Previously on RUNNER RAMIREZ & THE RACETRACK FROM HELL…
After the speakeasy fight Runner rests up at his hotel room before eating at the diner (again) and heading to the local library. Here he learned a little about the man behind the horse track along with the fact that the number of unexplained deaths and missing persons reports had skyrocketed during the time of the track’s construction. Curious, Runner headed for the town’s police headquarters to seek some more information.
And now…
Runner Ramirez & the Racetrack from Hell
By Tyler Tarlton
Chapter 7
One thing I've learned over the years in dealing with small town cops...they don't like outsiders, especially outsiders who ask a lot of questions, questions that touched on subjects they didn't want openly discussed. By this point in time I had already been run out of a couple towns by their local police force, and that was without them knowing about my special 'friend.' So I had to be ready for anything.
The station sat close to the library among the other government buildings, all generic with uninspired design as all such were. I stood across the street for almost an hour trying to decide exactly how this should be played. There was really only one choice however, one way to maximize the probability that I could get more than a 'hello' before being tossed out on the street.
"What do you want?"
The snarled worlds of the officer manning the front desk greeted me as I stepped through the door. I was really glad at that moment that I wasn't a citizen in need of some real help. Especially if the rest of the squad were like this winner.
"Officer Hoskins, Miami PD," I said as I stepped to the desk and flashed the toy badge I had bought earlier at the town's general store. As expected, the officer made no move to actually examine the badge. Crack staff here. "I'm working a case and my suspect is from around these parts. Could use some info."
The stare I received from the cop in return made it appear as if he wanted to bore into my soul. He obviously did not succeed because had he spotted even a glimpse of my soul, he would've gone crazy or dropped dead.
"What do you want to know?" he finally asked.
I paced back and forth a few times, mostly to irritate this idiot as opposed to organizing any thoughts, before laying out a few questions whose answers I hoped would shed some light on the missing persons cases reported in the newspapers.
"I got a missing person back home who was last seen with a guy hailing from these parts," I said. "Construction worker. Hear talk there's been a few of those missing up this way..."
I held my breath as the stare resumed. Almost looked as if he was trying to decide on what to tell me. After a few seconds he held up a hand.
"Just a sec, let me get my sergeant."
So far so good. I was able to ask a question without getting thrown out. Getting thrown out of a police station was way worse than getting tossed from a bar or club. Here the cops would take a couple free shots on your way out. So things were looking up.
A couple minutes later the officer returned and motioned for me to follow. We walked through the building, weaving among the various offices til we reached a door that looked like it might lead outside. The officer stood to the side and held the door open.
"The sarge will answer your questions," he said as he pointed through the door. I stared at him for a second then stepped to the threshold. I noticed that it did in fact lead outside. Before I could say anything else the officer shoved me forward. I stumbled off a curb and fell to the cement. The door slammed behind me.
I stood and dusted myself off. I realized I was in the alley along one side of the building. And I wasn't alone. Four other police officers stood in a semi-circle around me each with Billy clubs in hand. They looked quite angry but also a bit, um, off. Like they were on some sort of drug or something. At that moment a series of shocks shot up my back. They were of the untranslatable variety at first but then coalesced into regular Morse code. It was a simple message: 'look at their wrists.' A quick glance in that direction showed a small symbol burned into the left wrist of each officer. I froze. I now knew for whom these guys really worked. And it sure wasn't the city.
Not long after I met my 'friend’, and we worked out our so-called arrangement he started to inform me of the things to look for that would indicate the presence or influence of possible demonic activity. Those entities could indeed possess people, either on their own or via a Summoner but they could also influence people without taking full control. Didn't have to expend as much energy that way. You see those cartoons where the devil appears on one shoulder and an angel on the other as they try to convince some guy to do something right or wrong? It's kinda like that. It can be a onetime thing or a demon can go to the same person over and over. The latter especially occurred if the demon could find someone especially gullible, weak-minded, or stupid. Or greedy. Or any number of things. These people would basically sell their souls for some earthly gain or a promise which usually isn't fulfilled. At least not in the way people think. Give in to these demons long enough and eventually you became a slave. My 'friend' has a fancy word for them, acolyte. I think slave is more accurate. They end up getting the mark of the particular demon on their hand or wrist. These guys were acolytes.
"Heard you got some questions..." the officer closest to me growled. He was the sergeant. The others fanned out to either side to ensure I couldn't escape. They looked to be pretty mean and tough even without the demonic influence.
Now these chaps were not possessed but acolytes that had given themselves over to demonic influence and suggestion long enough developed the ability to ignore almost all pain. Guys like that were hard to put down and could make mince meat out of even the toughest of fighters. Fortunately, I had my 'friend' and the food/rest I had recently enjoyed allowed me to accept his full help. I smiled.
"I do," I said as the heat started to build from within. "I have several actually. You gonna answer?"
The guys answered but not in an audible form. The sergeant leapt forward and swung his Billy club at my head. I got my left forearm up in time, the wood shattering on my forearm. I did not feel a thing but would have a healthy bruise later. Before the others could react I grabbed the sarge with my right hand and flung him into the officer on the same side. I continued the motion and clocked the officer charging at me from the left with a punch hard enough to send him flying into the others.
I lowered my shoulder and rushed them. I slammed into the closest one like a linebacker and drove him into the rest. I kept going and slammed them all into the wall on the other side of the alley. This move managed to knock them all out aside from the sarge. I walked over and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him up high against the wall in the process.
A series of shocks lit up my back, Morse code that directed me to the type of questions to ask. But before that my 'friend' asked for a closer look at the sarge's wrist. I grabbed his hand with my free one and held it to my face. The mark was crude but looked sorta like a skull surrounded by snakes. The kinda cheap art you'd find on the backs of some low-rent motorcycle gang. It looked unfamiliar to me and seemed that way to my 'friend' too. I had learned before that there was no fixed rule to what these symbols looked like; a demon could change it with every acolyte he turned.
"Who is your master?" I asked. The answer was a sort of hissing sound followed by a punch to my gut. His position didn't allow for much force and wouldn't hurt even if it had. I gave him a head butt in return and lifted him higher. "One last time...who is your master?"
I was fairly certain he would've spit on me had he had full control of his throat. Instead he just gave me a look of pure and utter contempt. Like I was the awful one in this situation. The next thing my 'friend' wanted me to say, or repeat, was a phrase in some ancient language that probably no one currently alive could translate.
"Emoi etuck saltine obegedon..."
The sergeant's eyes went wide and his face whitened by several shades. He also began to shake. Whatever I had just said seemed to scare him to death. Things were about to get bad.
What could be WORSE than a fight with demon-affiliated police officers?? Find out next week in Chapter 8!
The idea of a possessed precinct is terrifying. This is the first entry I discovered, but you've got me going back to read the others!