Chapter 4: The Welcoming Committee

Chapter 4: The Welcoming Committee

The car rolled to a silent stop in the center of the vast, open space. The engine died without a shudder, and the headlamps cut out, plunging them into a world lit only by the cold, unforgiving glare of the industrial floodlights mounted on towering poles. They were in a cage of light, surrounded by a labyrinth of steel. Canyons formed by stacks of shipping containers rose on all sides, their corrugated metal flanks showing patches of rust and faded logos from a hundred forgotten companies. The silence was absolute, a crushing pressure that replaced the hypnotic hum of the Lantern Road.

Jake’s breath fogged the inside of the windshield. His heart, which had been pounding a frantic rhythm, now seemed to beat with slow, heavy thuds, each one a hammer blow against his ribs. This was it. The destination. The stage.

He scanned the perimeter, his eyes darting between the towering stacks of containers, searching for movement, for a threat, for an escape. But there was nothing. Just the stark geometry of steel and concrete, bathed in a light so harsh it bleached all colour from the world.

Then he saw them.

At first, he thought they were mannequins, or perhaps piles of discarded work clothes. They were positioned at the mouths of the dark alleyways between the containers, standing in loose, scattered groups. Human figures. Dozens of them. They were all dressed in drab, nondescript clothing—faded jeans, worn-out jackets, plain shirts. And they were all perfectly, unnaturally still.

A cold dread, sharper and more piercing than anything he had felt before, slithered up his spine. They weren't moving, but they were watching. He couldn't make out their faces from this distance, but he could feel the weight of their collective gaze fixed on the car. They weren’t an obstacle. They were an audience.

From the backseat came a faint, whimpering sound. Maya had seen them too. Her hand came up to rest on the back of his seat, her fingers trembling against the cheap fabric. A desperate, silent plea for reassurance he could not give.

Click.

The sound of the Passenger’s door unlatching was like a crack of lightning in the dead air. Jake flinched, his head snapping to the side. The man in the dark suit pushed his door open with a slow, deliberate motion. He stepped out of the car, his movements impossibly smooth, as if he were gliding rather than walking. He stood beside the car for a moment, a tall, dark silhouette against the sterile light. He adjusted the brim of his fedora, a gesture of casual, almost theatrical preparation.

He was in his element. This was his theatre.

The Passenger took a few steps away from the car, positioning himself in the center of the open space, directly between Jake and the silent assembly of onlookers. He turned his back to the car, facing his motionless audience. Then, he raised a gloved hand, holding it in the air for a dramatic pause, like a conductor about to begin a symphony.

The scar on Jake’s wrist began to burn, a furious, agonizing fire. The broken toy soldier, the humming, the endless road—it had all been a prelude. An overture. The real performance was about to begin. He wanted to scream at Maya to close her eyes, to look away, but his throat was sealed shut with a plug of ice. He was paralyzed, a spectator to his own damnation.

The Passenger’s hand swept down in a graceful, commanding arc.

From the deepest, darkest chasm between two towering stacks of red containers, a sound scraped through the silence. It was a wet, dragging noise. The sound of something heavy and broken being pulled across rough concrete.

Jake’s eyes locked onto the source of the sound. A shape was emerging from the shadows. It was a silhouette at first, lurching and misshapen, moving with a gait that was a sickening parody of a human walk. It was too fast, then too slow, its limbs moving with a jerky, disjointed rhythm that defied all laws of anatomy. It stumbled forward, one step at a time, into the unforgiving glare of the floodlights.

And the horror of it was revealed.

It was the size of a teenage boy, but it was a ruin. A nightmare sculpted from flesh and bone. One arm was missing, the sleeve of its tattered hoodie ending in a ragged, dark stump. Its body was twisted at an unnatural angle, as if its spine had been snapped and crudely reset. It dragged one leg behind it, the source of the terrible scraping sound, the worn sneaker tearing itself to pieces on the concrete.

It shambled closer, and Jake could see its face. Or what was left of it.

Half of the face was caved in, a concave horror of shattered bone and bruised, swollen flesh. One eye was a dark, pulpy socket, a black hole of ruin. The jaw hung agape, broken and askew, from which a low, guttural growl emanated, a sound like grinding stones mixed with a dying hiss.

But it was the other side of the face, the horribly intact side, that finally broke Jake.

A single, terrified brown eye. A familiar slope of a nose. And on its remaining lips, a cruel, mocking parody of a smile.

Jake’s mind recoiled, screaming in silent denial. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. But the details were there, nightmarishly clear in the sterile light. The faded logo on the hoodie, the very one he’d bought for his brother’s seventeenth birthday. The way its head tilted, a ghost of a familiar, inquisitive gesture.

He felt the world tilt and spin, the steel containers blurring into streaks of colour. The air in the car was gone, sucked out into the void, leaving a vacuum in his lungs. He was looking at a monster. He was looking at a memory. He was looking at the physical manifestation of every sleepless night, every whispered apology to an empty room, every ounce of guilt that had poisoned his life for five long years.

The Passenger stood off to the side, his arms folded, that terrible, placid smile fixed on his face. He was a proud director, watching his masterpiece unfold. The silent audience stood motionless, their unseen eyes bearing witness.

The mangled thing took another lurching, dragging step forward, its one good eye finding Jake through the windshield. There was no recognition in it. No soul. Only a hollow, predatory malice.

The reunion had begun.