Flicker & Burn: A Cold Fury Novel by T.M. Goeglein

desiccated leg beneath a sequined skirt. I was on my feet in a flash, stumbling past gambling tables and slot machines, and pressed against a wall, my heart tripping like a jackhammer. I moved my hand across cold plaster until I located a light switch, and with trembling fingers, I flipped it. First one, then another and another light fixture blew its old bulb to bits. Shielding my face with a forearm, I lowered it to see a lone fixture oozing light, turning the room a ghastly yellow, changing the mass of slumped shadows into corpses. I sucked back a scream, covering my mouth with the back of a hand at the sight of the brutal carnage. There were bodies everywhere, shot down where they’d stood or sat. Some, like the one I’d fallen on, had been ripped in two by bullets. Dried black blood pooled on green felt tables and tiled floors, spattering the walls like abstract art. I had no idea how long they’d been here, but with revulsion and sick curiosity, I noted that decomposition was at a point between mummy and skeleton. Generations of spiders had infested the scene, draping it in a stringy cloak of webbing. It was a mix of men and women dressed in the style of the fifties or sixties, and then I noticed something else.
    Besides blood, cash was everywhere, in thick piles or scattered like blown leaves.
    This was not a robbery gone wrong.
    I was looking at the remains of a massacre.
    My mind choked on so much murder, with one thought shouldering aside the rest:
Whoever did it left these people down here to rot.
It was a notion I’d pull apart later, but now my ear twitched at the scratch of footsteps. I ducked behind the bar, stifling a scream at coming nose-to-nose with a bartender missing half his skull, and carefully peeked over the top. At the front of the expansive room, near the main entrance, Teardrop’s face glowed in murkiness like a beacon of death. He moved warily, looking for me but obviously taken aback by the butchery. From this viewpoint, I discerned the layout of the place—main entrance leading to gaming tables, which led to the bar (where I cowered) and a small stage at the rear of the room. Half the bodies were clustered at the front, but the rest had been cut down toward the back. Some had been trying so desperately to reach the rear of the room that they’d run right out of their shoes.
    They were attempting, unsuccessfully, to escape.
    There had to be an exit back there.
    Nearly hugging the floor so Teardrop couldn’t see me, I went down on all fours and crawled madly and silently toward the small stage. I passed by a hallway with no doors or windows, only an ancient cigarette machine; long ago, coins were fed into it and levers yanked as packs of smokes tumbled out. I rose, crouching in shadows, peering at one brand in particular, Carlyle Red, with a tiny raised
C.
I pulled the lever, cringing at the echoing
thunk!
as the machine swung aside, revealing a flight of stairs. Clawing cobwebs from my face, I ran up the steps, hearing Teardrop kicking over chairs and cadavers as he came after me. A door popped open at the top and I found myself on a narrow catwalk leading to a large, whooshing air vent. I lunged for the screen and grunted, ripping it free and lifting myself inside, when a steely hand closed around my ankle.
    Teardrop hissed, “Got you, you smug little bi—” but didn’t finish since I hammered its festering mouth with my other foot until it gurgled and let go. And then I was crawling rapidly through inches of smelly water. When I reached another round screen, I realized I wasn’t inside an air vent but a drainpipe.
    Those weren’t screens—they were, like, poo filters.
    I squinted through the filter in front of me and saw that the pipe on the other side flowed directly toward me, dribbling water. Behind me, I heard a slap and a splash, and I knew Teardrop was on the move. I yanked at the filter but it held tight, and that’s when I saw two buttons on the other side of the