The watch ticked forward second by second. But when Marco looked out the windshield into the darkness surrounding Arkham, time felt frozen, like the asylum existed in its own pocket of reality where the normal rules didn't apply. The darkness out there wasn't just absence of light. It was thick, pressing against the glass like it wanted to get in.
"Damn it. One-thirty already." He rubbed his face, trying to scrub away the exhaustion that had settled into his bones. "How long was I out?"
"About an hour, sir," Otis said from the back seat.
"Your turn then. You two grab some sleep while... wait." Marco stopped mid-sentence, his eyes catching movement through the side window. Headlights. Two sets, maybe three hundred meters out on the access road leading to Arkham. "Scratch that. Don't sleep. We've got company."
He grabbed the radio, thumb pressing the transmit button. "All units, heads up. We've got vehicles approaching Arkham from the east. Count two, possibly civilian cars."
Through the windshield, he could see the other squad cars scattered around the asylum grounds, all engines off, playing dead behind the outer walls. He picked up his AR-15 from where it leaned against the center console, quietly opened the driver's door, and slipped out into the cold night air. The assault van's front end provided decent cover. He braced the rifle against the hood, peering down the access road through the iron sights.
The approaching vehicles slowed about a hundred meters from the gate. Their headlights cut off suddenly, plunging that section of road into darkness. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he caught movement, dark shapes exiting the cars. They didn't head for the gate. Instead, they melted into the tree line on either side of the road.
"What are they doing?"
He kept his rifle trained on where he'd last seen movement, but the trees had swallowed them completely. Seconds ticked by. A minute. Two. Nobody emerged from the woods.
He glanced back at the assault van, then at the darkness surrounding him. If they were hitting Arkham, they should be moving on the gate. If they were scouting, they should have stayed in their vehicles. Something...
Pff.
The sound was barely louder than someone spitting. He felt something hot kiss the top of his head.
His brain processed what had happened half a second after his body reacted. He was already throwing himself backward, rolling behind the front tire of the assault van before conscious thought caught up.
Sniper. Suppressed rifle. Night vision.
His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to punch through his chest plate. Cold sweat broke out across his forehead and down his spine instantly, soaking into his undershirt.
If I hadn't been looking down. That round would've gone through the back of my skull and out through my teeth.
"All units!" He keyed the radio. "Do not expose yourselves. They have night vision optics. Repeat, they have NODs."
Gordon's voice crackled back immediately. "Say again? They have what?"
"Night vision!"
"Shit." A pause, then: "I'm coming to your position."
"Negative! Stay—" But Gordon had already cut the channel.
Marco pressed himself against the tire. The rubber pressed against his back. Somewhere in the darkness, at least one shooter, maybe more, was scanning the area through green-tinted optics, looking for another target.
Suddenly, footsteps came behind him, approaching from the direction of the other squad cars.
"Gordon, you stupid—" He turned his head just enough to see the detective sprinting toward him in a low crouch, flashlight attached to his shotgun throwing a weak beam ahead of him.
Gordon slid into cover beside Marco. He swept the area with his flashlight. Then the light caught on something clipped to Marco's tactical vest, and his expression shifted.
"Are those smoke grenades?"
"Yeah. So?"
"So where did you get smoke grenades? Those aren't standard issue."
"I bought them. There's this army surplus place in the East End. Takes cash, doesn't ask questions."
Gordon stared at him for a moment. Then he shook his head. "You know what? Doesn't matter. Can you use them?"
"Maybe." Marco patted his vest, mentally inventorying what he had. The smoke grenades were commercial grade, nothing fancy, but they'd put out enough fog to cover movement. Problem was range. A good throw might get thirty, forty meters. That left sixty meters of open ground where the shooters could light them up. "Wind's calm. If I can get one out there, we might be able to close the distance."
"Might?"
"You got a better idea?"
Gordon didn't answer.
Marco pulled one of the canisters from his vest. He took two steps back, giving himself room, then stood and hurled it overhand with everything he had.
The canister tumbled through the air, hit the pavement about eighty meters out with a clunk, bounced once, then detonated with a muffled pop.
"Move!" He surged forward, rifle up, staying low.
He made it maybe ten meters before the tree line erupted.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
Muzzle flashes strobed in the darkness. Bullets whip-cracked through the air, some close enough that he felt the pressure waves. Others slammed into the assault van behind him, punching dimples into the armored plating.
"BACK! GET BACK!" Gordon was shouting, yanking on Marco's vest.
Marco reversed direction, stumbling, feet tangling. The gunfire didn't stop, if anything, it intensified. They weren't trying to hit anything specific. Just putting rounds downrange to keep everyone's heads down.
He was three meters from the van when something hit him.
It felt like someone had swung a baseball bat full-force into his left side, just below the ribs. The impact lifted him off his feet, spun him halfway around, and dropped him flat on his back on the pavement.
His diaphragm had seized. His lungs refused to work. He tried to suck in air and got nothing. His hands scrabbled at his chest.
