The Chop Shop by Christopher Heffernan Read Free Book Online Page B

flashed above. The
smaller rooms were occupied by decade old human remains, still dressed in their
squalid work overalls. He cleared the next three buildings, but found only
looted storage crates.
    The last
building loomed a story taller than the others, an ominous shape on the horizon
that gave him a sense of unease. Destroyed towers stood in the distance. They
had been luxury flats on the river, but now they looked like fingers cut off at
the knuckles, each one shorter than the last. Voices echoed off the concrete.
    Michael went
down on a knee and hunched beside a chunk of chimney. Humanoid shapes moved in
the darkness. They came closer until he could see them clearly, dressed in
white sheets like ghosts and wearing shoes made out of rags wrapped around
their feet.
    One carried
scrap metal under an arm, and another clutched a tire. The others, four of
them, chased after something amongst the ruins. They beat about the rubble with
sticks. The skinny one, taller than the rest, lifted a fox by its tail and
draped the corpse over his shoulder.
    The group turned
and continued on towards Michael. He crawled into the industrial chimney. Their
footsteps came closer, and he smelt the rancid and festering stench of their
body odour, like a combination of old cigarettes and dog faeces.
    They talked
amongst themselves with fatigued mumbles and whines. Michael held his breath,
clamping one hand over his mouth so he didn't gag on the smell. One of them
sniffed at the air. Feet appeared at the end of the chimney, filthy calf
muscles twitching. The man stood there, groaning, as a lump of dribble and
saliva slipped from his mouth and splattered on his toe. He ran away, and the
others followed him.
    Michael hit the
illumination button on his watch, and the digital display lit up. He waited two
minutes before finally crawling out of the chimney, and there they were, still
visible in the distance, hunting rats around an overturned lorry. It was
five-thirty now. He wanted to go home and forget about the day. His nerves were
shot, his head dizzy and his muscles burning. He marched on towards the last
warehouse.
    Rusted shipping
containers filled the interior, stacked tall enough to reach the roof. The
locks were all forced, and nothing remained inside them. He swept the shadows
with his pocket torch as he stalked the aisles. Something shiny lay discarded
on the ground.
    He knelt down
and pointed his torch at it. A shred of plastic sandwich wrapping with a smear
of white mayonnaise still on it. Michael scribbled the shop's name into his
notepad. The darkness faded at the other end of the warehouse. He slowed,
holding his breath, and flicked the torch off.
    Light came from
around the corner behind the next row of shipping containers. He reached into
his coat pocket for the radio, only to hesitate. The warehouse was so silent he
could almost hear the pounding of his own heart. He pressed his back to the
container and edged forward, peeking around the corner.
    Michael squinted
as the light blinded him. Offices. The windows were smashed; glass lay
scattered across the ground. He saw a man sitting inside with his back turned.
Michael pointed the gun at the back of his skull.
    “Turn around
slowly.”
    The man gasped.
His spine stiffened as he raised his hands. “Don't shoot me. I'll leave and
never come back, I swear.”
    He turned
around, dressed in faded clothes full of holes. His grey beard had grown long
and wild. “I thought this place was abandoned. I didn't know you were coming
back. Please, don't shoot me.”
    Michael lowered
his gun. “Who are you?”
    “Me? I'm just
Bob. I'll be going now, if you let me, I mean.”
    Michael raised
his police identity card for the man to see. He stepped over the broken glass
and moved closer. “I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
    Bob looked up at
the ceiling. He pressed his hands together. “Oh Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
Look, if I'd known you guys were all police officers, I would have