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PROLOGUE
Mike swiveled his chair around to his second monitor, closing the little notification that told him there was activity down in row fourteen. At this time of night, the faintest sound of commotion was a crash of heavy metal, so he’d know if anyone was hiding out in here. He ignored it, instead turning back to more pressing matters.
Mike put his feet up on the desk and reasoned that there was no point paying for a night shift worker when this was the easiest part of the job anyway. He’d been the owner of Securicall Storage for twelve years now, and he’d gone through staff members like his wife went through wine bottles. Sometimes, it was just easier to do things yourself, not to mention he was saving on costs at a time when even the one percent had to cut corners.
One of his monitors displayed a grid of camera feeds. They were his virtual eyes, so he could sit in his office and kill the hours without needing to strain his ankles. His second monitor was running a Steven Seagal film that he’d managed to find streaming, and the film’s 100-minute runtime would be enough to see this shift to a conclusion.
Here in no man’s land, West Virginia, the law stated that someone had to be present at publicly open twenty-four-hour operations until midnight. Apparently, it deterred gangs from using these grounds as safe havens to meet up and exchange drugs. It was one of those laws that made no sense if you scrutinized it for more than a few seconds, because it wasn’t like there weren’t a million places around here that gangs could use as a backdrop for their drug deals. It was also one of those laws that most business owners didn’t even know about, not until one of your goody-two-shoes ex-employees snitched on you. That guy had been weird as hell. No wonder Mike had fired him.
Mike ruffled a few papers with his feet, removing them from his peripheral vision so he could focus on the unfolding storyline on screen. Seagal was in shackles in the back of a military van, and he’d just told one of his captors that he used to be a hitman. Already the immersion fell apart because the old actor was around fifty pounds overweight and looked like he couldn’t outrun a field mouse. Like he could sneak up on anyone. You’d hear him coming a mile away.
Mike ruminated on the idea for a moment, getting distracted by his own thoughts, watching the visuals on screen but not really processing them. It wasn’t until something flashed on his second monitor that he suddenly snapped back to reality.
He swung his feet off the desk and assumed the business position. On the grid, one of the feeds registered recent activity again with a little green flashing light. It was the camera on row fourteen, and of course it would be at the furthest part of the building from his office. He really didn’t want to make the trip down there, not when he was trying to marry the final two hours of the night with this film’s runtime. If he overshot the mark, he’d either have to stay ten minutes later or remind himself to watch the ending another time, which he’d never do. Another project left unfinished.
Mike peered closer at the camera but didn’t see any moving parts. Probably a rat, or dust particles on the camera lens. Mike went back to killing the hours, but the green light flickered back up again. This time, Mike caught a fast-moving blur that tickled his eyeball. Gone as quickly as it arrived.
Row fourteen, the worst row. Something about activity registering in the furthest reaches of the building unnerved Mike, as though a sinister culprit might be aware of the distance between themselves and a night worker and was using it to their advantage. Mike sighed, pulled a crowbar from his drawer, and set out to investigate the source of his disturbance. Sometimes, homeless guys took their chances here. If they slipped in after midnight and left before eight, nothing was stopping them from living here as much as they wanted. It happened more times than Mike cared to admit, and he’d sometimes catch a few strays in the morning. But he couldn’t fault those guys for using their brains. Why take their chances on the streets when they had an unguarded roof right here? If he was homeless, he’d do the same thing.
Mike shuffled his way noisily down the aisles. Hopefully his activity would scare any troublemakers away, or remind potential homeless guys to try again at a more opportune time. Mike had an obligation to kick any chance-lodgers out, even though it pained him to do so. The motion sensor lights marked his path down the staircase, through the bottom floor, eventually coming to the long and silent row fourteen.
