As Sergeant Tom led Stillwell and the other men into the building, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and a tiny feeling of fear and uncertainty crept up his spine. He hesitated for a moment, and took a breath of the stale, warm air.

Lieutenant Stillwell motioned for the remaining troops to follow him beyond the foyer, and just as Sergeant Tom turned to follow, a tiny sound caught his attention. Off to his left, there were a few stairs leading down into a dark corridor. He thought he had heard a- yes, there it was again. A tiny whimpering noise was barely audible, coming from somewhere down the little hallway.

Curious, Sergeant Tom broke off from the group. Hands firmly on his rifle as they had been before, he walked away from the mosque’s entrance and down the stairs. The hob-nails on his boots made scratching noises on the sandy stone floor as he went.

Sand, Sergeant Tom thought. It was everywhere. On the ground, in the air, in his hair, in his clothes- everywhere. He was tired of it. One day, he would be home, and he would never have to feel sand in his socks or in his food ever again.

Sergeant Tom suddenly paused, upon hearing the desperate little whimper once more. It was louder this time, and he was sure he was near to it. When he moved further along the hallway, a large fracture in the wall caught his eye.

The building was old and crumbling, and this wall was no exception. He bent to peer through the crack, and was astonished when he heard the puling noise coming from within it. His eyes widened in shock. The whimpering was coming through the wall.

Without another thought, Sergeant Tom flipped his rifle around and slammed it into the fracture repeatedly. In seconds, the clay crumbled and fell away, joining the rest of the clay sediment on the floor. Letting loose a tiny grunt of effort, Sergeant Tom kicked and pushed at the thin, disintegrating wall until there was a space large enough to squeeze through. He pulled a few more chunks loose, then stepped through. What he saw next made his blood run cold.

Hanging at the opposite side of the room, suspended from the ceiling by chained, raw wrists, dangled the President of the United States.

Sergeant Tom gasped, and dropped his gun. “Ohmygod,” he breathed, and rushed forward. The ragged Commander in Chief did not even look up as Sergeant Tom approached, and lifted him up a bit to ease the pull on his strained shoulders.

“Just hold on, sir,” Sergeant Tom said quickly, ripping the chain’s hold out of the crumbling ceiling in one strong motion. He did not notice a small string of a dark, viscous liquid that hung
from the man’s mouth. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

Without a sound, the President collapsed forward onto the shocked Sergeant, limp arms resting lifelessly on the soldier’s broad shoulders. Quickly, Sergeant Tom held him up, arms tight around the President’s thin frame. The man did not respond.

The President’s head rested on Sergeant Tom’s shoulder, and the soldier could feel the man’s weak, labored breaths ghosting against his own sweaty neck. Sergeant Tom let loose a sigh of relief. For a few wretched moments, he had wondered if the man was even alive.

“Just hang in there, sir. We’re going to get you help real soon.”

Without warning, the Commander thrashed and heaved, and Sergeant Tom gasped in shock as the leader of the free world vomited a torrent of a strange, black substance down the front of his uniform. Horrified, the Sergeant could do nothing but hold his Commander tight as he retched again and again. The President held on to Sergeant Tom’s shoulders as he spewed more of the sticky dark ooze down the soldier’s back.

Minutes later, the President uttered a soft, shuddering moan, and was finally still. His lips and chin were covered in the same black, sticky liquid that now coated the front of Sergeant Tom’s uniform.

“Sir? We have to get you to a medic, right away,” Sergeant Tom said, keeping the repulsion out of his voice. “I’m going to pick you up and get you out of here, okay? Ready on three- One… two, and three!”

With a little grunt, Sergeant Tom managed to lift the eerily placid Commander-In-Chief off of the ground and held him in arms, much like he would a small child. The shuddering man clutched to the soldier’s collar with a trembling, weak grip, and vomited again.

Not wasting any time, Sergeant Tom headed for the exit. Desperately, he smashed his foot into the hole, widening the opening until it was wide enough for both to fit through. Gently, as though not to further injure the weak man in his arms, Sergeant Tom stepped through the opening.

“Hey!” he shouted, hurrying up the little steps, “We’ve got a casualty! For Christsakes, I need help!”

But there was no one in sight. Sergeant Tom’s own words echoed off the empty walls of the little foyer.

Not giving up, Sergeant Tom dashed outside, where the transport vehicles waited. Carefully,
but quickly, he headed over to the one he had arrived with.

