and fame, that’s not too likely.  I am seeing that many writers have to play a slow game of “If I write it, the readers will come… eventually.”

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Word of mouth and a variety of original works will gain you a loyal fan reader base.  If you appeal to different types of readers that can also help grow your share of readers.

What about your resources?  Are you financially able to invest in your work?  Can you afford to market or advertise?  Everyone’s budget varies of course and there is no set answer on that.  Just because you throw a ton of money at the wall will not guaranty success, but on the other end if you don’t put anything into getting your name out there, you run the risk of being obscured in the blur of thousands of new published books every year.  Another new name among a mountain of new names.

The outcomes or the payoff for all this marketing can bring you readers or it can also bring you some new opportunities.  I haven’t seen any true financial boost (yet!), but that could be an option.  Marketing is a gamble and it’s a gamble on you and your writing. When you decide what you want to do, you also have to decide what is going to satisfy you.  You are investing time, money and your own name for the sake of your story. On what level do you say that your marketing has been successful and fulfilling or at what point do you stop, redirect your efforts?  Those are answers you will have to work out yourself.

Personally (and I always try to share with you the avenues I took that worked or didn’t work for me), I researched a lot online, read a ton of blogs, bought multiple books for marketing and strived to figure out what I felt I could do, afford and what I wanted from all of this.  Sure I want thousands of readers and the life of a famous writer (why not?!), but that is a lofty goal for a lifetime not a goal for just one book from a first-time indie writer.

I don’t have the money for commercials or making Youtube ads, but maybe you do and that can be an option for you.  Again, investing and marketing is a unique path for each person.

By the way, the biggest mistake the experts are saying that newbies make is paying to have their book reviewed by a site or company.  There are tons of ways  to get your work reviewed for free — just means you will be doing a lot of emailing or posting (begging) readers, family or friends to write them for you. Or you can make arrangements with beta-readers — send them a free book for a promise of a book review.  Why big push for review and feedback?  Reviews will sell your book on Amazon and other sites.

The best advice and the most stated advice I have seen is to utilize Social Media outlets and make sound uses of them!

Get your name, profile, bio and blurbs about your books on each of these sites:

Facebook (business author page)
Twitter
Linkedin
Goodreads
Amazon Author page
AND MAKE YOUR OWN AUTHOR WEBSITE/BLOG

These will get your name, face and books in front of thousands of readers.  Will these viewers all immediately want to read every word you have written?  No, of course not, but it will reach a lot more than you’d be able to do on a daily basis by yourself.

Make good use of them by posting often about your work, give samples for readers to read of upcoming work or from published works already available for sale, share inside views of what it takes to produce your writing and be sure to announce where you are going to be for book signings.

One tip I followed recently that has paid off pretty well for me was Book Giveaways.  On Goodreads.com, I posted a Goodreads Giveaway for a few signed books and this has generated a ton of interests in not just readers wanting free books, but I have over half the contest entrants placing my book now on a “want to read” list.

Another outlet for me will be book signings and comicon appearances.  This is a fantastic way to get media on you (nothing is more exciting than seeing your name on an event website as a “guest appearing author”!) and it’s an easy way to meet fans and build an honest and lasting fan base.

If reaching out and sharing your story is the most important goal for your writing then you have to do the hard work of getting that attention.  The amount of effort you put into your marketing will be a key factor in your own success.

Likely you went down the road of self-publishing like I did because you didn’t want to waste any more time waiting for some literary agent or traditional publishing house to give you, “an unknown”, a chance.  In these times, it probably just doesn’t make “business” sense for them to market you…  Is that fair?  NO!!  Is it the world?  Yeah… at least for now.

And because you have decided you aren’t going to wait for them, that means that you are the Marketing Department.  You are responsible for it all.  Now get busy!

Hopefully, I have cut down on some of your own marketing research and given you some helpful direction.  Some of this may be obvious or maybe some of this might be the spark you needed.  Either way, I wish you all the luck and blessings in your endeavors into the Murky Forest of Marketing!

 

One Thousand Questions…

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As I stated in my last blog, After You Have Climbed The Mountain…, I wanted to share some of the lessons I have learned about self-publishing and some factors to watch out for and consider how to deal with.

You finally have gotten your manuscript to its glorious, untouchable near-perfect state with edit after edit, beta-readers and even professional reviews (if you have taken my advice and gotten a professional copy editor).

Now what?

At this point you have to decide what direction you will want to take and who you are going to involve with your great work of art.

You may not realize just yet, but you will have a lot of questions ahead that you must take some time with and you will need to make some definite decisions. There are many paths you can take, but the good news is, I didn’t find that there are “wrong” answers to the following questions. I found that there are just different experiences and outcomes you can have with your various choices.

Here is the list of some of the critical questions that we can get into and work through together:

Who is going to design your book’s cover art?
Are you going to seek out local artists?
Are you going to seek out professionals?
Are you going to do it yourself?
What do you want as a cover?
Are you going for an actual scene from your book?
If so, which one and which one do you use that won’t give away too much of your story and/or mislead the readers?
Which publishing site am I going to use?
Do I want to use more than one?
Am I going with Amazon/Createspace first?
Or am I going with Nook (Barnes&Noble) first?
Do I sell my work through Kindle?
Do I want just ebooks or do I also want actual hardbound or paperback copies?
If I want the actual product in hand, how much do I order?
Do I have the money to invest?
Do I have a place to keep the inventory?
How do I sell my work?
What price line do I shoot for?
Do I give my work away free at first?
Do I do contests, advertising and/or giveaways?
What are some of the best ways to market and get my name out there?

I didn’t lie to you when I said that you have many considerations ahead. And NO, I do not have all the best answers and the best techniques. I just have my own experiences and results to share with you.

So going in order of the questions presented I will share my experience and what I decided.  Hopefully, this will give you even more insight and information to which you can make your own choices.

Who is going to design your book’s cover art? Are you going to seek out local artists? Are you going to seek out professionals? Are you going to do it yourself?

I really lucked out here. My cover art for Consequences Within Chaos was designed by a good friend Daniel Thomas of Dark Art Komics, who is also a professional comic book/graphic novel artist. You can check out his work here: Daniel Thomas — Dark Art Komics.

Before Daniel reached out to me, I went with a site you might have heard of called Fiverr.com.  I won’t say outright that this was a bad idea. For anyone who is not familiar with it, the site is set up to offer low cost solutions for editing, cover book art work and many other services from all over the world. Most of their representatives offer $5 packages or higher value deals for their work. I tried it as I am always dirt poor and wanted to see just what $5 cover work I would get.

The artist that I selected asked in email for what I was looking for. I detailed that my novel centered around a royal family in a medieval fantasy prepping for an oncoming war. What I got back was comical if not tragic. She sent me a cover with three soldiers silhouetted in black in a field holding what I am guessing were sub-machine guns. Insert #faceinpalm here! As I stated above, this site I am sure works for some and I am sure if you went with a higher value package you could “get what you pay for”.

Anyway, I know that not everyone knows an artist or has that sort of connection that I just happened to have. In my own research, I found some articles on the web that offered some other possible good resources to find your own cover artist. You could check out the local colleges to search for student artists that might work with you on a cheap basis. You could also go on to websites like Craigslist and advertise for an artist. Or you might go on web forums and speak with other writers to see who might be able to offer you a direction or a lead.

One thing to keep in mind is that you need to be flexible with what you are looking for, be patient and take some time to know what you would like to use on your cover.   The more details you can offer the artist the better. Having several options in mind would also be a good idea. Remember that your cover is your “first impression” with the reader and it definitely has to be eye-catching and stand out, especially when you are competing with thousands of other new books that come out each year.

The biggest lesson to learn for new and first time writers is that there is still a lot of work to do with the novel after you have completed writing it. I have only scratched the surface of the questions I have presented to you, but I will go over more in my next blog.

I will submit to  you as a self-published novelist, that this ride is so worth the work and effort. Take the time to think of your options as this is your baby.  Dress her up nice!

You are in for a helluva ride and an exciting experience. And it will get even easier the next go-around. PROMISE!

One-Thousand Questions…

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As I stated in my last blog, After You Have Climbed The Mountain…, I wanted to share some of the lessons I have learned about self-publishing and some factors to watch out for and consider how to deal with.

You finally have gotten your manuscript to its glorious, untouchable near-perfect state with edit after edit, beta-readers and even professional reviews (if you have taken my advice and gotten a professional copy editor).

Now what?

At this point you have to decide what direction you will want to take and who you are going to involve with your great work of art.

You may not realize just yet, but you will have a lot of questions ahead that you must take some time with and you will need to make some definite decisions. There are many paths you can take, but the good news is, I didn’t find that there are “wrong” answers to the following questions. I found that there are just different experiences and outcomes you can have with your various choices.

Here is the list of some of the critical questions that we can get into and work through together:

Who is going to design your book’s cover art?
Are you going to seek out local artists?
Are you going to seek out professionals?
Are you going to do it yourself?
What do you want as a cover?
Are you going for an actual scene from your book?
If so, which one and which one do you use that won’t give away too much of your story and/or mislead the readers?
Which publishing site am I going to use?
Do I want to use more than one?
Am I going with Amazon/Createspace first?
Or am I going with Nook (Barnes&Noble) first?
Do I sell my work through Kindle?
Do I want just ebooks or do I also want actual hardbound or paperback copies?
If I want the actual product in hand, how much do I order?
Do I have the money to invest?
Do I have a place to keep the inventory?
How do I sell my work?
What price line do I shoot for?
Do I give my work away free at first?
Do I do contests, advertising and/or giveaways?
What are some of the best ways to market and get my name out there?

I didn’t lie to you when I said that you have many considerations ahead. And NO, I do not have all the best answers and the best techniques. I just have my own experiences and results to share with you.

