A pair of Enforcers, the slum’s form of law enforcement, blocked the detectives’ path, blunderbusses held loose across their chests. The clunky weapons scraped against their steel-plated armour, irreparably warped to compensate for their hunched backs, the men a motley of modern and primitive ingenuity. Disdain bled through the yellow orbs staring them down, a guttural hum seeping from the shorter of the two mutants.
“What the hell are a pair of suits doing down here with the sludge? Drop the keys to your fancy new car?” Muffled though it was, the man’s snort rumbled through the crusty leather covering his piggish face, voice like coal scraping against metal. His even more brutish companion said nothing, their gun’s cocked hammer more than enough to get his mood across.
Kevin clicked his tongue, “Cut the shit, big man. You two know why we’re here, so just let us through so we can get out of the little hair you’ve got left.” Loosening the revolver at his side, he stepped forward, the challenge an open letter.
The talkative Enforcer stepped forward, shifting his proto-shotgun. “You really want to play it this way, fancy shoes?” As big as Kevin was, Enforcers were pulled from the biggest of the slum’s mutants, intense hypertrophy a common effect from the slum’s chemical smog, towering over the average person like a man before a child. Even lacking proper training, their brute strength and the thick-plated armour usually made up for any difference of skill in a fight.
Such things were never a deterrent for Kevin, though whether it was confidence or ego, no one but his wife truly knew. “Why not? Been a while since I’ve had a pickup game with someone bigger than me.”
Colin rolled his eyes, stepping past Kevin and the Enforcer. “I’m going ahead. Follow me inside when you’re done measuring dicks.” The larger mutant, keeping to his post at the door, let him pass with nothing but a grunt.
“Hey, I didn’t give you–” The first Enforcer started, cutting himself short as Kevin slipped by, following his partner in with a two-finger wave over his shoulder. “Damn suits.”
* * *
The scriptorium was a mess.
Desks lined the concrete wall. Rusty and in ill-repair, but holding up a library’s worth of documents both old and new. Most of these were empty, acting as nothing more than temporary storage for the handful of stooped figures scribbling endless lines of ink onto stained vellum. Under the buzzing industrial lights, the pallid figures looked more dead than alive, hands shaking constantly as old feather pens dipped into inkpots. Not a single scribe wore a gas mask, yellowish skin and sunken eyes their reward for working the underpaid position. Not a strand of hair could be seen, two scribes boldly showing their baldness, the others hiding beneath ragged hoods.
The detectives shimmied their way through the bureaucratic maze. The desks were placed at irregular angles and within close proximity, creating awkward paths that forced the detectives to grit their teeth as iron corners dug into the meat and bone of hip and leg.
“You’d think that with a lacking budget, they would have fewer bloody desks,” Colin groaned, tugging his coat as it snagged on a corner’s jagged edge.
Kevin toppled a stack of papers as he passed, cursing under his breath from the weary stares his blunder caught. “Could scrap most of them for shelves. Would be a better use of space, at least.”
Forcing a path through the awkward atmosphere, the detectives shuffled up the stairway, past two more growling Enforcers. The iron tang permeating the air lessened as they reached the second floor. The higher level acted as barracks and managerial offices, the compressed hallway hosting a ventilation system. A rare piece of technology in the slums.
The rooms that acted as housing for the Enforcers were bare, spartan cots with foot lockers made from the same sheet metal as the desks below. Any personal effects were out of sight, though Colin doubted there was anything of value left alone. Regardless of where one went, the slums were full of grasping hands.
A beaten door settled at the hall’s end bore a crude plaque, the cheap wood dangling from a single nail and threadbare string. Scratched in crude letters were the simple words: District Affairs. The words were flecked in faded, white paint, the sign vague enough to be used regardless of who was in charge at any moment. No guards stood vigil, and the detectives walked right in.
Similar to the first floor, the office was covered in papers, a lone desk in even worse repair than the others surrounded by parchment towers. The anemic figure hunched over the desk, like all the others below, attended to the endless transcribing and organization keeping the slums from utter, unorganized chaos. His skin was just as sickly as the scribes’, the bags rimming his eyes like charcoal, the thinning hair atop his head indicating his upper status.
A benefit of breathing artificial air, Colin thought.
No plate or tag gave away the man’s name, nor did either detective recognize him from previous visits. Colin stepped forward, reaching a hand out. “Excuse me–”
The man’s head shot up, his eyes wide, dancing across the room in erratic lines, a caged animal reacting to danger. He settled his vision on the detectives, a calm scowl replacing the volatility. “Oh, suits. Wonderful.” Grinding his teeth, the man returned to his work. “What can this humble servant of the state do for you?” The question lacked emotion; a simple, rote procedure required from higher-ups he would never meet.
“I’m Detective Colin Black, and this is my partner, Kevin Pugh.” Colin waved his hand vaguely in Kevin’s direction, his partner grunting assent. “We’re investigating a murder that occurred last night in the Drowned District. Signs point to a pure-blooded ghoul as the culprit, and we’re requesting any records of ghoul sightings from the past two weeks.”