Okay, this next one is real different

Hunches


Detective Matthew Morris always gets his man. That was a well known fact among the hard working, crime-fighting men and women of the Chicago PD, 13th precinct. And it was true, too. Detective Morris always got his man. It was just a matter of time.

The bright, ferocious detective himself hurried through the winding, gray maze of office spaces on the third floor. Behind him followed his assistant and partner, the dogged, if not a tad naïve, Deputy Detective Thomas Novak. In one of the detective’s hands he held a tawny fedora, in the other, a manila folder containing the last bit of paperwork to be turned in before the long awaited day’s end and three day weekend.

It was Christmas Eve. Outside, a flurry of snow drifted down from the rapidly-darkening skies. Silently, Detective Morris longed to be home, to his family. It was a rare feeling. The detective loved his work. But at home, he knew, his lovely wife would be waiting with a warm home cooked meal. His son was probably near the tree, near to bursting with anticipation and excitement, giving the presents a shake or two when he knew Ma wouldn’t be lookin’.

Detective Morris chuckled. Yeah, those were the days. But, it was no time for daydreaming. He still had work to do, even if only a little. ‘Live in the present,’ he always said.

A few more turns, and he and his partner finally stood before the office door of Morris’s superior. ‘Chief Henry Harrison’ was emblazoned in bronze lettering at eye level.

Detective Morris knocked lightly, before opening the door gently. He remembered being upbraided for bursting in on numerous occasions in the past.

“Shoot, call you back,” the Chief swore, slamming the phone down before the detective had even set eyes on him. “What is it, Morris.”

“I’ve got your dailies,” the detective replied, tossing the paperwork lightly onto the chief’s desk. “I’m heading out. See ya Monday.” With that, the detective put on his hat and turned to leave. The chief raised a hand to stop him.

“Ah, I’m afraid not, Morris,” he said, a tinge of regret in his voice. He beckoned for Novak to shut the door. “Sit, sit.”

“What’s goin’ on, chief?” Novak asked, still standing beside his partner. Harrison frowned.

“I’m about to tell ya, if you’d just hold your horses. I’ve told you not do that.”

“Yes, chief. Sorry, chief.”

Harrison smiled grimly and continued. “I’m real sorry about this, but there’s just been a double homicide. I'm making it your case.” Before Morris could object, Harrison handed him a manila folder with Polaroid pictures of the victims paperclipped to the outside.

“Linda Ronson and Jack Glint. Found this afternoon at Kikhamlo Apts on 14th,” Morris read aloud. The pictures were of a woman and small boy with gunshots to the skull and extensive burn wounds.

“I’ve got your dailies,” the detective replied, tossing the paperwork lightly onto the chief’s desk. “I’m heading out. See ya Monday.” With that, the detective put on his hat and turned to leave. The chief raised a hand to stop him.

“Ah, I’m afraid not, Morris,” he said, a tinge of regret in his voice. He beckoned for Novak to shut the door. “Sit, sit.”

“What’s goin’ on, chief?” Novak asked, still standing beside his partner. Harrison frowned.

“I’m about to tell ya, if you’d just hold your horses. I’ve told you not do that.”

“Yes, chief. Sorry, chief.”

Harrison smiled grimly and continued. “I’m real sorry about this, but there’s just been a double homicide. I'm making it your case.” Before Morris could object, Harrison handed him a manila folder with Polaroid pictures of the victims paperclipped to the outside.

“Linda Ronson and Jack Glint. Found this afternoon at Kikhamlo Apts on 14th,” Morris read aloud. The pictures were of a woman and small boy with gunshots to the skull and extensive burn wounds.

“ ‘Fraid so,” Harrison said, “Now, we’ve got a few suspects lined up already, you could pick ‘em Monday if you’d rath-”

“No, no, I’ll start today,” Morris interrupted, and stood up. “I got a hunch.” Novak’s handsome face fell.

Chief Harrison raised his brows. Detective Morris’s hunches were almost as famous as the department itself. It would be no use to try to stop him now.

The chief smiled, and leaned back in his chair. “Very well, Morris,” he said, and with a wink, “Go get ‘em.”

“I’ll do just that, Chief.”

With that, Detective Morris took his leave, case in hand and a nervous Novak bringing up the rear. Briskly, the two headed back down the hall to the elevator.

“You ain’t really gonna take this case today, are ya?” Novak asked, already knowing the answer.

“Why wouldn’t I.”

“Well, detective, it is Christmas,” Novak replied, pushing the button to call the elevator.

“Crime doesn’t take holidays,” Detective Morris said stoically, and led his partner into the waiting machine.