So going in order of the questions presented I will share my experience and what I decided.  Hopefully, this will give you even more insight and information to which you can make your own choices.

Who is going to design your book’s cover art? Are you going to seek out local artists? Are you going to seek out professionals? Are you going to do it yourself?

I really lucked out here. My cover art for Consequences Within Chaos was designed by a good friend Daniel Thomas of Dark Art Komics, who is also a professional comic book/graphic novel artist. You can check out his work here: Daniel Thomas — Dark Art Komics.

Before Daniel reached out to me, I went with a site you might have heard of called Fiverr.com.  I won’t say outright that this was a bad idea. For anyone who is not familiar with it, the site is set up to offer low cost solutions for editing, cover book art work and many other services from all over the world. Most of their representatives offer $5 packages or higher value deals for their work. I tried it as I am always dirt poor and wanted to see just what $5 cover work I would get.

The artist that I selected asked in email for what I was looking for. I detailed that my novel centered around a royal family in a medieval fantasy prepping for an oncoming war. What I got back was comical if not tragic. She sent me a cover with three soldiers silhouetted in black in a field holding what I am guessing were sub-machine guns. Insert #faceinpalm here! As I stated above, this site I am sure works for some and I am sure if you went with a higher value package you could “get what you pay for”.

Anyway, I know that not everyone knows an artist or has that sort of connection that I just happened to have. In my own research, I found some articles on the web that offered some other possible good resources to find your own cover artist. You could check out the local colleges to search for student artists that might work with you on a cheap basis. You could also go on to websites like Craigslist and advertise for an artist. Or you might go on web forums and speak with other writers to see who might be able to offer you a direction or a lead.

One thing to keep in mind is that you need to be flexible with what you are looking for, be patient and take some time to know what you would like to use on your cover.   The more details you can offer the artist the better. Having several options in mind would also be a good idea. Remember that your cover is your “first impression” with the reader and it definitely has to be eye-catching and stand out, especially when you are competing with thousands of other new books that come out each year.

The biggest lesson to learn for new and first time writers is that there is still a lot of work to do with the novel after you have completed writing it. I have only scratched the surface of the questions I have presented to you, but I will go over more in my next blog.

I will submit to  you as a self-published novelist, that this ride is so worth the work and effort. Take the time to think of your options as this is your baby.  Dress her up nice!

You are in for a helluva ride and an exciting experience. And it will get even easier the next go-around. PROMISE!

After You Have Climbed The Mountain…

 

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Back in July when I first created this site and began to delve into writing blogs, I stated I also wanted to “share the wealth” of what I experienced and learned in my own journey into self-publishing. This is the first in my series of doing just that: giving you the readers a behind-the-scenes look into the steps involved and the resources that are out there.

The first step without a doubt is the most crucial and difficult task ahead: your manuscript. This is the main reason you are even writing after all and this is the focus point of every reader, editor or publisher that comes across your work.

Why you ask is the manuscript the most difficult part? Besides the obvious fact that you will want a compelling, provocative work that leaves your readers breathless and wanting even more. It is a top priority because there are so many working parts and a multitude of intricate details involved that have to be precise.

What I mean by that is if you want to be taken serious as a writer and by the industry, be trusted by your readers and/or fans, you have to produce value as well as art. Your manuscript cannot be riddled with mistakes, typos or grammatical errors.

Not only will your error be an eye-sore that some readers will not be able to overlook or forgive, it automatically defeats the very purpose of what you are doing: immersing the reader into your world.

If the reader comes across an error or typo in your prose, it is more likely that instead of continuing to read, that they are spending their time deciphering what you actually meant or determining what the real word you were wanting to use. In other words, instead of being right beside your hero as he paces in indecision in front of the creature’s lair and the reader is wondering whether your hero will brave the shadows ahead and face possible horrific death, a giant hand comes down snatches them right off the land of fantasy and right back into their grim desk chair of reality!

I spent three years off and on writing my first book, Consequences Within Chaos. However, when I was at the end, I quickly found out that this was not the conclusion I expected! No, what I faced was a ton of work ahead in editing and proofreading. It was as if I had struggled up the side of a huge mountain only to face a vast ocean on the other side before I could get home.  In fact, I spent another two years editing and reworking my book. Every time I thought “okay, now I am ready to have this sucker published!” I would find or a beta-reader would find an ugly, glaring error.

The main reason we as writers are not able to see these pesky word-gremlins ourselves is due to the fact that we are too emotionally tied to the work. We are blind to the little flaws of our work just like every parent feels unconditional love and pride in everything our own children accomplish. We know what we meant even if we didn’t actually convey it correctly on the page. Our brains fill in the missing words or even corrects the spelling in our minds so fast that we are literally just smart enough to get ourselves into trouble!

What can be done to fight this dilemma?  The best advice is to have it done by a trusted professional.

Is it cheap? NO WAY! The industry standard is relatively around $.02 to $.04 a word.

Will this prevent you from tarnishing your reputation, save you embarrassment and give you that polished, professional story?  Yes.

What if you are like me and on an extremely tight budget? Then you have to be prepared to do whatever it takes to have a clean manuscript and a work that you can be proud that your name is on. As I said, it took me two years of several full revisions, a lot of work with other writers (trading books for review), several rounds of beta-readers and tons of research and studying writing craft articles.

I am very pleased and happy with my work, but in complete honesty, I am also aware that I would have saved time and effort using a professional editing service. I am currently developing my sequel which I fully intend to submit to an editor this time.

There are certain elements to self-publishing that you can work on a DIY model, but there are other elements that truly require dedicated professionals. This is just one of the lessons I have learned and I am passing along here.

IN FOUR DAYS (Saga Three — FINALE)

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DAY FOUR…

It is time for you two… She will be pleased with your innocence.  Come; this will be over soon.

The shadowy figure hovered in the air in front of Bethany and Rory.  Darkness writhed alive and twisting all around his chest and obscuring his neck, but his legs and ugly green work boots could be seen dangling a few feet above the ground.  Both of the children had their heads bowed and didn’t react at all to his words.  They followed obediently behind him when he turned and floated down the tunnelway.

Cortnie stood dumbfounded in shock by the sight of the ghoulish apparition.  Before when he had attacked them in the elevator, she had rationalized and decided it had to be some crazed man.  Then after the security guard had disappeared, she secretly bought into Mr. Phelps theory that the despicable Sharp Brothers had somehow rigged this whole stunt.  The security officer was probably just a paid actor.

But… he is here and REAL!  Drifting in the air.  He doesn’t even know I am watching from in here!  Her mind screamed at her.  And now,  he has the children.

She shook her head, clearing away the fuzziness.  Her head ached, even felt swollen and drowned within her terror.  The nightmare of this mine had up-ended her world of order and logic.  Somehow she had fallen into someone’s mushroom acid trip. Nothing felt right, nothing felt safe since she stepped onto the Regis Shaft elevator platform.  In spite of the stuffiness of the mine’s stale air, the skin along her arms goosebumped and ice ran in her veins.

Carol, the fourth grade teacher and Cortnie had been searching together the tunnel that went east per the map that Billie had found.  On pure reflex, the tour guide had raced ahead after hearing the children’s voices.  Carol had not been able to keep up and the two had been separated.

Suddenly the silence in the tunnel was interrupted by a desperate wail from the little girl.  It echoed ominously all around her.

“Oh shit, the girl!”  She barked at herself, angry for standing so long in thought and letting the bastard take them.

“HEY!”  Carol cried after her — she had just caught back up to her and had walked into the tunnel entrance when she spotted Cortnie springing into action.

“He’s got them!”  She yelled over her shoulder as she disappeared again into another black hole.

“Wait up!”

Cortnie didn’t waste a response and plunged along blindly.  The walls cut into her hands, the rocks poked and scraped her fingers.  The very faint footfalls of the children ahead and the occasional sounds of rocks being stepped on were her only guide.

In the depths of the mine and under tons of rock and dirt, she experienced the exact opposite of claustrophobia.  She felt lost, distanced from everything, swimming above a bottomless pit.  It was as if the world stretched in all directions away from her. Swallowed whole and alive in the belly of the Foxworth Mines, she ignored her fear as much as possible and ran along  its intestines.  She couldn’t get closer to the Phelps children; just only able to keep up.

A crash of wood and metal and a brief shriek somewhere buried far behind her in the abandoned mines, Cortnie heard what she presumed was Carol falling and falling hard evidently by the cries that followed.  She paused for a second and considered going back for the woman.  Helpless, alone and injured would be a nightmare trauma for anyone to go through.  However, the image of the two children with their heads bowed flashed in her mind.  Shaking her head, she resumed her chase.  Children must come first.

She pushed on for several more minutes when the charcoal curtain in front of her eyes grew a shade lighter.  It could have been her imagination, but she thought she detected an emerald green light ahead.  Whatever it was, it spurred her to move even faster.  Along with the literal light at the end of the tunnel, she heard a noise… a machine?… humming subtly.

The tour guide skidded in the gravel along the path. Standing stock still, she tried to make out the actual source of the sound.  Was it the creature perhaps?

She took several steps forward and the rhythm increased, rolled over her like thunder as it became more audible.  Barely noting that the ground had softened under her feet and that the wall she had groped to lead her here had fallen away, she found herself inside a massive cavern.  A muted, greenish glow filled the room.

Two short shadow figures stood with their backs to her.

“Rory?  Bethany?   Children, come here.”  She spoke out loud.  Her quivering  voice was slightly louder than a whisper, however, in this tomblike chamber,  it sounded to her like a scream.

You will find no children here.  A husky female voice filled her head.

The figures broke apart and blended with the rest of the darkness.

“Who-who?”

The rhythmic machine noise had also changed.

Cortnie thought at first it was her own heartbeat.  The sound of her heart echoing loudly in her ears.

