Atmosphere (15 page)

Perhaps he
was
getting too old for this shit.
  

Although no immediate sense for alarm existed, he still placed his hand on his holstered gun as they approached the tenement, not sure which part of his personality—the meek tentative one, the truth-seeking detective, or the hot-headed aggressor—coerced this bearing.

They moved
 
quietly across the stretch of littered pavement that led to the building.

A pair of iron benches paint-marked as territory for some small-time gang served as a gateway to the tenement's entrance.

Frank peered up and sighted a row of destitute children gazing through a set of broken windows three floors up, their cold eyes seeking answers to their indigence, like hungry wolves stalking prey in hope for one more night of survival. From the curious expressions on their dirty faces, he could tell that they were wondering why the three of them had arrived here tonight, had chosen to enter their home—even though the appearance of police in this community of distress was commonplace. He pulled his sights away and the three cops continued prudently along the pavement leading into the ominous moon-shadow of the building.

They set foot through the graffiti embellished entranceway. Their footsteps echoed in the hallway like drips of water in a cavern, the cadence of their strides periodically interrupted as their shoes sliced through garbage and grime. Frank shuddered, wondering what breeds of evil bacterium and germs thrived here and how sizable the rats and cockroaches might be, hiding in the shadows nearby.

"Hey..." a voice shot out from the shadows, deep, raspy.

The three cops stopped, turned and saw a homeless man squatting on the floor in the front corner of the hall, knees pulled tightly into his chest.

"You be coming for the man in black?" he asked, eyes glowing in the shadows, wide and lolling in concern of something that could be created solely within a mind sick with disease. "Cause if you is, I gots to report it to the leader of the troops!"

Curious, Frank stepped forward. "The man in black? Who do you mean?"

The vagrant awkwardly stood up, nearly falling back down in the process. His clothes hung in tatters like strips of skinned animal flesh. "I don't know his name, but he's with
them
, and they's got to be stopped. That's what the leader says."

Frank smiled curtly. "Who is this leader?"

The man staggered toward the door. "Jyro! That's who. Now you jus' watch for the men in black. There's one here. They's the bad guys, working for them.
The radio people
."
 

Under normal circumstances Frank would have completely ignored the bum—he always insisted to Jaimie that she do the same—but he felt compelled to listen, to try and pry information. The bum looked crazy, but he also seemed to
believe
in what he was saying.

"Who are the radio people?"

"You jus' go home and put on your radio. You'll know it when you hear 'em!"

And then the vagrant ran out of the building, trailing his odor behind.

Frank faced Hector and Ernie. "The men in black? Radio people? What do you think gentlemen?"

"Just like the rest of
them
, Frank. Mentally ill."

"
Them?
" Frank asked, smiling. He had hoped to get a serious answer from Hector, but got mostly what he expected. A shrug off. He'd be best off doing the same right now. It wasn't time to start playing on gut instincts. They had other business to attend to.

As quickly as his intrigue with the bum's utterances arose, it vanished, and they continued on.

They moved to the elevator, once again silent, the lack of conversation beyond the encounter with the vagrant reasserting Frank's discomfort. It was an...an
apprehension
, hanging in the air, and Frank could feel it. Judging from the uncertain looks on his companion's faces, Hector and Ernie did too.

I don't know his name, but he's with them...

Suddenly Frank remembered something. When he first walked into the13th precinct earlier today. The one-eyed man sitting in the chair.

He's right, you know...

The aliens. They are here.

They. Them?

Frank shook off the insane thought.

The small elevator waited for them. Hector managed to find the button for the sixth floor amidst the layering of urban art and pressed it. The car slowly rattled up, shaking loudly. Frank's meager personality suddenly and inexplicably forced a terrible image to the forefront of his consciousness, unnerving him: the elevator, giving way and crashing down, leaving the three of them abandoned and helpless upon the ground, the local scavengers helping themselves to their belongings, the perverts violating them afterwards...

"Frank?"

Frank shook the day-mare away.

"You joining us?" Hector was smiling slightly, he and Barba standing on the landing to the sixth floor, waiting for Frank to emerge from the elevator.

Frank stepped out and joined the two cops.

"Still tired, sleepy?"

"All right Hect, cut me a break."

They walked the length of the empty hallway. Although less imposing than the expansive jungle-like environment outside, the surroundings here still carried a ambience of threat with it. A baby's incessant wails issued out from an apartment toward the end of the hallway. A pair of Hispanic shouts did battle from behind the closed door of another. The violent pounding of rap music worked it way through from the floor below. A variety of odors commingled in the air, some from dinners, most from neglect and uncleanliness.

"What's a Jewish guy doing, living in a place like this?" Frank wondered aloud.

"Poverty doesn't discriminate," Hector said firmly.

"No shit," Barba added, wiping his brow and looking around, his comment an instinctual cover to his obvious nervousness.

After passing five doors, Hector stopped. The door he stood in front of had an unremarkable gray appearance to it, making it simply one in the long row of others, the mystery of its occupant its only allure. "Here we are, 6J. Harold Gross' place."

Hector nodded. Barba knocked.

No answer.

He repeated. Again, no answer from within.

Frank instinctively reached for the knob and twisted it. The door clicked and swung open about two inches. "Uh-oh," Frank said quietly. "Didn't expect that."

He looked at Hector who, pinching his lips in thought, whispered to Barba. "Ernie, what time was it when you called in for the warrant?"

"7:45, around there. They said it'd take an hour."