A beam of unbroken light drew his attention to one unit in particular. Unit three hundred. Mike knew this unit well because he’d been the one to in-process the owner, take his details, making idle conversation while Mike did his credit check. Mike remembered joking about giving the guy a discount because he’d landed on a round number, but the joke turned out to be in bad taste because the owner had recently lost everything he held dear: his wife, his house, his investments. That was why he was checking his belongings into a storage unit because he had nowhere else to go.
The door was slightly raised, like the owner had left in a hurry. Or it had been jammed. Mike cursed himself for hoping it was the former as that would cost him less money, then had to stop and invoke a little humanity. The belongings inside some of these units were all that some people had, people who were down on their luck and just needed somewhere to stash the relics of a once-happy life.
If it was up to Mike, the owners of these units could sleep here if they wanted to, but the legal requirements for overnight lodging were too complex and expensive. Mike could turn a blind eye to the odd night, but long-term sheltering was an area best left untouched. That was how drug dens were born.
“Hello?” Mike knocked on the door. “Anyone in there?”
No response. No panicked shuffling from within. He tried again.
“Just wanted to check if everything was alright.” Then after a moment of deliberation, he added, “It’s fine if you’re staying in there tonight.”
Still nothing. Mike gripped the handle on the door and went to close it, but curiosity got the better of him. The man who owned this unit had fascinated him during their brief exchange. What was his name? Something basic and corporate, as though an AI machine had built a middle-manager from the ground up.
David, that was it. He couldn’t remember his surname for the life of him, though. David had apparently made some bad calls and lost all his cash in a few backdoor schemes. Mike thought it odd that a stranger was so willing to tell his story despite the tragic details, but Mike guessed he was just desperate for any kind of human connection. He was probably the kind of guy who’d made such investments so he would have a story to impress people, but ended up telling that story with a different ending.
“David?” Mike asked, one last try. “I just wanted to check before I closed the door.” Mike spoke the words loud enough for the cameras to catch in case of any legal repercussions. Peeking inside storage units was a big no-no unless he had a good reason.
Curiosity itched away, prickling at his fingertips. What did a lost man’s possessions look like? This David fellow had apparently been pretty wealthy in a previous life. What if there were piles of money in here? He’d always imagined that rich people hoarded gold bars and priceless ornaments, as absurd as the image was. One peek wouldn’t hurt, right? If anyone asked, he could just say he was checking on the owner. After all, the guy was down on his luck. What if, God forbid, he’d opted for a permanent solution to his temporary problem?
Mike pulled the door a little, ignoring the mounting dread in his stomach, feeling as though he was about to cross some taboo boundary. Every fiber of his being told him this was a bad idea, but at the same time he felt he had a duty to look inside. The beam of light from within grew bigger, and first he noticed a mattress and a few pillows, but before he could really process the contents, something reached out and grabbed his leg.
“Jesus, God,” Mike shouted and stepped back in fright. Down at his feet, something small and black and alive scurried in a circle.
Not a human hand as his first impulse told him. Just a rat.
“Damn thing,” Mike said as he caught his breath. He’d seen a million of these things in his life, so why did they still shock him whenever he caught one? They usually found their way in through the river at the back of the building, probably scampering through the plumbing system and taking residence in some of the more barren units.
This must have been the culprit, Mike realized, laughing away the distress. The cameras must have picked up this little intruder. That’s why he couldn’t see anything noticeable on the cameras short of a little black smudge.
“Waste of time,” Mike said. He lifted the door up a little further to summon the momentum to push it down and lock it in one swift movement, and as the door opening reached his eye level, Mike froze in place. All his energy suddenly depleted as he stared at the unit’s contents, illuminated by the golden flow of the bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Old furniture. An air conditioning unit. Piles of books. A guitar.
And David. The same man who’d shared his woes and promised to keep quiet if he ever needed to sleep in here. The man who’d handed over a year’s deposit in cash with tears in his eyes. The man who Mike had felt sorry for, wondering just how a successful man could be reduced to such despair.
David was here, flesh and bones and a tattered old suit jacket over a black t-shirt.