Scoffing, a disdainful smile played at the scribe’s lips. “Oh, a ghoul, is it now? Well, lucky for you! I’ve got about three shelves worth of reports for you then.” His smile turned sour, jaw grinding back and forth. “Things have been getting out of control for months. The brutes used to be able to take care of most of them, but the bastards have gotten wiser. They know when to run, and they’re a lot better at hiding than they used to be.” Looking up from his work, the scribe threw his arms out wide, tan robes flapping out, too loose for his reduced frame. “On top of that, our Enforcers can’t even patrol certain districts anymore because of a damned serial killer prowling the streets.
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“Don’t misunderstand, the slums have never been safe for anyone, but typically it’s the damn flesh-eaters looking for a meal, or a mugger needing debt money. Now we all have to worry about dying for someone’s entertainment. Ridiculous!” Huffing, the scribe adjusted his robes, tucking the loose sleeves under his wrists as he returned to his work. “But you don’t really care about that, I know. Go down to the records, one of the menials will help you find what you’re looking for.” He waved them out of the office.
Kevin closed the door behind them, Colin taking point. “He sure was a talkative one,” Kevin remarked. “Certainly more cooperative than the last dreg in charge of this place. All of his nice words, but I can’t remember a single bit of help he ever actually gave us.”
Shaking his head, Colin considered grabbing another cig from his pocket, deciding against it as corroded air filtered through his mask, wafting up the staircase. “I remember, yeah. Been a good year since we’ve had to come down here, so I’m not surprised to see someone new running things.”
Snorting, Kevin slapped Colin’s back as they reached the first floor. “If you consider one person for every twenty desks as ‘running’ then we’ll have to agree to disagree. Place looks on the edge of collapsing. Always does, but it seems worse than before.” They rounded down to the other stairway, this one heading down.
“Think it has anything to do with that serial killer?” Colin asked, his words echoing around as they got deeper into the basement, the stair’s wooden steps creaking beneath their boots.
Kevin shrugged, “Beats me. Not our problem, anyway. That’s for the Enforcers to deal with.”
“I suppose so.”
* * *
Scrolls and journals filled the rotting shelves lining the cramped basement, referred to so lovingly as ‘the records.’ A menial approached, his robe plain burlap, tattered and threadbare, no hood or mask to hide the older man’s jaundiced face. “Welcome, detectives.” He smiled, revealing rotting, blackened teeth. With a shallow bow, the menial waved Colin and Kevin to follow him. “What can this humble record keeper do for such an esteemed pair of guests?”
Colin glanced at Kevin, his partner shaking his head as they made eye contact. “We’re just here to see recent reports of any ghoul sightings, that’s all,” Colin said dryly, quickly tiring of the medieval shtick permeating the slum’s bureaucracy.
“The quicker, the better,” Kevin added. “This man’s got some radio dramas to rot his brain to.” He smiled as Colin rolled his eyes.
Head bobbing, the menial wringed his hands, “Ah, yes, of course, of course. A ghoul hunt then… Well, right this way, I’m sure that what I have to show you will help you plenty.” He led them down the shelves, past a dozen other menials shuffling through the records, organizing and reorganizing the overstuffed shelves. Such importance was given to the place that their light sources were oil lamps and wax candles, no electrical wiring – or safety measures – to be found.
Their guide stopped for a moment, glancing around before nodding to himself and turning, stepping between two shelves. Nondescript as all the others, the menial ran his fingertips across the spines of several journals before stopping. Loosely rolled scrolls were packed so tightly together that trying to remove one would lead to the others tumbling out. So, it was to Colin’s dismay when the elderly man smiled at him, patting the wall of scrolls. “Right here is all accounted for reports involving ghouls from within the past three weeks. There were others, but it was becoming a difficult task keeping them all here, so we disposed of those that were deemed unimportant.”
Squinting, Colin stepped forward, extracting a scroll from the top-left corner, pulling it out with care. Somehow managing to not scatter the rest to the ground, the detective unfurled the parchment, scanning its meager contents:
Local reports a ghoul prowling the streets in zone seven, claiming to have seen a large shadow crawling across the tops of buildings.
“How many of these reports are this succinct?” Colin showed the menial the report he’d chosen, the older man taking a few moments to scan the sparse letters.
“Most, I would say,” the menial admitted. “Ink has been limited to us as of late, so we have found need to shorten our records down to only the most essential information.” He bowed, stiff and small. “If there are no other questions, I shall return to my work. Please call upon me if you require any further assistance.” Walking off, the menial disappeared from sight, his body breaking apart into uneven shapes as the darkness engulfed him.
Kevin stared after the menial for several seconds before turning to Colin, scowling. “I really, really don’t like this place. Feels like we’re in the catacombs of some temple, or a cult’s weird dungeon.”
Colin found it difficult to argue with his partner’s assessment, taking in the candles and ancient shelving, the scent of molding paper permeating the air so thickly that even his mask did little to filter it out. “Let’s just hurry through this so we can leave. I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”
Feeling as though the very walls were watching them, the two detectives began pulling scrolls from the wall.