Hector glanced at his watch. 8:20. "Mark the time in your minds gentlemen. 8:50."

Nodding, gun now drawn, Frank gently placed a hand on the door and pushed. It slowly swung open, squeaking. If Gross was inside, he would know he had visitors.

Ernie entered first, gun stretched out in front of him. He spun from right to left. Frank immediately followed suit, racing in to the left, pendulating his weapon, seeking even the slightest bit of movement. Hector immediately raced to the bathroom. He returned, shaking his head.

All was quiet at Harold's place.

The three men took a moment to catch their breaths, re-holstering their weapons, still alertly glancing about. Harold's apartment was in utter disarray, as if someone had burglarized the place, although the likeliness of that occurring—even with the open door—was unlikely as the lack of valuables here couldn't so much as tempt even the most novice crook. No phone, no television, no radio, only worthless items: scattered articles of clothing, old magazines, newspapers, broken plates left out with food scraps of meals long eaten. A tattered couch, foam bursting through holes in the fabric like out-of-control fungi. A moldering rug, buckling under their feet, acting as a graveyard for cigarette butts. An age-old bar stool and beverage crate, centering the room with no direction in mind. Paint chips serrating the walls like a peeling sunburn.

"I'd rather be a guest at the Racine's," Frank said.

"No kidding." Barba removed his hat and wiped his brow. It appeared their sudden and impetuous entrance into the apartment had him a little shook up. He'll get over it, Frank thought.

"Well, we're here," Hector said, pacing around, shifting a pair of jeans on the floor with his shoe. "Let's see if we can find anything."

N
ever in his twenty-eight years of life had Harold Gross felt so lost, so out of control. He kept telling himself to get a grip on reality, but chaos stormed in his mind, and he kept slipping further and further away from sanity. With the Supplier and the Atmosphere now gone, he could no longer rely on the section of his mind that had mastered his actions so sufficiently over the past two weeks, that had clued him in to his every step, his every move.

Yes, Harold Gross was indeed very lost.

Bursts of memories to his past kept breaking through, thoroughly confusing him. He remembered so many things about himself that had been completely shuttered: that he had been abandoned as a child twenty years ago, forced to live in foster homes. That he later graduated to juvenile halls when he discovered that a quick buck could be earned by just taking it. He worked menial jobs, flipping patties at burger joints, washing dishes at diners, streetcleaning. He spent a total of 256 days in jail, the rest on parole or under supervision. Arrested seventeen times—deserved many, many more. He'd dealt drugs, stolen, burglarized, mugged a few people.

But never had he ever
killed
anyone.

Or had he?

With holes in his mind now breaking open to accept waves of reason, he reflected back on the memories of the Atmosphere. It had felt so glorious, so incredibly satisfying to simply have it in his possession, and to share it with others—so long as they gave it back when they were through. It was as if he had been a chosen one, a unique individual to spread its glory to the world. And perhaps he had.

But for reasons he now understood to be wrongful and malevolent.

He had been deceived.

Tears sprang from his eyes, a tearing of emotions forcing him to choose one of two different paths. He could seek out the lost Supplier and the Atmosphere, retrieve it and allow it to carry him back into the untruthful yet blindingly stimulating state of consciousness.

Or he could shed his skin of the unknown evil and begin his life anew.

That would be too damn hard.

This is what a junkie must feel like when he's aching for a fix...

Harold looked up at the building in front of him. He'd been pacing the streets for an hour or more, trying to bring himself back to reality. He stepped forward, walking the littered pavement, kicking an empty beer can as he made his way to the entrance.

What better place to sit and make a decision?

Home.

F
rank, Hector, and Ernie spent thirty minutes picking through Harold Gross' meager belongings. Just as their first impressions had revealed, nothing of any monetary value seemed to exist here, only garbage. Newspapers, weeks old, yellowed and tattered. Magazines, stained and swollen to the size of the Nynex yellow pages. A small three-foot refrigerator, sitting crookedly below the apartment's only window, its paltry contents barely edible. Dirty clothing, strewn about, not a drawer for them to rest in.

They did, however, find a few
interesting
things.

Hector showed Frank something he noticed when he first entered the bathroom. The sink. It held six inches of dirty water, clogged from an abundance of hair. On the floor to the left of the sink three disposable razors lay scattered like dead animals fallen from a cliffside, their blades clogged with hunks of brown hair. Tiny droplets of blood dotted the edges of the white porcelain sink and the dirty mirror hanging on the wall.

"I figured he was just bald all the time. Naturally, you know?" Frank said.

Hector placed his hands on his hips. "Seems as though he likes to keep himself up to snuff as far as his head goes."

"Not much else though. Guy's a damn slob."

"Captain?" Ernie called from the living room. "I found something."

Frank and Hector exited the bathroom. Ernie had moved the couch away from the wall and was hunkered by a small rectangular-shaped hole in the wall. Beside him on the floor lay a metal vent that had presumably covered the hole at one point.

"I saw that the edges around the vent were a little worn, so I kinda played with it and it just fell out. Look at this." He aimed a penlight inside the hole.

Frank and Hector crouched down and looked inside.

"Holy moly..." Frank said, nearly speechless.

First they saw the money, a big pile of it wrapped with rubber bands. Hector gently removed the stack and thumbed through it. Ones, fives, tens, twenties, some crisp, some not, but a nice accumulation nonetheless.

"It's his God-damned life savings," Frank observed. "He's a miser."

"There's a brown paper bag in here too," Ernie said. "Captain?"