Saturday's Scene
"Shots fired. Third floor, Mallory Hotel."
"Copy. Units en route."
They pulled up slowly—one cruiser, two bored faces.
Rookie hadn’t unclipped his sidearm since academy quals.
Sarge hadn’t unclipped his emotions since ‘96.
Inside smelled like cheap cologne, smoke, and bleach pretending to be air freshener. The kind of place where sins went to dry out and drip from the ceiling tiles.
The floors of the hotel didn’t echo screams—just the kind of silence that knew they happened.
“You hear that?” Rookie asked.
“I hear paperwork,” Sarge muttered, boots squeaking against a floor too clean for what they were about to see.
At the second floor landing, the hallway glistened. Water pooled across the cracked tile like some sad janitor’s farewell. A man in a security vest lay crumpled at the base of the third floor stairs, neck bent backward in prayer to a god that didn’t come. A wet floor sign placed on his corpse.
“Jesus. Slipped?”
“Mm. Might’ve. Neck’s folded like a pocketknife.”
“What’s with the sign?”
“Somebody cared enough to warn him. After.”
They stepped over the body. Rookie gagged when his boot squelched through watered down blood. Sarge didn’t blink. He just adjusted his belt, like this was a bad dream he’d overslept through before.
The third floor smelled the worst, like someone left fresh livers out to ferment.
A black liquid sprayed the walls like graffiti done in a rush. It clung in arcs and splatters, like whatever bled it had thrashed hard and fast. The floor looked like it had been baptized in oil. Thick, inky puddles streaked from room to room—so dark they swallowed the overhead fluorescents, making the whole hallway feel underwater. It shimmered like molasses over asphalt. Blood, maybe. Maybe something older.
One room’s door hung off its hinge like it’d lost an argument. Inside: a coffee table cracked in two, a silenced submachine gun still warm, and a man face-down in his own scotch with duct tape wrapped tight around his neck.
“Mallory?”
“Nah. Just another one of his guards. Mallory’s the cheap suit, bold enough to name a hotel after himself.”
“Then where the hell’s Mallory?”
They found him out back, flattened dead against the sidewalk beside a getaway car—shot to shit. His driver sat headless at the wheel, exit wounds blooming throughout the vehicle like a discarded valentine.
Mallory’s mouth hung open in a final scream.
On his forehead, scrawled in smeared red Sharpie:
“quiet-like.”
Rookie turned away and vomited into a bush.
Sarge kept smacking his gum like this show was just a rerun from last Saturday.
“You okay, kid?”
“That guy fell out the window.”
“Who, Mallory?”
“No, the killer—onto Mallory.”
“…He jumped?”
“Guess so.”
“Huh.”
Sarge exhaled slowly.
“Must be Berry Graves again. Fights like an accident. Kills like a coincidence.”
“Who is he?”
“The kind of ghost you don’t believe in ‘til the floor gives out.”
A silence settled in. Rookie stared up at the shattered window on the third floor—jaw clenched, eyes glassy.
Sarge nudged him toward the tape.
“Come on. Let’s bag the mess. Saturday’s gonna stink for years.”