No… wait!  She realized that it was a heartbeat. But it’s not mine — the whole room is filled with that pulse!

Twin blazing eyes of fire opened a few yards before her.  Her screech of disgust and horror caught in her throat.   A female face was illuminated by the inferno orbs.  It was puffy, grotesquely misshapen and split by a wide, malicious smile.

A wave of skittering commotion surrounded her, the noise rushed at her from all directions.

GOTCHA!

The mouth tore open and an eruption of white slime spewed out and washed over her.  She struggled helplessly beneath the glue-like globs as the liquid coursed down her body.  Her weight shifted off balance and her body crashed to the ground.  Hundreds of pale, yellowish spiders awaited her and swarmed over her.

A throaty laugh filled the cavern.

As the tiny mass of insects began to drag her deeper into the underground grotto,  Cortnie strained to scream for help…

Plea for her life…

Breathe…

 

“We are golden, boys!  I’m telling you — Golden!   Did you see that thing?  If we can capture that creature on film, we will nev–”

A series of painful screams rang out somewhere far away in the mineshafts and interrupted Brett’s ranting.

The three ghost hunters stared at each other, wide-eyed.  Billie and Dominic were near-panic and frozen with their mouths open.  Brett had dollar signs bursting from his eyes and the biggest shit-eating grin upon his face.

They were alone and had been trekking along the western path that Brett had chosen.

“That sounded like that Phelps woman.” Dominic whispered.

“Awww man!  Dominic, why aren’t you filming?”

“We are out searching for kids, remember?  This isn’t time for the show.”

“Whoa!  Wrong!  Don’t you get it?  What’s more perfect than if we film us finding and rescuing those punk brats?”

Dominic could only continue to gawk at the pompous ass.

“None of that matters now.” Billie whimpered as he stared down at his wristwatch.

“What?”

“It’s 1:18 am.  We are running out of time!”  He dropped to the floor and hugged his knees.

“For crying out loud, Bill.  You are really buying this crap?”

“Sherri sent him after us!  She told me, ‘In four days’ and now this!”

Fury replaced the dollar signs as Brett’s cheeks reddened.  “Not now!  I am not having this talk again.  I am warnin–”

“–Who’s Sherri?  What is he talking about?”  Dominic cut in.

“She came back!  She came to me in-in a nightmare,” the young kid stuttered, sobs shaking his shoulders.  “She’s going to make us pay for what we did to her.  Maybe for everything we have done, Brett.”  He looked up at his older brother, misery etched into his normal happy face.

Brett had his fists balled up and were digging into the sides of his hips.  He was at a loss for words.  Finally, he said through clenched teeth, “Billy, if you say another word, I swear to God, I will have to kill Dominic.  DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

The threat sat in the air, hung over their heads like a swinging axe blade.

“You shouldn’t have killed her.”

Dominic watched intently as the older Sharp brother’s arms dropped and his shoulders slumped.  Billy had just called Brett’s bluff for the first time in his life and had blurted out their secret sin.  He balled up his own fists at his side, ready to defend himself.

Brett Sharp slowly lifted his head up and locked eyes with Dominic.

“It…it wasn’t supposed to ever get that far,” He said aloud, the tone of his voice flat and distant.  “One night we were bored, drunk and horny.  I called up an old friend of Dad’s and the next thing I knew, we had an escort to share.”  He shrugged his shoulders.

Billy added, “After I’m done, he likes to rough them up a bit before his turn.  You know kind of like we were playing Good Cop/Bad Cop.”

“Brett, how long has this been going on?”  Disgust and disbelief dripped from his words.

“Since the Philly Morgue Episode.  But, I swear, man.  Sherri was the only…uh, well, the only one who fought back so hard.  It pissed me off.  And, I hurt her.”

“You killed the girl!”  Dominic spat back at him.

“Yes.  But this dumbass thinks she’s come back from the dead to have us killed.  Like some Supernatural Judge Judy has passed sentence on us.  Of all people, Billy, we know that ghosts don’t kill.”

“And yet, here we are.  That thing on the elevator did say it will get us within seventy-two hours.”

“Look, Dominic.  I get it — you are pissed and angry and frightened, but let’s not go off the rails here.  After this, Billy and I won’t ever hire another girl. Promise.”

“After this?”  He scoffed in anger.

“Yeah, swear it to you.  Look, if you need some money to forget all of this, my fath–”

Billy sprang from his position and sent a rocket uppercut into his chin.  Brett slammed shoulder first into a cart and sprawled onto some half-buried rail tracks.

“I HATE YOU.  I HATE WHAT YOU HAVE TURNED ME INTO.  WE DESERVE ALL OF THIS!”

Brett rolled over with a groan, blood flowing from a broken front tooth.  He gazed groggily up at his kid brother.

All three of their cell phone alarms rang as one.  Their two hour search was over.

 

 

Almost another hour later, the three men cautiously approached the Regis Shaft’s main chamber.  They could hear a wheezing sound.

“No, no, dear.  It’s okay.  But maybe you could get me that bottle of water over there.”  The voice of the elderly Mr. Gerard floated down the tunnelway to them.

He continued to wheeze as they entered.  The man’s legs were sprawled out before him as he laid up against one wall.  His clothes were torn and soaked heavily with blood on his right side.  The petite eight-year old Bethany was wiping a damp cloth over his forehead, cleaning some of the coal dust from his forehead.

“OH!  Good…there you are.  I wasn’t sure if anyone else was alive.” He said when he spotted them.

“What do you mean, alive?  Where’s everyone?”  Brett snapped at him.

“That creature… the Shade.  He’s gotten most of the others I believe.”

Billie glanced at Bethany and she looked away, a fresh sob in her throat.

“He came for Bethany’s parents and us — Mr. Menneck and I.  He—” Gerard suddenly coughed and had to spit to clear his throat. “Sorry.  It’s the coal dust that’s affecting my asthma.  Anyway, Mr. Menneck tried to fire a gun which I guess he had strapped to his leg.  He fired right at him, but somehow the bullet ricocheted and hit her mother in the head.”

He paused and then pointed at the blood on his shoulder and down his shirt.  “This isn’t mine.”

An awkward silence fell over the group.

“Where’s your brother, Bethany?”  Dominic finally asked.

“Something — I think it was a big dog — grabbed him before I could get him back here.”  She sniffled and brought up the back of her hand to wipe across her face.

Brett sighed heavily, brought up his own hand to touch his fattening upper lip gingerly.  “What of that bitch tour guide and the other lady?  Oh, and how did you escape?”

“Like I said, I am not sure if there are other survivors.  We haven’t seen anyone since we made it back about twenty minutes ago.  I was unlucky and lucky; fell into a pit as the bastard’s, uh, tentacles came at me.  Bethany found me and we managed our way here.”

“Jesus!” Billy whimpered.  “I wish we never came down here.”

A thought sparked in Dominic’s mind.

Could she be?  A partial idea and fleeting hope bloomed in his head.  The others watched intrigued as he suddenly jogged across the room to the elevator platform and rifled through their bags.  Stuffed into the last of the equipment bags was one last camera.

He switched it on and took a deep breath before looking into the view finder.

YES! 

The little, dirty trapper girl stood before him like she had previously in the mansion.  She nodded to him and tilted her head to the right as she stared at him.  Her neck appeared to be broken in several places.

“Is there a way out?” he asked aloud.

Again she bobbed her head at him; it rocked back and forth in a sickening, slack motion.  She raised his left hand and waved for him to follow her.

He lowered the view finder and found the others grouped around him.

“What are you doing, Dom?” Billy whispered to him.

“I cannot explain it, but after what we have all seen tonight, I don’t think I should have to.  A Trapper girl keeps appearing in my cameras and now she is going to show us the way out.”

Gerard nodded, “Lead on.  We have to get out and bring back  help for the others.”

Dominic glanced back into the finder to see that the girl waited for them along one passage — the same eastern shaft that the tour guide had taken.

As they trailed after her, she would pop off the screen and then reappear further along in the tunnel.  They followed in this fashion only a few minutes before she stopped and pointed to a wooden chest, partially buried in rubble and layers of coal dust.

Another message in red blinking letters flashed on the screen.  He was not going to ignore it this time.

YOU WILL KNOW WHEN TO USE THE FLARES

The trapper girl disappeared and didn’t pop back on again.

 

 

 

The party of survivors — the Sharp brothers, Dominic, the old man and the little girl all stood at the base of twin wooden ladders.  They flanked on both sides of a massive ore chute which went at least four hundred feet up in a steep angle to another tunnel passage. The opening for the chute was caked and blocked with abandoned charcoal.  The eastern tunnel that they had trekked along for hours had led to this dead-end with the pine wood chute.

“It’s the only way we can go further.” Gerard argued.

“Yes, but this is not on the map,” Dominic complained.

Brett pointed his finger at him, “This was the route your girlfriend put us on.  You asked us to trust her and now you want to go back?  Where can we even go if we did go back?”

He dug into his back pocket and produced his own cell phone.

“Wait. What the hell?”  He held up his phone and the image showed only a blank shaft wall.

Billy and the other two scrambled to get their phones out.  The image was the same blank wall.

So easy for you to trust your technology.  So easy for me to lead you …  

The coarse voice filled the chamber.  The survivors ignited and exploded up the twin ladders in sheer terror.

Brett led his younger brother up the left while Dominic supported — shoved — Gerard and Bethany up the right side.

A high-pitch whistle could be heard below them.  It rang out and increased as frigid wind raced into the tunnel and up the ladders.  The sudden chill air blasted and rushed over them.  All of them stopped in their panic to stare down into the black maw of shadows encompassing where they had stood.  The tell-tale writhing shadows announced that he was coming for them.  Pieces of the chute and ladder were ripped free and the tempest was grew closer and closer.