Then his collar tightened, and the world tilted. Someone had grabbed his vest and was dragging him backward. His head bounced off the pavement once, twice, then he was behind the van again and the gunfire sounded muffled and distant.
A flashlight beam hit his face, blinding him.
"Not the face..." Marco wheezed. "Stomach—"
Air rushed into his lungs all at once, and the relief was so intense it almost hurt. He gasped, coughed, gasped again. Oxygen flooded his system. Gordon was crouched over him, one hand still gripping Marco's vest, the other tearing at the velcro straps. "Hold still."
"What—"
"You got hit, you idiot." Gordon yanked the vest open, shone his light on Marco's side. "You have ceramic plates too?"
He examined the ceramic plate that had been tucked into Marco's vest carrier. A spiderweb of cracks radiated from a small crater in the center where the bullet had impacted. The projectile itself was embedded in the ceramic.
"Nine-millimeter," he muttered. "You're lucky. If that had been rifle caliber, the plate would've failed. You'd have half a dozen broken ribs and probably a punctured lung."
"Captain!"
Marco turned his head, too fast, which made his side scream in protest, and saw both Otis and Albert tumbling out of the assault van's back door. Otis looked terrified. Albert looked like he might pass out. But it was Otis' expression that caught his attention.
"Otis—" he started.
But the guy was already moving, slipping away from the van and disappearing into the shadows toward the rear of the asylum.
"Gordon." Marco grabbed the detective's arm. "This doesn't make sense."
"What doesn't?"
"They're not pushing. They've got us pinned, but they're not advancing." Marco pushed himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the pain. "They're stalling us. Which means—"
"They've got another target," Gordon finished. "Cobblepot's people."
"Or worse." Marco keyed his radio. "Any units at the drop point, report status."
Static.
"Drop point, respond."
More static, then a voice: "This is unit seven. All quiet here. No movement."
Marco looked at Gordon. "Then what—"
A sound cut through the night.
It started quiet, so quiet Marco almost missed it under the ringing in his ears from the gunfire. A rustling, like wind through dry leaves. But the wind had died down. And this sound wasn't coming from one direction. It was coming from everywhere. The rustling grew louder. Then came the squeaking.
Gordon stood slowly, shotgun raised, eyes scanning the darkness. "What is that?"
The sound kept building. Scraping became scratching became a rolling.
Then Marco saw them.
Rats.
Not just a few. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. They poured out of the woods, all of them heading in the same direction. Toward the tree line where the shooters were hiding.
The first scream came about three seconds later.
"SOMETHING'S BITING ME! SOMETHING—"
Automatic weapons fire erupted from the trees, muzzle flashes strobing wildly. But the shooters weren't aiming at the cops anymore. They were firing at their own feet.
"GET THEM OFF! GET THEM OFF!"
More screams and gunfire. Marco saw one of the shooters break from cover, staggering into the open, rifle forgotten, hands clawing at his legs and chest.
The man fell.
The rats swarmed.
"FIRE! LIGHT THEM UP! BURN—" The voice cut off with a gurgling scream.
Someone threw a grenade.
Gordon yanked Marco down behind the van half a second before the explosion.
BOOM.
The blast wave rolled over them, hot and reeking of cordite. Debris pattered down like rain.
The gunfire sputtered, became sporadic, and stopped.
The screaming didn't stop as quickly. It went on for maybe ten more seconds. Then those faded too.
The rustling, scraping, squeaking tide reversed direction. The rats flowed back into the woods, melting into the darkness like they'd never been there.
Silence settled over the area, broken only by the faint crackle of small fires where the grenade had ignited dry brush. The smoke from Marco's grenade drifted away on a cold breeze, revealing what was left.
Gordon stood slowly, shotgun raised, and started walking toward the tree line. Marco pushed himself to his feet, and followed, rifle up despite knowing there was nothing left to shoot at.
They found the first body about sixty meters from the van.
It wasn't intact.
The man's face was gone. His throat was a ragged crater. His hands, raised to protect his face, had been stripped to bone. The tactical vest he'd been wearing was shredded, the fabric pulled apart to get at the soft meat underneath. Around him, scattered through the grass and dead leaves, were dozens of rat corpses. Some had been shot. Some had been blown apart by the grenade. Some looked like they'd just stopped.
"Why were there so many rats? And why would they attack Black Mask's men? This is damn bizarre."
Gordon swept his flashlight across the area, illuminating more bodies. Or pieces of bodies. The grenade had done work, but it was the rats that had really done the damage.
"It must be Arkham's sanitation issues, and the shooters' personal hygiene was probably..." Marco abruptly stopped talking nonsense. He knelt next to one of the corpses, ignoring the protest from his injured side. The man was wearing a balaclava and a tactical hood designed to reduce glare from night vision optics. He reached out and tried to pull the fabric back.
It wouldn't move.
He pulled harder. The fabric tore away, revealing...
"Look at this."
Gordon came over, shining his light down.
The dead man's face, what was left of it, was pale. Caucasian features, angular bone structure. Not the kind of face you'd expect on Black Mask's street soldiers.
