Page 23 of When You're Broken
“Finn?”Amelia’s voice floated up softly from outside.
“All good,” he whispered back.“Just keep an eye out.”
He hopped down from the crate onto a sticky floor.This must be a back storeroom: battered shelves with cleaning supplies, boxes labeled with brand names of beer, a toppled broom, and a lingering odor of stale alcohol.But something else, too—a rancid undertone that pricked at his nose.He swallowed, heart picking up pace.I hate that smell.Reminded him of old crime scenes, decaying matter.
He stepped forward, careful not to knock over any precarious boxes.His free hand slid along the wall, searching for a light switch.Nothing responded, confirming the power was cut or switched off.The gloom felt oppressive.I should’ve grabbed a flashlight,he thought.But it was midday, so the spill of backlight from the storeroom window plus minimal front windows might be enough.
Easing through the storeroom door, he found himself in a narrow corridor.Silence pressed in.The corridor ended near the bar’s main area.Each step made the floor creak faintly.He forced down a twinge of nerves, reflecting on how these ominous vibes always spelled trouble.The rancid smell grew stronger.He inhaled shallowly, trying not to gag.
He emerged into a broader space—the bar’s behind-the-counter area.No doubt yesterday or the day before, the place had been normal, albeit dim.Now it was pitch dark.The only faint glow bled in through cracks in the shutters up front.Rows of liquor bottles behind the bar stood in silhouette, dusty glasses on the countertops.His foot collided with something heavy on the floor.It rattled—maybe a stool or a trash bin?He suppressed a curse.
A wave of dread prickled up his spine.This is definitely not normal.A strangled hush seemed to inhabit the building as if it had been left to rot.He reminded himself Amelia was just outside.He could shout for her if needed.But the stench intensified, hooking at his gut.He'd smelled that same sour note many times—the smell of a decaying body or at least fresh death.
He took another step, rounding the bar.A shape loomed in the corner, the silhouette of a man slumped behind the bar’s edge.Oh no.He approached cautiously, kneeling.The bar’s owner?Possibly.The figure lay on his back, eyes glassy, a bullet hole or some bloody wound across his chest that left his shirt stained blackish.Finn clenched his jaw.Dead.The body was stiff, no doubt from hours of being there.Finn inhaled unsteadily.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, scanning for signs of a second presence.He found no immediate threat.The silence was overwhelming, except for a small drip from somewhere.
He rose, heart pounding, stepping around the bar top, trying to assess the situation.He noticed a faint trail of something—blood, likely—leading beyond a cluster of knocked-over chairs to a single corner table.The metallic tang in the air thickened.He followed the smears, stepping gingerly so as not to slip.
That was when he spotted it: a second figure perched behind a battered typewriter on one of the small bar tables.The entire arrangement looked staged.Finn knew implicitly that the typewriter had been brought there by Wendell.Only the most niche writers still kept the machines, and even then rarely used them.
This man was younger than the first victim, though also quite dead.His posture was unnatural: slumped forward, tie knotted around his neck and looped to the table’s foot, as if forcibly strangled.But the strangest detail: his fingers, splayed across the typewriter keys, seemed… attached.In the dim light, Finn realized they were glued or epoxied in place, with a sheen across the knuckles.The typewriter ribbon, stained red in patches, had hammered out a single sheet of text.
Finn’s throat tightened.This must be Kelvin Street, he guessed.He stepped closer, ignoring the revulsion that threatened.The typed lines read in a jarring, uneven arrangement:
I write this with regret,
I have lied about Wendell Reed's mother.
She was not a prostitute,
I fabricated the entire story.
I am so sorry, so very sorry.
The End is Nigh, Amelia.
The last phrase hammered at Finn’s brain.Wendell must have forced the man to type this.
Kelvin’s head lolled, the tie around his neck angled at a savage angle.The bar’s gloom cast everything in stark silhouette.Finn’s pulse hammered.Swallowing hard, Finn circled the table, confirming the man was indeed dead—no pulse, no movement.The man’s eyes bulged, a sign of strangulation.Kelvin Street, or whoever typed this, is gone.Finn forced down a surge of sorrow, reminding himself of Wendell’s patterns: humiliating those who wronged him in brutal fashion.
From outside, faintly, he heard Amelia’s voice, worried.“Finn, do you see anything?”She must have grown impatient.He stepped back, clearing the bar top with a shaky breath.
“Yeah,” he called, voice resonating in the hush.“Two more victims… we better call this in.”
He heard Amelia’s shout of alarm, something like “Damn it,” from beyond the shutters.He moved quickly to the bar’s side entrance, fumbling at the locks to let her in.But his mind whirled.Wendell’s spree was escalating.Another savage scene, a calling card.This poor man with his fingers glued to a typewriter—Kelvin Street, presumably—and the bar owner shot or stabbed.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, heart racing.Time to handle the immediate steps: secure the scene, call for backup, let Amelia in.And all the while, that typed phrase hammered in his brain, an ominous echo:The End is Nigh, Amelia.
He whipped out his phone, glancing around to ensure no one else lurked in the shadows.Then, turning on the flashlight app, he decided to find the door’s internal bolt or chain to let Amelia inside.After putting on the pair of blue forensics gloves he always carried in his pocket, he slid the bolt free, the door opened to reveal her anxious face.She took one look at the tension in his eyes, at the blood spatters on the floor behind him, and her expression hardened.
“Two victims?”she repeated quietly, stepping in.She flicked her gaze around the gloom.“Tell me.”
Finn pressed his lips tight.“I found the bar owner, presumably, behind the counter—dead.And there’s a second man by a table with a typewriter.I’m 99% sure it’s Kelvin Street.”He forced the words out.“His fingers are… glued to the typewriter.It’s a message to you.”
Amelia’s eyes shone with horror, but she clenched her jaw.“Let’s call it in.Then we’ll see.”
He nodded, stepping aside so she could gather enough phone signal to contact HQ.She pressed the device to her ear, speaking in a low urgent tone, giving the address: “Harlin’s Bar, Putney.Two casualties.Possibly homicide.The building is locked down.We need forensics, an ambulance.”She paused.“Yes.I’ll hold.”