“DOMINIC!”  Billy screeched as the ladder broke beneath his hands and feet.  He fell backwards, swallowed into the abyss.

Brett didn’t bother or hesitate to look back for his lost brother.  He just leaped forward trying to catch the last rung as his section of ladder gave way as well.  His scream could not be heard over the clamor.

Dominic paused to hug the rungs and yanked free the three miners’ flares he had salvaged from the trunk that he stuffed into his jean’s back pocket.  He struck the ends of the flares hard against the cut rock next to the ore chute.

Three showers of sparks exploded from the flares and like strob lights blinked in harsh contrast against the oncoming dark.

A horrific gasp and howl of rage bombarded their ears as the tempest of wind and living shadows escaped back down the ladders and into the mines below.

“YES! YES!!  GOT YOU, YA BAST—”  The ladder broke beneath Dominic’s feet.

 

 

The last of the 72: Isolation Investigations trio woke groggily and he stared  uncomprehending down at his shoes.  His feet were silhouettes against a faint, greenish light which came from below him.   Dominic thought he might be laying down, but yet he was also moving.

Am I on the deck of some boat?  He wondered in his mind.

It was rising up and then down and then back up again.  He couldn’t make any sense of it.

He tried to ask, but his mouth wouldn’t move.  In fact, only his eyes could move!

All around him was a mammoth chamber of silvery webs and myriad swarms of spiders.  He could hear the beat of a heart.  It’s rhythm a slow, constant cadence.  There were other heart beats… other heart beats that he could hear just under the first one.

As his eyes grew even more accustom to his surroundings, he wanted nothing more than to be blind again.

Beside him he could make out several arms and legs in the corners of his peripheral vision.

Then opposite from him, he saw a young Hispanic woman with long dark hair.  She was laying upside down.  A stranger and not one of the people he had been trapped with in the Foxworth Mines.  Her eyes were open and alert as well.  Yet, even in this low light, he could see the insanity and terror that swam freely in the depths of them.

Like Dominic, she was not able to move.  Her body was encased in a filmy, transparent substance and plastered to a wall.

Not a wall.  The mocking voice of the demon that had hunted them all night spoke in his head.

The horrible realization finally dawned on him:  the wall was segmented with many ridges and it expanded up and then down.  This wall was alive.

They were on the bloated body of an unimaginable worm-like monster.  He could further make out the shapes of sacs under its skin — misshapen embryos that were twisting and shaking inside them.

You and all of the others now serve Foshξmadæ, Demon Mother of Atrocities.  You are her and she is you.  You and the chosen sinners are forever her living corpse armor. 

A second voice bellowed inside his skull.

You will serve and protect my body for all eternity.

 

THE END

IN FOUR DAYS (Saga Three — Day Three)

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DAY THREE…

That voice.

It was the same voice from Billy’s dream.

When the elevator platform set down at the bottom of the Regis Shaft, Billy Sharp didn’t move.  He was frozen in terror and locked in dread.  The others panicked and scrambled for the metal-grid door.

“You are just having guilt, Billy-boy.”  Brett had chided him when he told him of the scare he had the night before.  They had just jumped into the van and were on their way to pick up Dominic at the hotel .

“NO!  I am telling you it was like she was right there in our hotel room again.  Sherri rose up from the sheets and her face…  All around her mouth, the skin started to sag and melt.  It dripped down her chin, her teeth showing through, her lips stretched out all weird.  She reached up at me and then moaned, ‘In four days, you will be with Her.’  I don’t even know what the hell that means.”

Brett laughed , “See!  That’s what dreams are like, man.  Everyone speaks in riddles, every object is supposed to be some kind of symbol or emotion.  Of course, you are going to have nightmares about her.”

He shook his head, refusing the simple explanation.  He mumbled under his breath, “I never dreamed of any of the others.”

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH!  RULE NUMBER ONE!”  He roared and yanked the steering wheel to the right, guiding the van over to the shoulder to stare at his kid brother.  He took a moment to compose himself and form his words carefully.

“We never really hurt the others… With Sherri, well, she was different.   It was an accident — nothing more, nothing less.”  He brushed his bangs back with his hand.

Billy turned and looked out the window, dropping the debate.

Now in the Foxworth Mines, his horrific vision was coming to life.

In four days , you will be with Her. 

You will be with Her in three days…

Dominic went back in and ushered him out of the platform.  The tourists and Brett were standing under a lit lamp, clustered close in one of the Shaft’s entrances.  The two kids were crying against their mother’s legs.

Finally, Cortnie broke free of the group and stood apart, facing them.  “Well, we cannot stay here folks.  Everyone check their phones and see if they have reception by some miracle.  We need to call for help.”

Dominic stated, “No reception on mine.”  Several others mimicked his response.

“We got to find a way out of here.”  An older man said.  He walked with a cane and had a slight limp.

“I am sure they had other exits, Mr. Gerard, but let’s see if we can get some help first.”

“This is bullshit!”

Everyone focused on the source:  Rory’s heavy-set father.

He had his arm around his wife’s shoulders, more possessively than trying to protect her.  “Yeah, that’s what I said.  You punks did this.  Should be ashamed of yourselves, scaring women and children like that!”  His voice got louder as the rant continued.

“What are you saying?”  Dominic asked.

“Mr. Phelps, this is not helping.”  Cortnie interjected.

“You trumped up this whole idea for your freak show.  We know what you do — it’s all gimmicks and effects.”

“Stupid asshole!” Brett hissed.  “I wish I had the budget for something like this.   Whatever that was, it wasn’t anythi–“

“–you went too far.  You crossed the line scaring my kids!”  Phelps dropped his arm off his wife and barreled into the crowd, charging Brett.  He caught him in his vice-like grip and plowed him back into a series of shelving.  The two wrestled as the others struggled to pull them apart.

None of them noticed Rory running away in the dark.  Bethany hesitated, struggled in indecision and then followed after her little brother.             `

Rory always hated times like this.  His father, Chuck Phelps, had an ugly temper and an even uglier tendency to scream and shout when “Things are to be done the right way or Hell is the price.”  He dealt out Hell’s punishment often on his wife and children.  As of late since he was in between construction contract and money was drying up fast, Rory and his older sister, Bethany, made themselves scarce.

Running and hiding had been Rory’s only answer to the tirades and beatings.  He raced blindly into one of the gloomy tunnels away from the adults.  Nothing would find him or hurt him if he could just find the perfect spot.

He was so intent and focused that he didn’t hear his sister call after him.  Bethany was scared of Mr. Boots and she was scared of her father like Rory, but she was more scared of losing Rory.  He wouldn’t answer so she trailed away into the mine after him.

Brenda wailed, not in anger, but a sobbing, grief-stricken moan.  “Where-where are they?  He’s got my babies!”

The fight ended immediately and the others twisted to look back at the middle-aged mother with straight, brunette hair and a thin, fragile frame.  She was crying into her hands.

“Gone. Gone. Gone .  Just like the guard.  Gone!”

She crumbled down to her knees and then fainted onto a set of rusted mine tracks.

The other adult female reached her first.  She cradled Brenda’s head in her lap as Cortnie gave her the clip board to fan with.  “Carol, use this to cool her down.”

Chuck cupped his hands, “BETHANY!  RORY!  WHERE ARE YOU?”

“Shit!  Stop that, man!  Do you want that thing to find us?”  Brett snapped.

Dominic glared back at the Sharp brother, “No, you shut up!  The man’s kids are out there by themselves.”

Mr. Gerard proposed, “We should split into teams and go look for them.  They are going to get hurt by themselves.”

“That is a bad idea.  We would all get lost then in these tunnels.”  The last tourist said bluntly.  He was an older Hispanic gentlemen with patches of grey at his temples and in his mustache.  “I saw something that said there are over a 100 miles–“

“–197 miles all under 1200 feet of earth and stone.” Brett interrupted.

Billy had been looking along the walls and shelves inside their tunnel for some lamps or any kind of torches but found something even better.

“Guys! Guys, look over here.”  He shouted to them.

They quickly joined the younger Sharp brother.  Etched into a floor-to-ceiling, copper plaque was the layout of the major tunnels and caverns of the Foxworth Coal Mines.

“Our phones may not get reception, but they can still take pictures!”  With that, Billy snapped a shot of the map. “We can go in teams to different tunnels or caverns and then meet back here in two hours.  Everyone take a picture.  OH!  And look there, once we get the kids back, there is a set of tunnels that lead out to a Bresswick Quarry.”  He pointed to two, descending and long twisting tunnels on the map.

“Carol, you and I will take this tunnel.” Cortnie volunteered, her finger traced along one easterly tunnel.

“We will go this way.”  Brett pointed to an opposite tunnel system.

“Then Anthony and I will escort the Phelps in this tunnel,” offered the elderly Mr. Gerard.

Cortnie held up her phone, “Everyone set their phones for two hours from now.  We will look and then rejoin here… in the Calvert Chamber when our alarms go off.  We can go into different areas then if we haven’t found them yet. Agreed?”  She gave Brett a very direct and telling stare.

“Yes.  Yes.” He answered her and brushed his bangs back.

The air was stale and hard to breath in, but Bethany knew she had to continue.  This was not safe at all.  Not just for the dangers of the mine — she had a vague sense of what those would be: getting lost, falling on something hidden in the shadows, even rocks falling from the roof possibly.  But it was the other danger she feared more.  She knew deep down that Mr. Boots could be hunting them.  She had no idea why or even what he would do to her, but she wasn’t going to let him get her brother.

She carefully walked along the coal mine tracks.  Some of the tunnels were lit with long strings of lights; others were pitch black and intimidating.  She could almost feel  something watching her from their entrances.  Her skin prickled, goosebumped with electricity in the air.

