Derek lurched forward, his legs obeying him only grudgingly.Each step required concentration, his body moving as if through invisible molasses.The spinning in his head worsened when he moved too quickly, forcing him to adopt a careful, shuffling gait.Even so, he nearly fell twice before reaching the street.
The digital display on his watch read 1:47 a.m., though the numbers doubled and blurred when he tried to focus on them.The town slept around him, windows dark, streets empty.Somewhere distant, a dog barked once, then fell silent.His own breathing seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness.
A shortcut.He needed the shortcut through the old textile mill district.It would shave ten minutes off his walk, ten minutes he wasn’t sure his legs could manage in their current state.He veered left at the next intersection, leaving the main road for a narrower street that wound between abandoned industrial buildings.
The street lamps here were spaced farther apart, creating pools of yellow light surrounded by deeper darkness.Derek moved from one illuminated circle to the next, his shadow stretching and contracting like something alive.His thoughts drifted, unfocused and meandering.
What had happened tonight?The evening existed in his memory as disconnected fragments, some sharp-edged, others blurred beyond recognition.He remembered arriving at the bar around nine, already buzzed from the half-bottle of cheap bourbon he’d drained at home.The first few drinks at the Centaur’s Den stood out clearly enough—the burn of whiskey, the background hum of conversation, the baseball game playing on the TV above the bar.
Then things grew hazier.Had he played pool?He had a vague recollection of leaning over the green felt, cue stick sliding between his fingers.And an argument—he’d definitely had words with someone.Not Aaron, someone else.A man in a blue shirt?Derek couldn’t recall the man’s face, just the hot flush of anger and the way Aaron had stepped between them, guiding Derek back to the bar.
“You’re cut off,” Aaron had said then.But Derek had somehow gotten more drinks after that.Hadn’t he?The timeline refused to coalesce into anything coherent.
And Brenda.Shit.He’d run into Brenda Drummond at some point.The memory surfaced like debris after a flood—Brenda’s pinched face, her wire-rimmed glasses catching the light as she glared at him.
What had he said to her?He hoped it wasn’t anything that was going to come back and bite him—something she might put on that damn website she ran, TownCircle.The digital bulletin board where neighbors aired grievances and spread gossip under the thin veneer of “community service.”
Had he threatened her?Or had he told her something about himself that he shouldn’t have?The possibilities sent a jolt of clarity through his drunken haze.Brenda wielded TownCircle like a weapon, her self-righteous posts ruining reputations and stirring up trouble.If he’d given her ammunition against him...
Derek stumbled on an uneven patch of sidewalk, nearly falling before catching himself against a lamppost.His stomach lurched dangerously, and he paused, breathing deeply through his nose until the nausea passed.The night air had grown colder, or perhaps it was just his sweat-dampened shirt chilling against his skin.
He pushed off from the lamppost and continued his unsteady journey.The textile mills loomed around him, hulking shadows of Trentville’s more prosperous past.Most had been abandoned decades ago when the industry moved overseas, leaving behind empty brick shells with broken windows that stared like blind eyes at the streets below.
The town council talked periodically about revitalization projects, but nothing ever materialized.The mills remained, decaying slowly, home to pigeons and rats and occasionally to teenagers looking for a private place to drink or make out.
Something scraped against pavement behind him.Footsteps?
Derek turned too quickly, the world tilting alarmingly.He braced himself against the rough brick wall of the nearest building until the spinning subsided.The street behind him stretched empty and silent, pools of lamplight illuminating nothing but cracked concrete.
Imagination.Had to be.Or maybe a stray cat.
He resumed walking, more careful now, aware of his vulnerability.In his younger days, Derek had been the danger in the dark—the troublemaker, the fighter, the name mothers warned their children about.Now, at thirty-seven, with a body softened by alcohol and inactivity, he felt the tables turning.
There it was again—the unmistakable sound of a footfall, then another.Deliberate steps, not the scurrying of an animal.
“Who’s there?”Derek called out, his voice echoing between the buildings.No response came except the faint rustle of wind through discarded paper.
Paranoia.That’s all it was.The whiskey making him jumpy, conjuring threats from shadows and wind sounds.He’d nearly reached the end of the mill district anyway.Another few blocks and he’d be back in the residential area, with its narrow houses packed close together.Safety in proximity.
The footsteps came again, quicker now, no longer trying to disguise their approach.Derek whirled around, the sudden movement nearly sending him to his knees as vertigo gripped him.He squinted into the darkness, his vision doubling and tripling an approaching figure.
A silhouette had materialized from the shadows between streetlights—human-shaped, average height and build, but featureless in the dim light.As the figure stepped into the glow of the nearest lamp, details emerged: all black clothing, hands encased in dark gloves, and a ski mask obscuring every feature except for the eyes.
Fear sliced through Derek’s drunkenness, a blade of adrenaline cutting the fog.“What do you want?”he demanded, trying to sound tough despite the tremor in his voice.
The figure said nothing, continuing its steady advance.Derek backpedaled, nearly tripping over his own feet.Fight or flight warred within him, neither option promising much success in his condition.But Derek Sullivan had never been one to run.
“Back off!”he warned, raising his fists in a clumsy approximation of a boxer’s stance.“I’m not an easy target.”
Still silent, the figure closed the distance between them.In a last, desperate attempt at defense, Derek swung his right fist in a wild haymaker.His attacker sidestepped easily, catching Derek’s extended arm and using his own momentum to propel him forward.The world spun in a dizzying arc as Derek’s feet left the ground.
He hit the pavement face-first, the impact driving the air from his lungs in a painful whoosh.Before he could recover, a weight pressed against his back—a knee digging between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the cold concrete.Derek bucked and thrashed, but his struggles were as ineffective as a turtle overturned on its shell.
Something thin slipped around his throat—a cord or wire or something, pulled taut with horrifying speed.Derek’s hands scrabbled uselessly behind him, trying to reach his attacker, trying to loosen the garrote cutting into his windpipe.Nothing worked.Pressure built in his head, a roaring in his ears drowning out everything except the voice that suddenly whispered close beside him.
“Red is for rage,” the figure hissed in a breathy voiceless whisper, the words slipping into Derek’s fading consciousness like poison.
The pressure increased.Derek’s vision narrowed, darkness encroaching from all sides until only a pinpoint of streetlight remained.His lungs burned, desperate for air that couldn’t pass his constricted throat.The last thing he felt was the rough concrete against his cheek, scraping skin as his struggles weakened and finally ceased.