"That's not one of his guys," Gordon said slowly.
"No. It's not." Marco stood, scanning the other bodies visible in the flashlight beams as more officers started approaching.
"Check them. Look for ID."
While Gordon directed the search, he walked to where he'd seen the shooter throw the grenade. The crater was about a meter wide, dirt and burnt vegetation scattered around it. In the center, partially buried, was what was left of another body.
This one had been closer to the blast, much closer.
Behind him, he could hear officers throwing up in the bushes. He didn't blame them. He was tempted to join them.
"Marco!" Gordon was jogging over, his face grim. "None of them have ID. But look at this."
He held up a tactical radio, mil-spec quality. "This is government issue. Not something you buy at an army surplus store."
Before Marco could respond, every radio on every cop in the area crackled to life simultaneously.
"ALL UNITS! 10-33! 10-33!" The voice was young, male, and terrified. "GCPD HEADQUARTERS! REPEAT, 10-33 AT HEADQUARTERS! OFFICER DOWN! OFFICER DOWN! WE NEED HELP RIGHT NOW!"
"What..." Gordon grabbed his own radio. "This is Detective Gordon, identify yourself!"
"THIS IS OFFICER SYLAS! THEY'RE HITTING THE EVIDENCE WAREHOUSE! WE'RE PINNED IN THE MAIN BUILDING, WE CAN'T GET TO THE VAULT!" Gunfire rattled in the background, nearly drowning out the officer's voice. "BRIAN AND NELSON ARE DEAD! WILLIAMS JUST GOT HIT... OH GOD..."
The transmission dissolved into screaming.
Gordon was already running for his car. "ALL UNITS, RETURN TO HEADQUARTERS IMMEDIATELY! CODE THREE, LIGHTS AND SIRENS!"
Marco stumbled after him, his injured side screaming. "You said you left fifty officers there!"
"I DID!" Gordon yanked open his car door. "I assigned them myself!"
"Then how the fuck are fifty cops losing a fight at their own headquarters?" Marco grabbed Gordon's shoulder, spinning him around. "You don't need fifty men to defend one building! Unless..." His brain caught up. "There's a lot more than fifty of them attacking."
Gordon's eyes widened.
"Get in my van," Marco said. "Darnell! You and four East End guys stay here, process the scene. Everyone else, ON ME!"
"Got it, Captain!" Darnell was already jogging over, looking way too excited about being left behind.
Marco didn't have time to question it. He hauled himself back into the assault van's driver seat, Otis and Albert had wisely vacated, and Gordon piled in on the passenger side.
The engine roared to life. He stomped the accelerator, and the modified E350 shot forward.
Behind them, squad cars fired up one by one, sirens wailing to life. Red and blue lights strobed across Arkham's Gothic facade as the convoy formed up and screamed toward downtown Gotham.
In the rearview mirror, he saw Darnell directing the remaining officers, that same excited grin still on his face.
Something about that grin bothered him.
But he didn't have time to think about it.
The assault van hit Robinson Bridge doing ninety, the whole convoy pushing their vehicles to the limit, sirens howling into the Gotham night.
---
Darnell watched the taillights disappear into the distance, the sound of sirens fading until only the whisper of wind through dead trees remained.
He rubbed his hands together, then turned to face the four East End officers who'd stayed behind. All of them were grinning.
"Alright, boys. Time to get to work. And I want this done fast, we don't know how long we've got before someone comes back to check on us."
"What about the bodies?" one of the officers asked.
"What about them? They ain't going anywhere." Darnell gestured at the shot-up vehicles the attackers had arrived in. "Check those cars first. Then we search the bodies. Anything that's worth something, we take. Anything that might identify who these assholes were, we bring to the captain."
"And the weapons?"
Darnell's grin widened. "Now you're asking the right questions. Every rifle, sidearm, magazine, and tactical vest, strip it all and load it into our truck. The captain didn't say it in so many words, but I know what he wants." He jerked his thumb toward the East End precinct's evidence van they'd driven out here. "Nobody's gonna miss a few guns that never made it into the evidence log, yeah?"
The other officers were already moving, pulling tactical gloves from their pockets. This clearly wasn't their first time pulling something like this.
"What about the rats?" another officer asked, eyeing the hundreds of rat corpses scattered through the grass.
Darnell looked at the dead rats, then at the partially-eaten human corpses, then back at the rats.
"Leave 'em. Nobody's gonna want to investigate that shit too closely anyway."
He walked over to the nearest body, and crouched down, pulling a wallet from the corpse's torn tactical pants. He flipped it open, and whistled.
From somewhere in the dark woods, a crow cawed.
Darnell looked up, spotted it perched on a skeletal branch. It tilted its head, regarding him with one beady eye, then spread its wings and launched itself into the air. It circled twice over the massacre site, cawed again, and flew off toward downtown Gotham.
He turned back to his crew. "Come on. We've got maybe an hour before someone notices we're taking too long."
---
---
40 Advance Chapters!
Visit my profile page for more information.