Bethany felt as if someone waited eagerly for her to come into their embrace inside the coal shafts.  She skirted quickly by those and stuck with the lighted tunnels.

“Rory!   Rory…  Come here, we have to get back!”  She called out.

Don’t.  Don’t call.  You will bring Him.

“Hello?”  She asked aloud in surprise.

She leaned over and peered deep into a tunnel branching off the to the left.  The entrance face was shrouded in shadows.  “Who’s there?”

There was no response, but her eyes seemed to pick up some minute movement.

“RORY?”

No.  You must turn back, go into the tunnel on the left side.

Bethany looked over her shoulder at the way she came.  Around the bend, she remembered another lit tunnel.  She chose not to go down that one because she saw several burned out light sections.

The young girl hesitated.  She may be the older of the two siblings, but not by much, and searching these tunnels alone had been the bravest thing she had ever done in her short life.

I will go with you. 

Bethany snapped her head back to find herself facing a small boy, dirty with charcoal smudges and greasy oil splotches on his overalls.  She shrieked and fell back against the rocky wall and sat down hard.

He slowly raised one hand and put a finger to his bluish lips.

I know the way.  I know where he is hiding.

“You–you won’t hurt us?”  Her eyes watered, she’d had scratched her back upon the rocks.

The little Trapper shook his head.

He walked past her without a further word.  Sniffling, she brushed off her jeans and ran to catch up with the boy.

“How did you get down here?  Are you lost too?”

The boy proceeded into the other not-so-well lit tunnel without responding to her questions.

Within another ten or so minutes and several twists and turns, they came to where two more tunnels branched off.  He stood with his arm outstretched and pointed down the right fork.  About a hundred or so feet inside, she spotted several abandoned, empty miner carts that were parked near the wall.

In the second car.

Taking the boy’s word, Bethany ran to it and peered inside.  “Rory?”

The little seven-year old had been curled up in a fetal position.  He blinked up at her.

“It’s okay.  Are you alright?”

“Am I in big trouble?” he whispered.

Sighing heavily, she held out her hand to haul him up and out of it. “Mom will just be happy to see us.”

“Not talking about Mom.”

It took all her strength to help him out of the tall cart.

“Thank you for finding my brother,”  she called out.  She circled about, scanning the tunnel, but no one was there.  The boy had mysteriously disappeared as silently as he had come to her.

“Who are you with?”

“I… I am, uh, not sure.”  She shook her head and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter I guess.  Give me your hand.  When we get back, just cry your head off and blame that Mr. Boots for making you scared okay?  That will stop Dad.”

“But it was hi–“

“–I know, but trust me.  This will be better.”

Before Rory could reply, from out of the shadows, something big and black bolted into them.  It knocked Bethany right off her feet and grabbed Rory by the collar of his shirt.

“NOOO!”  Bethany screamed after it as the black furry creature ran deeper into the mine tunnel carrying away her brother in its slobbering, canine jaws.

His cries and pleas of terror echoed after them.

IN FOUR DAYS (Saga Three — Day Two)

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DAY TWO…

“I will not stand aside for this!  We reserved the entire mines and th–”  Brett belted out as Dominic rushed in through the door.

“–You will lower your voice or this discussion will be over right quick and you can pack up your van and get lost.”  The grizzled security officer cut him off, looking right up into Brett’s face.  He even had the end of his flashlight out and held it at his side like a short baseball bat.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Billy said as he squeezed himself between the pair and herded his older, short-fused brother to a corner of the cavernous room.

They had been summoned to the West Wing of the Kennett Avery Manor and at its heart was the Regis Shaft Elevator room.  A caged platform 10 feet by 10 feet was connected to a huge wheel and pulley system with steel cabling as thick as a man’s leg.  The rest of the room was spacious, decorated with black and white tile floors, portraits on the walls of the mine’s history or important owners and even two table models of the Foxworth Coal Mine’s surrounding countryside.

A woman with long braided red hair, a white polo shirt with the logo Eastern Experience Tours & Adventures and a clip board stood quietly by the cage.  She stared at the guard and exchanged nasty glances with the Sharps.  When the brothers moved away, she stomped over to Officer McCutcheon and began her own tirade.

A family of four milled around one of the model tables while another three adults were gathered by some black and white pictures of the coal miners.  They were all pretending to be reading or looking at the displays and to not be paying attention to the small battle waging for the mine touring rights.  Dominic guessed this was the bus-load of tourists that had crashed their ghost party.

Brett shuffled around Billy and charged again at the old guard.  “We came here first!  What tour bus arrives in the middle of the night anyway?”

“Well, Miss Cortnie Sherman has explained that they had some delay due to engine issues on the road trip to here.”  McCutcheon explained.

“My papers are in order; this is not our fault and we are not about to turn around and go back to Philadelphia for nothing.”  The tour leader protested.

“We cannot have a bunch of people milling around while we are filming!”

Sighing aloud and then yawning, McCutcheon took the clip board from Miss Sherman and studied the papers.  “I don’t understand how both of your groups were booked.  Sheryl Lynn at the office is usually much more on top of things.  But… it would ruin what the boys here are trying for.”

Cortnie huffed in frustration; she was losing.  “Gentlemen,” she smiled sweetly at the Sharps.  “May I speak with you for just a second in private?”  She pointed over at the elevator platform.

Brett smiled back smugly.  He was preparing to charm or use his good looks to further press his advantage. “Alright, lead on.”  He glanced sidelong at his kid brother and chuckled as they followed after her.   Dominic tagged along.

When they stood alone by the machines, she moved between the brothers and put her arm around the pair’s shoulders.  She whispered, “You know what? I have had nothing but a real headache of a day and frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you are trying to do.”

“HEY–” Billy cut her off.

“–NO, you will listen to me!  I am not going to lose my investment for this trip nor am I going to let you soil our company’s reputation.  Now, you don’t know me and you probably don’t know my husband, but James, you see he’s the editor of The Philadelphia Patriot.  This concerns you because I know you two numb assholes from your television show and I know of your father.  Do you think your Senator daddy is going to like seeing press on how you made a spectacle of yourselves and you threw out honest, tax-paying senior citizens, a 4th grade teacher and a family of four off of a tour?”

The bluster and the haughty look had washed off of Brett’s face as he shook free of her embrace and he stared in disbelief at her.  She had taken his own leverage and spit it right back at him.  Dominic never thought he would see anyone get the better of him like that.  “Hey, you know guys, the mines are huge.  Why don’t we just go down there and split up?  Then there’s no way I am going to get them by mistake in the footage or sound bites.”

Billy shrugged his shoulders, he was open to the idea.  The entire room waited in silence for Brett’s answer.

He grimaced and then brushed back his bangs with his hand.  “Yeah, whatever.  Bitch ain’t worth losing the mine for.”

Cortnie’s eyes bugged out and her mouth dropped open.

“Sorry! Sorry ma’am!” Billy and Dominic shouted at once while Brett walked away and started gathering their equipment bags.

“He’s in a foul mood from the long road trip.” Billy continued to apologize.

She straightened her shoulders and muttered under her breath, “Sore loser.”   Sherman rejoined the security officer and called out for the tourists to gather with her by the platform.

Dominic could only watch and laugh at the whole debate.  He needed a bit of a comic break after the weird encounter at the bell tower.  He looked back at Billy and saw him counting out loud.

“What are you doing?”

“There’s a lot of us, man.  Us three, the guard, Miss Sherman, that family of four, the three others over there… that’s going to be tight on that platform with all of our gear.”

“We will be fine.  Besides do you think either of those two are going to let the other go down into the mines first?” Dominic nodded toward Brett and then Cortnie.

After ten minutes of arranging the bags and cameras, then squeezing in and assigning spots for all their bodies, the platform slowly lurched down into the dark shaft.

Ringing the top of the platform were six directional lights and then six more lit up the mine shaft below them.  The Regis Shaft was fifteen feet wide in circumference and cut out of solid limestone.  The temperature inside quickly dropped ten degrees.

“Bro, shouldn’t you be filming this?” Billy asked Dominic who was at the moment pressed into one corner.

Dominic was lost in thought, reliving his encounter at the bell tower.  He saw the child with the red, blinking words:  DONT GO DOWN.

Was she warning him or was it to prevent them from disturbing the mines, he wondered.  Either way, he had ignored her plea.

“You got jokes, Billy.”  Brett answered for him. “We will have to get it on the way back up.  Remember, no shots with the tourists.”

A boy about 8 years old or so, tugged on Billy’s sleeve.  “Can I go with you guys?  I want to be on your show.”

“Rory, shut up!”  Barked the boy’s father.  The man was heavy set and balding.  His cheeks and nose were pockmarked and pinkish — Dominic guessed from these features that the man was an alcoholic just like his own father.

“Uh… it’s okay.   Sorry, little man, but we hav–“

The lights on top of the platform suddenly grew brighter and then one by one burst, leaving only light coming from the bottom directionals. The platform shook and then ground to a halt.  Everyone held their breaths in fear that the entire elevator was about to plummet into the dark below.

Creaking and groaning, the platform continued to sway a tiny amount back and forth in the shaft.

Finally, McCutcheon hauled out his flashlight.  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s going to be okay.  Sorry about this.”  He focused the lamp on the platform’s top directional lamps.  “I will try and use my radio to reach the…”

His voice trailed off as an odd whistling and rustling sound came from above their cage.  It sounded like the flapping a kite or a flag makes in strong winds.  It grew louder as it approached — something was falling towards them.

BLAM!!!

When a pair of heavy, brown work boots hit the top of the cage, everyone inside screamed.  Nothing beyond the soles of the boots could be made out in the gloom of the shaft.  Grey-green mud oozed and dripped through the grill of the cage roof.

McCutcheon continued to try and use his flashlight to shine on the person above the boots, but the shadows seemed to block his attempts.

