Timothy Arkett, aka "Sniffles," aka “Bloodhound,” 3/16/09 10:07 PM

“Fuck, I hate schools.”

The black lines race around the outline of the metal doorframe of the stairwell in the lower level of the parking garage at University of Houston, and the void tears into reality, I step out in the warm night.

After I left the comic store, I returned to the town and spoke with Abe. Gave him my report and we had a tail put on them pretty quick, don’t get to many opportunities to find three new targets at once. So the hounds followed “popcorn” back to that shit hole apartments and the preppy kid, to the grad students dorm. But the happy Mexican …we had a good bead on him and lost him. They followed him ‘round the back side of a Valero and then nuthin, just a bunch of damn birds peckin’ around on the ground, man Abe was pissed. So Beckie figures he might be a jumper or ‘porter, somethin’. Whatever, I’ll smell him again, and I did, ha can’t believe we got that lucky.

I pull out a small black notepad and flip through the pages and find the description our hounds got on the kids bike, a Red Yamaha FJR 1300 AE. Fuckin’ rich brats, god I hate ‘em. Well at least it shouldn’t be too hard to find. I shake my head in disgust, stuff the pad back into my coat pocket and slink around to the walls, my head turnin’ this way and that watchin’ for anyone comin’ by, very aware of the peering eyes of the security cameras.

It doesn’t take me long before I find a cycle that matches the description we have. The bike sits close to the back stair well, next to an exit ramp on the bottom level, right under a light and camera. Gota say this for the kid, at least he’s smart about where he parks, doesn’t make it easier for me though. I stare for a moment, thinkin’ about whether I really care if I get seen on the security cameras or not,…fuck it, I’ll just have Henry tell one of the tech nerds to scrub the files for that camera for the day, it’ll be fine.

I stick along the concrete walls, my footsteps soft and careful and approach the bike, only a few more feet away, and I get a whiff of the smell. Rubber and burnt plastic, yup it’s the same as before back at the store, god it fuckin’ stinks. I step up to the bike and lean in close and take a few sniffs. Ok it’s confirmed, it’s his bike so now gota figure out where in this brainy box house he sleeps at night. I stand up and hold my head up high and take a deep sniff, tryin’ to catch his scent in the air. It takes me a few moments but I catch the scent and turn to follow it into the stairwell. I step against the wall directly under the camera and make my trace, callin’ the inky void. It appears quickly with a rippin’ sound formin’ to fit into the space of the exit and I leap through it, the portal collapsin’ behind me.

The air is cold and crisp, no breeze stirs; no sound is made; dead silence, only the sound of my heart beat. I am alone. The smooth concrete walls of the parkin’ garage still surround me and the dim soft yellow lights that lit the garage, now seem harsh, glarin’. A smoky mist clings to ground and swirls and plays about my feet, driftin’ up the walls, defyin’ gravity. Colors seem muted shadowy, and dull, everything looks like a gray haze is draped over it. Only a stark and brightly pulsing red mist that trails away from me in a windin’ path up the stairs breaks the monotone and dreary scene. The once straight lines of the frames and bearin’ for the walls appeared warped and twisted. The very fabric of solid space seems to writhe and move with its own subtle life. The far side of the garage and the dorms beyond, once clearly visible are now just a blurry outline, lost in the inky darkness that encompasses everything but the few hundred yards nearest to me. This is my world, my home.

As I take a few steps forward, my direction followin’ the red misty trail, everything shifts and moves, sliding along like oil along water, slippin’ off the canvas. The concrete walls of the garage blur past and disappear into that shadowy haze and are replaced suddenly by an empty stairwell. The stair case itself moves twisting and spiraling’ upward at impossible angles. The red trail that I know as the targets gene pheromones dances and climbs upwards. I continue to follow it onto the stairs. I can see and feel what are people on the other side of my reality, but they only appear as shadowy wisps, like ghosts that silently float by. I barley even register them. Again the reality of the world shifts and blurs, and I find myself at the top of the staircase, a sign, the letters distorted and melting, says Admin Floor. I follow the trail into the hall. After only a few more seconds I find myself standin’ before what looks like a mail room. I can see some kind of idiot attendant sittin’ behind a desk at the end of the hall, but seems very preoccupied with his cell, his voice like a distant echo, hollow and slow. The void opens, and I step back into everybody else’s world.

I stroll past the rows and rows of PO boxes, stopping occasionally to take a sniff and eventually find my way to the one I want. Room 506, Christian Sinclair, the faded label reads. I lean in and take a good sniff to make sure this is the right one. Burned plastic, rubber, and a metallic tang that gets stuck in the back of my throat, yup this is it. I whip out the black note book and pen and scribble down the info and tuck it away. As I turn to go, another scent catches my attention, one of lemons and clean sheets, crisp and airy. The scent is faint and old, but I know I can still track it. I slouch over to the corner, careful of the cameras, summon the void and make my exit. Back in my world, it’s much easier to find the scents, as I enter through the void I can see a very faint hazy yellow trail at the end of the row of the mailboxes. I confidently stride toward it, the hall speeds past me, in just a second I am standing in front of the yellow mist. The mailbox reads Rachel Hardeway, room 307. I take the notepad back out and jot down the name and room number. Fuckin’ unbelievable, we found another one. My job done, I make my way down back down to the garage, knowing that my ride will be here soon.

It only takes me a few seconds to arrive back at the exit ramps by where the targets bike was sittin’, the void disappears in is usual whip crack. I stand at the corner goin’ over the days work. Not to bad of a day, hell I’d even say a good one, but I won’t, just my fuck’in luck it’d start Armageddon. I stand around for a few more moments and fidget with the zipper on my coat. Fuck, come on Abe, god I hate waitin’. Ha, there he is. A black Chrysler 300 rolls into the garage and comes to a stop on the curb next to me. The windows are heavily tinted so I can’t see the driver but I know who it is. I step up to the door, hear the click as it’s unlocked and reach down to open it, a blast of cold air hits me from inside. I plop down into the luxury leather seats, and slam the door closed.

“K, let’s go.” I say, turnin’ the vents to make the air wash over me.

Abe flips his cell closed looks at it shakin’ his head, and looks at me with an annoyed glance “Do not slam the door.” He pulls out of the garage into the street, and turns north, speeding down the night filled streets.