So, I guess I'll just post my last one. It's finished, save for the title. It's real short, but good.

It’s twelve o’clock again, and here I am. Waiting for you.

Amidst the sea of afternoon lunch-breakers, I see you walk through those swivel doors and hit the sidewalk. Right on schedule.

You seem to disappear among the other nine-to-fivers, but I’ve still got my eye on you. Just where do you think you’re going? I know where you’re going.

I start up my beat-up, gunmetal gray Caravan and drive along beside you as you walk. Traffic is crawling today, at just the right pace to keep up with you. What luck.

You don’t notice me as I silently watch you. No, you’ve never met me. But I know you. Yes. I know you very well.

Why did you throw out your lasagna last night? You ate so little. What’s on your mind? You love lasagna. I know- you have it every week. Even your leftovers are delicious.

Someone behind me honks the horn, but I don’t care. You matter so much more to me. I like to just drive and watch you walk. Watch you eat. Watch you…

I bite my lip, vexed. The driver behind me won’t give up, so I move along. I don’t want to make a scene. I don’t want to bother you… yet.

I drive farther away, turning a corner and heading down a few back streets. I can’t bear to let you go, but I’ll only have to wait a little while longer. I know you like the shortcut.

Oh, I’m so nervous. So excited. I can’t wait. Can you?

Your life is full of such routine. So many patterns. I dare say I’ve learned them all. And it’s about to pay off. Yes- here you come, around the corner. Right on schedule.

I love to watch you, it’s true. But today, it’s time to act. You’re so innocent, when you near my idling van. So trusting. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts, you don’t move fast enough when I open the door and pull you in. Oh, you’re wonderful. Does this smell like chloroform to you?

The drive home is only minutes long, but it feels like an eternity. I turn around to glance at your face. You’re so peaceful when you sleep. Are you losing weight again? You workaholic, you.

Gently, as though not to wake you, I carry you up the stairs and over the threshold of my small, dusty apartment. I hope it’s enough for you. You’re going to be here for a while.

You’re finally here. I’ve waited months for this moment, you see. It’s everything I could have dreamed, and more. As softly as I can, I set you down in a small chair next to a wall.

It’s a very special chair. Very unique. Just like you. I hope you like it. I spent so long figuring how to bolt it to the floor.

Your wrists are so soft. I try my best to be gentle with you as I lock you in. A strip of duct tape here. Oh, here too. I’ve got to strap you in, nice and safe.

It’s not long until you finally wake. Your eyes slowly open, then widen in shock. I know how surprised you must be. I know… everything about you. Why do you want to leave?

See, I’ve been watching you for months, now. You… you captivate me. Consume me. You’re everything to me. This is love, right?

Remember back in April, when you took that vacation? It was so spontaneous. So unlike you. One morning, you were gone. I thought you left me. I don’t want to lose you again.

Ever.

I can feel you watching me with shock and disdain as I go back towards the kitchen. I feel your intrigue and fear when I retrieve a bucket of water from under the sink.

Why are you so afraid? This is not going to hurt. Time for a shower.

Drenched, you struggle against your bonds. Your curses are quiet and distorted through the duct tape. I leave again, for a second container. See, I just can’t let you go.

I hear you cry out through the tape again. The gasoline rushes down your face and neck, soaking your clothes as you strain to escape.

The acrid smell fills the room, and you’re trying desperately to break free. But it won’t be any use. I’ve done every thing for you. Why don’t you love me? Trust me.

This is it. Are you ready?

We’re going to be together forever. I just know it.

Before you can fight back, I grasp your hand and a butter knife. I’ve been waiting for this for so long. I’m so glad just to be with you.

You’re struggling and screaming, a muffled sound. Don’t be afraid. Heaven will take good care of us.

I’m unable to keep in a cry of delight as I plunge our hands forward and shove the thin knife into the bare outlet on the wall. You’ll never leave me now.

There’s a loud snapping sound as 110 volts slam onto and through us. Our jaws snap shut, shattering our teeth in an instant. Happy smiles, right? We would have been thrown back had I not bolted down your chair. See, it’s really love if it happens all at once.

110 volts, coursing through our veins. Our blood boils, and the gasoline ignites. Our skin blisters and melts, fusing me to you as we burn. Our clothes, our hair, our blackening skin aflame. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed.

Nothing can take me from you. We’ll be together, forever.

Well, I guess that it's for today- but I think I'll be writing a bit more soon. Feedback is always rad!