A gravely, hoarse voice called out, “You will be with Her in three days…”

A young girl, a year or two older than her brother, squealed and squirmed in terror against her mother’s leg.

“Who is that?  You son of a bitch!  What are you doing?  Did you stop th–”  McCutcheon cursed aloud, still angling his light at the bottom of the boots.

“–Three days…  Or you might say, seventy-two hours.”  The stranger chuckled. “It is good that the two of you brought so many others for Her.”

“GET OFF OF THERE!” The security guard screamed back in anger.

“Yes, yes… You will do fine for the first then.”  The gravel voice replied as all the lights burst as one along the bottom of the platform plunging everyone in a tomblike darkness.  Even McCutcheon’s flashlight winked out.

Slithering and skittering sounds whispered to them as they felt tendrils brush against their skin, crawl along their shoulders and hair or wrap around their arms and legs.  Muffled screams filled the chamber and echoed along the shaft.  Metal started to grind loudly and vibrations rocked the platform.  After only five minutes but what seemed infinity, the platform stopped rocking and the animated dark seemed to die away.

Suddenly the elevator resurrected and it continued their descent into the shaft of the Foxworth Mines.

At the bottom of the cage, up against a camera bag, McCutcheon’s flashlight blinked alive again.

There was just enough light to now see blood splattered along its handle as it rested near a foot and a half wide hole torn through the metal flooring.  Exactly above in the cage’s ceiling was a matching hole with grey-green ooze dripping down its sides.

McCutcheon was no longer among them on the elevator.

IN FOUR DAYS (Saga Three — Day One)

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DAY ONE…

At 4:22 pm, Brett Sharp’s black and silver Nissan Accenta swung sharply into the hotel parking lot and skidded in the gravel.  Painted on the side of the van, the neon green logo “72: I.I.” flashed in the dying light of the evening.

From the radio inside, a news anchor droned on, “While it has not been officially ruled out, police have not confirmed or denied that there was a possible prison break.  No actual body has been recovered, yet the Philadelphia’s Medical Coroner’s office has reported that given the amount of blood recovered at the scene, it leads them to believe that Khirov Boulos would not survived the–“

“–You are cuttin’ it close, aren’t you?”  Dominic complained as he bent down and grabbed his camera equipment bags.

“Shhhh!  I want to hear this!” Brett snapped back at him.

“Unnamed resources stated this morning that he was a person of interest in another case agains–“

Stepping out from the passenger side door, Billie Sharp joked, “I think he faked it.  Or maybe they faked it to throw off any attempts to get at him.  Probably eating tax-payer-paid-for steak right now in some witness protection gig.”

“You assholes just hurry and load up the back.  I want to get there before 7:30.”

Dominic, a skinny Hispanic twenty-year old, muttered choice words in Spanish under his breath.  Billie held up his finger to his lips.  “He’s in a mood,” he whispered to him as the pair grabbed the remainder of the equipment and the trip supplies.

As they sped away from the Super 8, music replaced the news on the radio. Dominic felt it was safe again to speak.  “So how did you score this one, Maestro?  No one has ever investigated the Foxworth Mines.”

Brett smiled a big, toothy grin back at him.  He loved having his ego stroked. “Well, I floated the name to Sampson in Production at Station 14.  Reminded him that Ratings Week was coming up just next month and that this could have some nice sizzle to it.  He took it and like magic, here we are.”  He used his fingers to smooth his blond bangs to the side then scratched at his thin beard scruff.

Dominic knew the Sharp brothers long enough to know their “tells”.

“Bullshit!”

“Wha-what?”  Brett scoffed.

Dominic just locked eyes with him, showing his own toothy grin.

“Alright.  Yeah.  Bullshit.  Pops wants me to attend some function of his next month.  Think it’s another voter meet-and-greet.   Told him I would only if he got me in the door at the Foxworth.”

Billie gawked at him.  “Really?  You leveraged Dad?”

Brett just shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I don’t care.  This is going to be big, boys!  This might be the episode that launches 72: Isolation Investigations nationally.”

Now the young kid gawked at Dominic.  “Yeah, you think?”

Dominic studied the younger brother for a second.  He had known the pair for about three years; since their party days at Kappa Alpha Psi at Drexel University.  While he liked Billie immensely more than the older brother, Brett was the brains of the trio.  It was Brett’s drive and their father’s connections that got them their gigs across the states.   72: Isolation Investigations had filmed so far fourteen episodes in haunted locals ranging from abandoned hospitals to luxury hotels.

Tonight would be the first time ever that they would lock themselves in a mine for seventy-two hours.  That was the show’s hook — isolated, they would conduct marathon investigations with no interruptions.  All three days captured on Dominic’s cameras and edited on his laptop.

“You don’t know about Foxworth, Billie?”

“Isn’t it just a coal mine?”

“No, it’s more.” Brett jumped in. “Twelve years ago, it was shut down after a cave-in and they lost a whole mining crew of fourteen men.  But even before that, the mine was notorious for accidents and tragedies.”   He leaned over and shut the radio off.

“They say it’s cursed due to having slaves build the tracks and then they were worked to death inside the tunnels.  Then there is the Trapper kids.”

“Trapper kids?”

“In the early 1900s, young children were used to open up trap doors inside the mine tunnels, allowing the coal carts in and out.  This prevented gas build up.  However, every so often a kid would up and disappear or die mysteriously.  They say it’s the child spirits that haunt Foxworth and the Kennett Avery Manor.”

Brett took over again and broke out into his narrator tone — the same one he used when speaking history to the camera.  Billie and Dominic both ridiculed and mocked Brett’s “Speaker-Mode” when he wasn’t around.  In a deeper baritone voice, “There’s an elevator platform that goes straight to the bottom of a shaft called the Regis Shaft which runs 1200 plus feet down.  The tunnels run east and west approximately 197 miles total.  At the top, housing the entrance to the Regis Shaft sits the Kennett Avery Manor.”

“Stop that shit, Brett.  I don’t even have the camera rolling.”

“It’s information you should know!” He snapped, glaring in the rear view mirror at him.

They didn’t talk much the rest of the three hour road trip.  The Foxworth was just outside the small burg, Cranson, Pennsylvania.

At 7:48 PM they parked at the security post.

Security Officer McCutcheon took their papers and then led them to the front, double doors of the manor.  It loomed three stories high and stood imposing over them in the gloom of the moonlight.

“Take this,” McCutcheon handed Brett a walkie-talkie.  “Just signal me when you are ready to go into the mines.  I am required to escort you.”  The senior citizen guard had a permanent scowl upon his grizzled face.  “And mind what you touch in there!”

With that he spun on his heels and stalked off back to the his cramped guard shack.

Billie teased, “You always make such loyal fans wherever you go, bro!”  He paid for it with a sharp elbow jab to the ribs.

Inside, the Kennett Avery Manor was exactly what the trio expected and yet nothing like they had ever experienced.  The air was electric and oppressive.  The rooms were immense with high, cavernous domed ceilings.  Shadows and patches of complete darkness obscured the furniture and paintings on the walls, but it hinted at lots of doors and long hallways.  Brett had already instructed that before their arrival to have all the lights turned off so they could go immediately into investigation upon entering the building.

Dominic hauled out his main camera from his equipment bag while the Sharp Brothers positioned themselves next to a dual stair landing.  Once the camera powered on, he gave them a three-finger count down.

On one, Brett grinned at his audience, “It is that time again, when we, the Sharp Brothers make another ground-breaking step into the Unknown — the Other Side — for you.  Tonight on 72: Isolation Investigations we are pluming the depths of the infamous Foxworth Coal Mines.”

Billie led in, “In these 72 hours, we will explore the blood stained Kennett Avery Manor that rests on top of the Foxworth and then travel in her bowels that trave– “

“–CUT!  Bowels?  Really, Bro?”

“I thought it wou–“

“Let’s just skip the intro for now.  I want to go explore this place already. This is freaking amazing and my legs and back are stiff as shit from sitting anyway. Billie, why don’t you try to use that time to pull your head out of your ass and think of better lines than what a drunk Rod Serling would have used.”

The kid dropped his eyes to the floor, his shoulders slumped.

Dominic deflected for him.  “I want to get into that bell tower I saw that they built over the elevator shaft.  I bet I can get some pretty cool landscape shots too from up there.”

The brothers turned together in sync and took the steps leading up the right stairwell.  It was absolute dead silence except for their footfall echoes.  As they ascended to the second floor landing, Brett halted abruptly and spun around to look at them.  His eyes were wide and he held up his hand, then pointed at the camera.

Once Dominic nodded that they were recording, “Listen. ” Then Brett cupped his left ear and leaned toward the stair’s railing.  From the ceiling a series of three chandeliers were hung.  The back chandelier was slowly rotating counter-clockwise on its own accord.

“I can hear the gems clinking together.” Billie whispered to the camera.

Dominic tightened the view and zoomed in closer to capture the movement and sounds of the chandelier.  After a few seconds it slowed to a stop.

Brett clapped Billie on the back good-naturedly, “You see that?  This is going to a fun night of nights, bro!”

In ten minutes they found a series of narrow stairs leading up possibly to the bell tower.  Other than the chandelier activity, nothing else had presented itself.  They gathered before the door.

“Dominic, since you want some sky shots, you lead the way.  I am going to go last and try to use the recorders to scan for EMFs.”

“Hey, Dom, maybe use the FLIR Thermal Camera up there too?  See if anything is wandering above the grounds.”  Billie suggested.

He nodded, but he was more puzzled by Brett’s proposal to look for Electromagnetic Fields.  Nothing was powered on and the mines had been shut down for an extensive period.   They normally would use the EMF Readers to disprove paranormal activity — high EMF numbers could make you dizzy or even make the hairs on your skin stand up.  Little reactions that people tended to account as “ghosts”.

