Chapter 008: A blood-drying plague?

Christine led the way, Fairfax trailing behind with a curious eye roaming the garage. He stopped short when she turned, eyebrow raised in question.

"Keys," she said simply, tossing him a ring.

Fairfax caught them, his gaze following hers to the car she indicated. Disappointment flickered across his face. It wasn't the sleek, powerful vehicle he'd envisioned, but the oldest, most dented patrol car on the lot. It practically groaned in protest as a gust of wind rattled its rusty frame. He doubted Charlie's little accident had anything to do with its condition.

Fairfax's stare was intense, like a hawk fixated on a field mouse. Christine couldn't help but quip from behind him, ""Staring holes into it won't make it magically appear better, you know?"

He offered a dry chuckle. "Maybe it'll disappear," he muttered, following her as she turned towards the locker room.

Inside, rows of white lockers lined the walls. Christine stopped at B39 and tossed him another key.

"New digs," she said, already walking away before he could get a word in. "Gun and gear inside."

Fairfax unlocked the locker to find his service weapon nestled within. He picked it up, the familiar weight a comfort in his hand. He ran his fingers along the barrel, a practiced movement. "What a beauty," he murmured, selecting a holster and securing the gun to his hip. He grabbed a few essentials and shut the locker with a metallic clang, heading back towards his assigned chariot.

The beat-up patrol car definitely stood out from the rest of the fleet. He unlocked the door and climbed in, surprised by a wave of unexpected warmth. A smile tugged at his lips as his hands settled on the steering wheel.

"Charlie?"

The sound of his own name jolted him back to reality. He quickly retracted his hand and turned towards the intruder, the sheepish smile dissolving into a grin.

"Charlie, get out here."

George stood in the doorway, his face etched with annoyance. Fairfax's grin clamp shut and carefully clambered out of the car.

"Seriously contemplating a vacation already?" George asked, tapping his foot impatiently.

Fairfax raised an eyebrow. "No?"

George's gaze narrowed. "No, you wouldn't be. You've been MIA for a week, leaving us short-handed. Now a morning guy calls in sick, and guess what? We've got another body." He paused for emphasis.

"So?" Fairfax played dumb, despite the knot forming in his stomach.

George leaned in, his voice low and firm. "So, we need you down at the scene. Now. No arguments."

Fairfax swallowed hard as he pocketed the address given to him, the paper already damp from his clammy hands. Thank goodness for the built-in GPS in this clunker of a car.

He watched George disappear with a briskness that suggested he wasn't a huge fan of Fairfax's week-long absence. Shaking off the lingering tension, Fairfax took a fortifying breath and climbed back into the car. His lips were dry, so he gave them a quick lick before jamming the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, a sound that did little to inspire confidence.

Following the blinking blue dot on the GPS, Fairfax navigated the streets. The tracker led him to a desolate stretch, lined with overgrown bushes that seemed to swallow the houses they surrounded. This particular house looked particularly forgotten, a weathered two-story structure with peeling paint and a neglected yard. Though there were neighboring houses, the area was eerily silent.

Fairfax pulled up in front of the house, the engine sputtering its final breaths before falling silent. He climbed out, the gravel crunching under his boots as he approached the house. Just then, the radio in his pocket crackled to life, startling him. He fumbled to pull it out, his heart hammering in his chest.

Another burst of static came through the speaker before Fairfax managed to press the talk button. "Hello?" he answered, his voice a little shaky.

"Unit 39, come in, please. Over," a clipped voice crackled back through the radio.

Fairfax forced himself to take a deep breath, pushing down the tremor in his voice. "Dispatch, this is unit 39, go ahead. Over."

He was honestly getting the hang of this whole police work thing.

"Unit 39, routine check-in. Any updates from your patrol? Over," the disembodied voice returned.

"Negative, Dispatch. All quiet on my end. Streets clear, no incidents apart from the one reported. I'm about to go in. Over." Fairfax's eyes scanned the windows of the house as he spoke.

"Roger, unit 39. Copy that. Be advised, report anything you find suspicious or out of place immediately. Over."

Fairfax felt a jolt of nervous energy course through him. He managed to keep his voice steady as he replied, "Copy that, Dispatch. I'll head inside now and report the details. Over."

"Understood, unit 39. Proceed with caution. Over."

"Will do, Dispatch. Unit 39, out."

Fairfax holstered the radio, running a hand through his bald head. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. Diana had definitely drilled him well on these procedures. But even with the advanced help, a knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach as he stared up at the darkened house.

Taking a breath, he crept towards the front door. His hand hovering over the knob. With a deep breath, he rapped his knuckles against the worn wood. Silence. He waited a beat, then cautiously pushed the door open. It creaked on rusted hinges, a sound that echoed eerily in the sudden quiet.

Unlike the desolate exterior, the inside of the house was surprisingly bright. Large windows, uncurtained, let in the afternoon sun that illuminated a clean and tidy living room. The television was mounted on the wall, a stark contrast to the peeling paint he'd expected. Even the furniture seemed recently dusted, an unsettling orderliness in the face of the unknown.

"Maybe a false alarm," he muttered to himself, a flicker of disappointment battling with a growing sense of unease. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the closed doorway leading deeper into the house. Taking a decisive step forward, he moved to investigate further.

As he entered the inner room, a gasp ripped from his throat. On the floor lay a man, no older than his early twenties. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, but unlike what Fairfax had braced himself for, there was no blood – a chilling absence that made the scene all the more disturbing.

Following the advised words, Fairfax reached for his radio. But before he could press the button, a movement caught his eye. A single drop of crimson liquid dripped down from the built-in wardrobe across the room.

Frowning, he cautiously approached the wardrobe. An internal debate raged – call for backup first or investigate further? Curiosity, laced with a healthy dose of apprehension, won out. He gripped the handle and slowly pulled the door open.

A horrifying tableau unfolded before him. A cascade of lifeless bodies tumbled from the wardrobe, collapsing onto Fairfax who hadn't had time to react. The impact sent his radio flying, the device clattering against the wall before landing silent on the floor.

A strangled cry escaped his lips as he found himself buried under the weight of the bodies. Panic surged through him as he struggled to free himself. One by one, he managed to heave the bodies off, rolling onto his side with a gasp for breath. His chest ached with exertion.

Heaving himself to a sitting position, Fairfax looked at the macabre scene around him. Like the man he saw first, these victims looked more like they were peacefully sleeping than dead, their faces pale and eyes slightly open. But again, no blood marred their skin.

The source of the dripping blood became clear now. A lifeless dog lay a few feet away from his broken radio, its fur stained crimson. It was the only sign of violence in the entire room. Where had their blood gone?

"What happened here?" he rasped, the question more out of habit, expecting an answer. Half-heartedly, he looked towards his shoulder, waiting for a response.

Silence.

Frustration bubbled up inside him. "A plague that has befallen the people?" he finally asked, his voice hoarse.

Still no response. He repeated the question, this time with a hint of anger. "A plague that dries blood systems? Doesn't this look exactly like Charlie's misfortune before I arrived?"

Even the lack of response started to grate on him. "You know you can tell me if you don't want to help me," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"[I can only give you this much, until you find your challenge.]" The disembodied voice finally answered, but its words offered little comfort.

Fairfax ignored the cryptic response. He stood up slowly, wincing at the protest from his sore muscles. He walked over to the dog, retrieved his battered radio, and checked if it still worked. With a sigh of relief, he pressed the button, hoping to connect with dispatch.