“SWAT stopped moving.”
“They might be too far into the building. You just can’t hear them anymore.”
“No, that’s not it. They stopped moving.”
“Maybe they found something?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s too quiet,” Clair said.
“Let’s go,” Porter said. “Stay close.”
They moved slowly, the beam of the Maglite slicing through the gloom. The entryway turned into a hallway that turned into a narrow path as they made their way through boxes, crates, and other assorted items stacked against the wall. Porter counted no fewer than five mattresses within the first fifty feet, the cloth rotted and worn, damp with mildew and insects crawling in and out of the fabric. The concrete floor was a cesspool of dirt and grime dotted with small puddles of piss-scented water. The sound of needles crunching underfoot was enough to wish his attention elsewhere. He pictured tiny rodent skeletons snapping under each step.
There were doors every ten feet or so, the wood frames cracked and splintered. Porter knew the SWAT team had made quick work of them either with a kick or the battering ram they had used on the front door. Porter shined the Maglite through each room as they passed, even though he knew he wouldn’t find anything worthwhile—a cautionary move at best.
At the third door he stopped and forced his ears to listen.
He heard the steady drip of water.
Nash and Clair, breathing, a few paces back.
The ticking of his watch.
He couldn’t hear the SWAT team, though. Not a single sound came from up ahead.
Porter slowed down enough to allow Nash and Clair to catch up. “Something’s wrong; I don’t like this.”
A loud crash followed by two quick gunshots came from deep within the building.
“Go!” Porter ordered, rushing toward the gunfire.
Clair and Nash chased after him, following the bouncing Maglite.
Moving fast, Porter followed the sound. He felt as if he was going to choke on the mildew. They came upon a broken freight elevator with a set of stairs trailing down to the left. Voices rose from below.
Without hesitation, they descended the steps two at a time, avoiding the trash and debris, careful not to slip.
“What the fuck!” someone shouted.
“Where are they coming from?”
“I can’t tell!”
“Pull back!”
“No, wait!”
A bright red light illuminated the doorway at the base of the stairs. Someone had set off a flare. Porter squinted against the bright light. He raised the muzzle of his gun so it pointed to the ceiling. He wasn’t about to risk an accidental discharge.
From below: “They’re scattering!”
“Set off another one. Over there, in the corner!”
Nash grabbed Porter’s shoulder and held him still a few steps from the bottom, then shouted, “Espinosa? It’s Detectives Nash, Norton, and Porter. We’re at the stairs. Hold your fire!”
“Hold on, Detectives!” Espinosa shouted back.
“Clear!” someone else cried out.
“Fucking things are everywhere!”
Another flare burned to life with a loud sizzle and landed at the base of the steps.
At least half a dozen rats darted past, their tiny feet clambering over Porter’s and Nash’s shoes. Clair let out a yelp.
“Fuck!” Nash shouted, jumping back against the wall.
Porter stared in awe as six more ran by.
“All right—you can come down; just stay in the light,” Espinosa told them.
“I ain’t—” Nash said.
Clair gave him a push. “Move, you baby.”
They stepped out into a large basement, which appeared to span the length of the building. Illuminated by the red flares, concrete floors and redbrick walls spread out as far as Porter could see. The floor was littered with trash: boxes, loose paper, soda cans, and— “I’ve never seen so many rats,” Porter said, his eyes locked on the ground just beyond the flare’s reach. The floor shimmered and moved. A living blanket of rodents. They crawled over one another in an attempt to retreat from the light, only they had no place to go. Little nails clicked against the concrete, digging into the backs of others as they scrambled back.
“I told you guys to wait outside,” Espinosa said, frowning. “At least until I know what the hell we’re dealing with down here.”
“We’re dealing with a damn infestation,” one of the other SWAT members grumbled, before tossing another flare deep into the back of the room.
“You throw them back there, the rats are gonna come out this way. We need to force them back.”
“Force them where?”
“You’re shooting at rats?” Porter asked.
“That was Brogan, fucking idiot.”
“Hey!”
“Damn things are everywhere. Gotta be a thousand of them down here,” Espinosa said, kicking one off his boot. The rat sailed through the air and bounced off a far wall, then shook it off and ran toward the far corner of the room.
Nash stood perfectly still, his face pale white as rats scurried around their feet, running past in blind panic with their tiny yellow teeth bared.
Clair told them about the tunnels, suggesting that was probably how they got in and out of this basement.
Espinosa nodded and pressed a button on the radio at his shoulder. “Check the perimeter walls. We’re looking for some kind of tunnel entrance.”
“We don’t need to search,” Porter said, his eyes following the rodents as they crossed the floor, darting around the trash. “Just follow them.” His eyes went to the far back corner. They weren’t running in random patterns but streaming in that direction, a river of disease and filth. “Can I have a flare?” he asked.
Espinosa pulled one from his belt and handed it to Porter.
Porter tugged off the cap, ignited it, and launched the canister toward the back. It arched through the air and landed with a thud sixty feet away.
“Whoa! You’ve got a hell of an arm on you, Detective!” Espinosa exclaimed.
Porter chased after the flare.
Although the rats gave the flame a wide berth, they continued toward a singular spot, toward a closed door with a small hole at the bottom right corner, a hole large enough for them to squeeze through. And that was precisely what they were doing. In neat single file, they pushed through the opening, one after another.
Porter reached for the door, and Espinosa grabbed his hand. “Step back, Detective. We need to clear that room.” His voice was low, barely audible.
Porter nodded and moved to the side.
Gesturing with his free hand, Espinosa directed two team members to flank the door. He stood ten feet back with his weapon trained on the opening, then counted down from three with his fingers.
At zero, one of the SWAT team kicked in the door and ducked inside, moving swift and low to the left. The other officer trained his weapon above him and swept the barrel across the room before following his partner. Two other men streamed in behind him.
“Clear!” Muffled, distant.
Then another: “Clear!”
Weapon at the ready, Espinosa moved quickly and disappeared. A moment later the bright light of a red flare burned from inside.