As the door to the bell tower opened, a wave of icy air flooded the room.  The trio literally froze in their tracks.

Brett took his cue, “Hello?  Hello?  My name is Brett Sharp.  This is my kid brother, Billie and our camera man, Dominic.  We are not here to hurt you or push you out. ”  He paused waiting for any response; all three of the men held their breath.

“If anyone is here with us, can you give me a sign?  Maybe knock on something?  Are you one of the miners or one of the children that lived here?”

Nothing.

The art of the ghost chase was to be patient, be determined yet respectful.  They found that they had much better responses taking things slow and not push their presence onto whoever might be still around.

“I am going to come up now unles–”  Dominic started to announce.

A door directly behind Brett shook in its frame and the handle squeaked as the door opened a few inches.  No one dared to speak.  The trio slowly shifted to look back at the door.

A soft rap of four knocks.  Tap Tap Tap Tap…

“Are you one of the Trapper Kids?”  Billie asked.

Tap Tap Tap Tap

They smiled at each other.  The camera was getting all of this and it was a spectacular paranormal occurrence.

“We are not here to hurt you.  Can you tell me–“

“–Damn!” Dominic cursed.  “The camera’s battery just went dead.”

“Pop in the backups.  You know the drill.” Brett barked at him.  Battery drains were also a very common supernatural signal.

Dominic backed down the hall away from the brothers, hoping they could keep the encounter alive.  He switched the cameras out versus taking time to reload the batteries.  As the camera came on and he peered into the viewfinder, a child’s face stared back up at him and three words in red flickered across the screen.

DONT GO DOWN

He flailed backwards and threw the piece to the floor.

“WHAT THE HELL?” Brett screeched in rage and the brothers ran to their camera man sitting on the floor.

“I saw…”

Billie picked it up and looked into the view finder.  He saw nothing abnormal.

Brett knelt down next to him.  “Yo, Dom.  You gotta pull it together.  This is too big.  You cannot blow it now.   You cool?”

Before he could answer , Brett’s walkie-talkie blared alive.  “Gentlemen, are you there?”

It was Officer McCutcheon’s gravelly voice.

“Yes!” Brett answered.  He was near irate at the interruption.

“Seems we have a bit of a mix-up.  There’s a tourist bus here.  Their paperwork shows their reservations and that they are also set to spend the weekend here too.”

“Be right there.”

Dominic was left a few seconds alone in the room when the Sharps abruptly left.  His eyes were wide in terror, looking everywhere at once.  He felt eyes upon him too and the shadows crawling in around him.  Cautiously he lifted up the camera and looked into the view finder once more.

The child was still there, standing before him, staring up into his camera intently.  It was a little girl with short choppy black hair.  The words in red came back as well.

DONT GO DOWN

DONT GO DOWN

Dominic bolted away.

In Four Days (Saga Two – Day Four)

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DAY FOUR…

“Pretty chicken shit attempt at killing a cop!”  I screamed down at the dead silent semis parked beneath the fire escape.  “Still sitting on your asses in there after doing a crap job?  You guys must be union!”

Nothing.  No response.

They were serious enough to try and run me over so if they caught me now, I knew I wouldn’t be leaving the lot alive.  I couldn’t see inside the windows, but I felt watched all the same and it was creeping me the hell out.  It was crazy and stupid, but I had to taunt them.

Anything to see who was behind this.  Anything to get some sort of response.

Finally after an hour or so of waiting and bellowing insults, I gave up versus waiting for the drivers to reveal themselves or to come find me.  My leg was swollen twice its normal size, but I had decided to work my way down into the building somehow.  Using an broken antenna like a crutch, I dragged and limped my way toward a small stair shack at the center of the roof.  It was locked of course.

Hidden behind the shack, however, were two rows of broken skylights inset into the roof.

Below in faint light, I could make out empty storage racks and bins for spare truck parts which took up the majority of the room.  I dropped the makeshift antenna crutch inside.  Then I hauled myself through the remnants of one skylight and hung down from the frame getting as close to the top of the racks as possible.  The jump was going to kill me — my leg was already screaming.  But what choice did  I have?

A unearthly shriek escaped me when I landed.  I curled up into a ball, grinding my teeth trying to ride out the waves of agony.

Several minutes went by where consciousness would fade and then become excruciating crystal clear.

“I am going to break YOUR hands, Khirov, when I find you!”

It was about 9:00 PM when I felt alive enough to search for either Khirov or a way out of the building.  My night was going to end with me in the hospital at the very least.

Several similar rooms made up this gutted warehouse, filled with piles of filth, spraypaint mosaics of profanity and gang signs and various emptied offices.  It took me forever to limp snail-speed across the vast emptiness of the building.

The largest room appeared to be the dock with four garage sections.  Semi tires were stacked everywhere, barrels of unused oil towered in two corners and several empty semi trailers lined the western wall.

Faint light peeked out from under one trailer’s doors.  A shadow moved inside and I could make out a male voice humming.

“You son-of-a-bitch.”  I muttered to myself.

Khirov had after all found himself a nice little campsite.

Careful to not make any sound, I leaned up against a dirty work bench and retrieved my spare Glock that was tucked in its leg holster.  I glanced up in the air and did the invisible sign of the cross across my chest, praying that the weapon was not damaged by the semi when it hit me.

Creeping up onto the trailer, I gripped the handle on one of its doors and leveled the gun.  With deliberation, I slowly opened the door.

Khirov was sitting with his back to me, on his knees facing one corner and murmuring a prayer chant of his own — I waited and watched him.

When he finished, he spoke aloud, but didn’t move.  “Thank you for not stopping me, Detective.”

“I should shoot you in the back for what your buddies did to my leg!”  I snapped.

“What?”

“Just get up against that wall.  I am taking you in.”

He shook his head no and pleaded with his eyes.

I motioned with the gun in the direction of the wall.

“I am alone.  I didn’t have anybody here to hurt you, I swear!  But, the jin–“

“–SHUT UP ABOUT THE STUPID JINN!  GET AGAINST THAT WALL RIGHT NOW!”  I was done with his nonsense.

His shoulders dropped and he sighed aloud.  “You don’t understand.  I have to hide.  If he find me, it means my soul.  I know this.  You have to see that I am telling you the truth.”

Anger fueled me and even buried my pain as I crawled up into the trailer.  I shuffled over to him and shoved him hard face first into the wood of the trailer.  He didn’t put up any real resistance and I clipped my handcuffs on his wrists.

I shouted over his shoulder into his ear, “You have the right to remain silent and for the love of god, shut your face!  You have the right to seek…”

In unison, both trailer doors swung together and closed in a deafening bang.

Then tiny black smoky tendrils swirled from under the door and crept closer.  It was like the shadows were alive and writhing.  We could only watch paralyzed where we stood.

Khirov had placed a tiny electric lantern in the corner near his wornout sleeping bag.  Its light swelled and grew intensely bright in spite of the advancing shadows.

POP!!  It exploded in tiny sparks.

We were in pitch black.  In the dark with the tendrils!

I could only hear his breathing and mine, both were shallow and fast.  I yanked his arms higher up on his back, pressing him harder into the wall.  Despite what I saw, I didn’t want to believe my eyes.

“Don’t even think this little magic trick of yours is going to work!”

He began an annoying whine, trying to convince me he was scared.

Before I could shout another word, I was hauled off my feet and thrust into the air.  I crashed into the roof and felt its cold metal dig into my back.  The breath was stolen from my lungs.

I hung in the air completely helpless, pressed to the ceiling.

Then… something, no, someone sniffed right in front of my face.  Sniffed the air a couple times.

Not enough sin. Not yet.

The words rang out in my head.  They weren’t spoken aloud.

Khirov screamed in terror.  I can hear him scuffle and wrestle with something below me.  His efforts finally stop.

Someone laughed and said, “Your last days are ending fast.”

Then he whispered,”Waqalat ‘annaha sawf yakun lakum fi waqt qarib.”

Khirov whimpered.

My watch’s alarm suddenly came alive marking the 12:00 AM hour. I fell back to the floor hard.

In spite of my pain and fear, I focused enough to search my jacket pocket for a pen flashlight.  It seemed to take eternity to locate it. I kept expecting to hear Khirov run down the length of the trailer and escape or worse have him and his buddy run over to me and attack me while I am vulnerable on my back.

The light clicked on only to reveal Khirov shuddering and curled up in the corner.  I twisted to look back at the trailer doors.  There was no snaking shadows coming from the crack of the doors and no one standing there laughing or sniffing.  The only thing in the trailer is green-grey muck.  A trail splattered all the way to where we had stood. The trail smells like old rot.

“What did he say to you, Khirov?”

“He… He-he said, ‘She will own you soon.'”

“That was the shaytan jinn wasn’t it?”

He only shook his head yes.

“I am going to take you now.”

“You still are?” He screeched at me.

“I am.  I will take you where there are hundreds of men with you at all times.  A place where other men will be armed and who will keep a constant watch on you.  Do you understand?”

“Oh oh yes!  Please!”

It took us two more hours to get me to a station that opened early for work commuters and to call the police and an ambulance.

To this day, I will never forget the icy touch of those tendrils or the smell of the mud that was splattered inside that trailer.

That evening around 9:30 PM or so, two uniformed men came in followed by a suit.  Surprise, surprise — it turned out to be our good friend, Agent Jonathan Driggs with a set of folders in his hands.

“Hello again, Detective.”  He smiled smugly, but his eyes flashed with irritation.

“Well, I found our lost buddy, but I am not sure all this was worth it.”

The agent parked himself in a chair next to my hospital bed. “Where is he?” He barked at me.  All humor set aside.

“The patrol took him to booking first and then I imagine by now to SCI Chester.”

