Excerpt: Not the Brightest Crayon

Mortimer was not at all familiar with Old Town, and finding Post Street in the midst of the rubble and ruin and sharp smell of desolation proved to be difficult. It was eerie to walk through, like a graveyard of lives, and Mortimer felt chilly. He jumped at every sound, shied away from every shadow, and constantly rechecked his pocket to make sure that the pepper spray was still there. He had heard about the slumming problem in Old Town, and he was positively terrified of meeting one of them. The slummers.

It was just past eleven when Mortimer, in all his wanderings, managed to find the tilting, slightly charred, sign post declaring that it was Post Street.

Mortimer went warily down the street, using his flashlight to try to find any hint of house 412.

What he found was a mailbox, half hidden in the earth, dented and rotting wood with the black numbers “412” still visible.

Mortimer looked at the house and hesitated.

There was no main floor. There were a pile of bricks and partially burned timbers lying askew and the echoes of someone’s life lying there, exposed and unprotected in the moonlight.

Mortimer swallowed and started in.

He picked his way through carefully, wincing every time a bit of wood snapped under his weight or something shifted with a grinding like a gun firing. When he did find the stairs, they were only a few steps, largely undamaged, leading down into a swell of black.

“Hello?” Mortimer called, stepping hesitantly down, ducking his head to go in further. “I-it’s me. Mortimer Scott. You told me t-to be here.”

There was no reply.

Mortimer went all the way in, wary, and shone his flashlight into the darkness. It was rusty and dark, mildew creeping up the walls and water drip-dripping from the ceiling, and the floor was concrete smeared with muddy ash.

“Turn off your light,” a voice to his left advised him, and Mortimer recognized it as belonging to the man from the factory. He shut off the light. “Thank you.”

There was a sudden hand on his shoulder, and Mortimer jumped and yelped automatically. He was shoved up against the wall, feeling the wet and filth seep into his jacket, and struggled to stay calm.

The man towered over him and said, “Mortimer Scott?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

The man snatched away Mortimer’s flashlight and shone it at him, to get a look at his face. Mortimer winced and couldn’t make out a thing about the man behind the light.

“Do I know you?” the man asked. There was a frown in his voice.

“N-no, sir.”

“Really?” He was quiet for a few seconds. “You seem very familiar to me.”

“Sir—”

“Have you got a birthmark?” Mortimer shook his head. “On your back?”

“N-no,” Mortimer lied.

The man didn’t sound convinced. “Take off your shirt. Now.”

“I—”

“Now, Mister Scott.”

Mortimer, blushing deeply, took off his jacket and shirt, standing skinny and cold and naked from the waist up. The star tattooed on his chest, right above his heart, looked ghostly in the light, his number seeming suddenly not at all reassuring. Now it felt like something dangerous, and he was nervous to look at it.

“Turn around.” Mortimer did. The man tapped the birthmark with his flashlight, a little circle of discoloration, and said, “You know what that’s from?”

“N-no sir.”

“The day you were born,” he said, “that’s where you died.”

Mortimer couldn’t think of a reply.

The man clapped a hand on his shoulder, made him jump and his heart beat too fast against his ribcage. “You don’t remember me, kid, but I sure as fuck remember you. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“I re-remember you,” Mortimer said. “You were from the factory. Last night. You burnt it down.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Tell me what my name is.”

“Talbot. You’re the serial killer. You’re the one everyone wants dead.”

Talbot shook his head gravely, and he said, “You don’t know me at all. Damn shame.” He wheeled Mortimer around, and he said, “Put your shirt back on.”

Mortimer did.

“Now, give me my things.” He handed the notebook and passport over, hesitantly. “Thank you.” Talbot added with a grin, “Come with me.” He put his hand in his pants pocket, moving over the fabric of his jacket just enough so that Mortimer could see the butt of his gun gleaming in the shadows.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“There’s a good boy.”

Talbot, killer of the priests, put an arm around Mortimer’s shoulders and led him into the darkness of the basement.

“Where do you live?” he asked Mortimer.

“I’m not telling you,” Mortimer said, but he couldn’t keep the tremble out of his voice.

“You won’t? That’s not very polite at all.” The flashlight’s beam jumped ahead of them, over the strewn boxes of family heirlooms that were never passed on and decrypt, broken furniture. “Well, then, I suppose that we’ll have no choice but to choose someplace else to talk, then. Hmm.”

Talbot paused to think for a moment, then snapped his fingers and said, “I got it.”

“Got what?”

“Where I’m going to change your life, kid.”