Driggs leaned over and clapped his fingers around my leg cast.  He glanced at me with raised questioning eyebrows.

“What?” I asked.  I couldn’t believe he was actually threatening me.

He stared into my eyes for a few seconds and then sat back into his chair.  He had held out a folder for me.

“Khirov Boulos was taken to SCI Chester as you stated at 8 PM this evening.  At 8:45 PM, Warren Blaylock, Boulos’ cell mate suffered a seizure and taken to the infirmary–“

“–OH SHIT! KHIROV WAS ALONE?”

“Detective Ellis, what do you know?  Where is he?”

“I… I don’t know anything.  I just…”  I opened the file.  Inside were pictures of a jail cell. Or at least it could have been.  Or it could have been the floor boards of a killing floor in a meat packing factory.  The pictures were of splattered blood from floor to ceiling.

“A guard had checked on Boulos at 10:10 PM and saw him kneeling and praying by his bedside.  At 11:20 PM, inmates started shouting for guards when the cells below him were being flooded with blood.  There was no body, no video of anyone entering or leaving the cell, no tracks.  Nothing, but just a stupid chain wrapped around the bars of the door.”

“Chain?”

“Yeah, a silver neck chain with an engraved hand or something on it.”

“The Hand of Fatima.”

“What?”

“It’s the Hand of Fatima.  She’s the daughter of the Prophet Moh–“

“–Damn it, Ellis!  What do you know?  Where is he?”

I had no answers.  I still don’t.

‘She will own you soon.’  

 And, I am positive I do not ever want to find out what that meant.

 

In Four Days (Saga Two – Day Three)

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DAY THREE…

“No.  No, Khirov has not reported in or garaged his car today.  Hold on and I will radio him to see where he’s at.”  The Bright Day Cab Dispatcher set the phone down hard onto his desk and followed up by the sound of a cup shattering upon a floor.

“Aww, dammit!  I don’t have time for this,” he grumbled aloud.

After the call from the hospital in the middle of the night, I had decided to go in early into the station.  It was time to get to the heart of what was the real story behind the cabbie’s encounters and find out just what was he hiding.  And from the sound of it Khirov Boulos may just have gone underground and off the grid.

“Yeah, sorry… uh, Detective Ellis.  He’s not answering.  You need me to get him a message?”

“That’s alright.”  I hung up.  Khirov had already gotten my message.

“YOU ASSHOLE!  I AM BEING HUNTED!”   He had screamed at me before.  

Perhaps I had pushed him too hard — thought he was on the verge of telling me, but now I was going to have to chase him down too.

However, that would require some more information.  I decided that I would put the name into our records database to see what might come up.  Right now I had no leads and no real idea of who Khirov was or where he’d come from.

KHIROV JAMAL BOULOS

The screen blinked back at me for a few seconds and then:

KHIROV JAMAL BOULOS
 Age 34
Address:  747 E Vine St.  Philadelphia, PA  19124. 

CHARGES AND CONVICTIONS: 
Misdemeanor Assault & Battery April 9, 2002.  Sentenced to 2 years due. Served 1 year 2 months (released due to overcrowding). 
Check Fraud February 21, 2006.  Sentenced to 1 year.  Served full sentence due to minor infractions inside PICC (Philadelphia Industrial Corrections Center).

I reviewed more of the notes on those cases, but they seemed incidental and although they did reveal that Khirov had a violent streak, these did not seem connected.  Nothing substantial came up until… I came across a “secured file”.  That normally meant Open Investigation and were for those only with the right and need to know.

I did gleam a tad more information.  One, it had been recently created — as of November 7, 2015 — and two, it had been secured and classified under the authority of a Special Agent Johnathan Driggs of the State Department.  “Now this just got interesting.”

A half hour spent navigating through all the State Department’s red tape and “let me get you to the right person” calls, I was patched through to the actual extension of Agent Driggs.

“Hello, Detective Ellis.  What can I do for you?”

“For starters, do you have an actual phone number I can call for you directly?  You know, in case I might need to follow up with you?”

“No.  There won’t be any follow up.  You have my time now and only now, officer.”

Condescending much?  I thought to myself.

My actual words were, “Alright, in that case, I will be specific and I hope you can give me specifics back.  I am investigating a cab driver and oddly enough your name appeared with his files.”

“My name in reference with a cab driver?”  he scoffed.

“See, that’s my puzzle.  This guy is offgrid now and I thought perhaps you had some insight to where I might find him since you are somehow connected.   How familiar are you with the name Khirov Boulos?”

Silence at the other end.  “Okay.  I see,” he finally responded.  “That is not just a cabbie.”

“Well, he has been since I met him seven years ago.  However, recently he thinks someone is after him.  Could that be in reference to you or some of yours tailing him?”

He ignored my questions.  “You said he’s gone offgrid?”

“Yes.”

Another long pause.  Shuffling papers and sliding folders across the desktop.

“Khirov was soon to be brought in.”

“What were you interested in him for?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss much of this with you, but Khirov had some relatives across seas in Berlin, Germany that were of the resourceful persuasion, but were not so much the law-abiding types.  Especially his Uncle Cemil Nejem who until recently owned several widespread and profitable commercial trucking yards here in the state.”

“What changed?”

“Let’s just say we had gathered quite a mountain of evidence, but Mister Nejem has most likely fled the United States.”

“How does Khirov fit into this?”

He coughed into his hand and then asked, “Are you a gambling man by chance?”

What the hell?

“Well, not particularly.  I tend to want to keep a tight hold onto the few dollar bills I get into my wallet.”

“Hmmm.   I see.  Well, myself I found my guilty pleasure is sporting events.  Football, basketball and even local boxing.”  He slowed his speech just a bit when he mentioned local boxing.

Driggs was playing a game — either for his own entertainment, the ears listening in on the call, or he was jerking me around.  I had to play a bit longer to see what I was dealing with.

“Boxing?  Can’t say I know much of that.”

“You really should take the time to read up on that.  All sorts of characters and stories.  For instance there was an up-and-coming hispanic boy, Juan Guttierez calling himself the Latin Tyrant.  But just after his last championship match he was ambushed and nearly killed.  Someone took a crowbar and a bat to his hands and right arm.”

“Gruesome.  And…?”

“Yeah, those are career-ending injuries.”  Driggs followed it up with, “The roaches in the streets say that Nejem just happened to have lost quite a fortune on that bout.”

I see — if Driggs gets a hold of Khirov maybe he can squeeze him for his part in the assault and find out just where Uncle Cemil is hiding.  That would be quite the feather in Drigg’s cap, no doubt.

“You point me in the right direction, I will make you my first call.”  I proposed.

“Abandoned buildings can make excellent camp grounds so I’ve heard.”

“Thank you, Agent Driggs, you have been most helpful.  How do I contact you if I should find our missing pal?”

He coughed into his hand again, muttered something to someone in the room on his end and then said, “Text me at 267-778-8242.  But only if you have a damn good reason to text me.  Clear?”

“Yeah, most helpful.”  I hung up on the prick.

Further research revealed that there were five various business ventures listed under Cemil Nejem.  I brought three patrol units with me for the first two locations.  However, after the third and after another six hours of scouring through the abandoned lots, I let the other officers go and went on to the fourth property myself.

It was a quarter of six o’clock and getting toward dusk when I parked outside a chain link fence.  This was the second of the commercial truck shipping yards.  The parking lot had only a line of empty semis lined up along the eastern end.  I was tired, dirty and wondered if this was really worth the effort.  “Heh!  Jinn.  More likely it was just some angry hispanic ‘tyrant’ and his dogs that ran you underground.”  I snorted and took one last sip from my cold coffee.

Facing me looked to be the main building at the south end and another smaller building to my right.  I got halfway across the parking lot when one of the semi trucks headlights popped on.  The engine hummed to life and then just idled.  Behind me another semi started up, but also sat in its parking space.

“Hello?”  I called out.  Instinctively I unholstered my gun and kept it low at my side.  “Hello?  I am Detective Ell–“

The remaining three semi trucks roared awake and blinded me in their headlights.  Immediately as one the semi trucks lurched forward five or so feet.  I leveled my gun at the semi in front of me.  The windows were pitch black and I couldn’t see anyone behind the wheel.  “Shut down your engines!  Come out or I will shoot!”

The driver just revved the engine louder drowning me out, but did not advance.  The trucks on both ends of the line drove further up cutting me off in both directions.  Maybe fifty feet behind me was just the brick wall of the other smaller building; no doors to run into.

When the three semis crept slowly forward, I fired a warning shot into the lead semi’s engine.  Khirov and his relatives or maybe other Nejem’s thugs must’ve known that someone was going to come looking.  “You son of a bitch Khirov!  Killing an officer will only bring more police.  Stop now before this gets worse!”

No answer of course.

“You are only wanted for the assault on the boxer.  Come out and we can talk!  You know I have been there for you, pal!”

I scanned frantically for any opening around the semis, but they were in tight formation.  They kept advancing; the gravel crunching under their heavy tires.  However, I did spot one possibility:  a rusted fire escape scaled the wall.  I was running out of room and options.

Spinning around I bolted for the broken down fire escape.

The three trucks lurched at me and as I leaped onto the escape, the nearest one clipped my leg.  The other semis crashed and bit into bricks of the building. I was slammed by the force of the truck onto the steps and dropped my revolver.  On pure adrenaline I hauled myself up and to the roof of the building. However, now I had a shattered, bleeding leg and was truly trapped…

The roaring engines of all five semi trucks suddenly died as one.  I looked down over the edge at the lot.  They sat motionless like before; the windows were just soulless black eyes.  No one left the vehicles to chase after me.

However, I had nowhere to go and they were just waiting me out.

Someone really did not want me to get to Khirov tonight.