Blood of Gato

The evening sagged low over the carcass of the old meatpacking plant. The air hung heavy, a rank mix of rust and sour meat that crawled into the nose and sat there, thick as regret. The broken windows reflected the dying sun like blind eyes, the empty lot stretched wide as a wound, and the silence pressed in from all sides.

By the eroded concrete wall, half-swallowed in shadow, three figures had gathered: William, Cain, and Leticia. Tonight wasn't practice. Tonight was the night — their plan moving from anxious whispers into brutal action.

Cain showed up last, his gray van crunching over the gravel, coughing smoke. It was the kind of van you'd dismiss on sight, worn and plain, painted in a shade no one would look at twice. Unremarkable. Except inside, where something wrong shifted in the shadows. From its gut seeped faint sounds — strained, broken whimpers, the muffled sobs of someone gagged. The noises carried like the off-key moans of a busted violin string.

William heard them, his jaw tightening. He didn't ask. He already knew.

They were dressed for anonymity: Cain and William both in dark hoodies pulled tight, faceless under their hoods, like shadows walking on legs. Leticia had draped herself in a long swamp-green raincoat that brushed her calves with every step, swallowing her figure, making her look less like woman and more like some moss-born witch pulled out of lore.

"Why here?" William muttered, his hands in fists at his sides. He eyed the looming ruin of the slaughterhouse, then the van, then Cain with irritation sparking in his tone. "Coulda picked anywhere. But you drag us to a rust pit full of rot?"

Cain leaned against the van with that lazy slant of his, grin carved into his face.

"What? You nervous? Or you just lookin' for a porta-potty?"

William's lips curled back, teeth tight.

"Funny. Real funny. What I don't find funny is going in blind. We ain't talked through nothin' proper, and here we are like it's showtime."

Leticia pivoted her head his way, eyes catching the sinking sun's light. Her voice spilled out soft and slow, syrup-thick, rolling like warm molasses over rocks.

"Darlin'," she purred, coaxing and sweet, "you lettin' them nerves ride you somethin' fierce. You wan' me ease it off ya? Jus' a lil' taste, mm?"

William flinched back, brushing her words off with a tense shake of his head.

"No. I got this on my own. Just stop dodging. Why the hell here?"

Cain only chuckled, pushing off the van. He swaggered to the back doors like a magician about to draw the curtain. With a theatrical yank he cracked the lock and swung them wide. The smell inside surged out with the cold night air — sweat, fear, iron. Then the streetlamp's pale beam struck the truth: two bound men sprawled in the cargo hold, twisting weakly like animals wrapped tight for slaughter.

"Ta-da," Cain sang, bright as a clown in hell. "Looky here — two fresh bundles of prime meat. Two-for-one deal on maniacs. Tell me that ain't a bargain for the boys in blue."

The prisoners lay heaped on the floor, wrists bitten through by coarse rope, mouths choking on duct tape, sweat dripping off their temples. Their blindfolds soaked dark with damp. A symphony of muted groans leaked through the gagging cloth.

Leticia gave a whistle, long and low, teasing as she cocked a brow.

"Lord have mercy… Cain, sugar, you best tell me straight. You moonlightin' as a flesh trader on the sly?"

Cain's grin bared teeth sharp as rusted wire. It was hard to say if the joke in his voice was covering a truth or unwrapping it.

"Maybe. Pays better than nine-to-five. But c'mere now — what do you think? Got ourselves a solid match, don't we?"

He crouched, caught one man's chin, and peeled the blindfold off in a flourish. Under the lamplight, a pale face blinked open: sharp cheekbones, black hair hanging damp over his forehead, eyes shaking with terror. William's breath caught. The resemblance wasn't perfect. But it was enough to trick someone rushing on fear and adrenaline. Enough to trick a cop.

"Yeah…" William murmured, voice gone flat, cold. "Not a damn mirror, but close enough."

Cain laughed, proud of his handiwork.

"Would you believe it? Wasn't half as hard as I figured it'd be. The cops' own database? Man, it's a damn catalog. Psychos lined up, like you shoppin' off the shelf. This prize I plucked straight from the 'Murderers' aisle. Premium stock."

He gave the captive's cheek a few patronizing pats, each one softer than the last, until the man whimpered louder and wet. Then Cain shifted to the second prisoner.

Leticia's smile slipped. She narrowed her eyes at Cain, tilting her head like a crow sizing up a secret.

"Hold on now… You tellin' me you broke inta they database?"

Cain showed a fox's grin, sly, razor-thin.

"I'll let the mystery hang in the air."

He forced the prisoner's eyes open, jerk of the thumb, then looked over his shoulder at Leticia.

"Now, sweetheart. Do the voodoo you do. Pop those lenses in. Make our boy shine."

Leticia slid a small container out from beneath her raincoat, slow and graceful, like unveiling a relic. The streetlight caught the objects inside and turned them to liquid gems — special contacts, glimmering like something spun out of witchcraft. She crouched, her voice low and sing-song, fingers steady like a lullaby made flesh.

"There we go, sugar… open them pretty eyes fo' me. Won't hurt but a second."

One lens slipped in, a shimmer flashing in his gaze. Then another. She smoothed his sweat-damp hair back almost tender, as if she were tucking in a child, and rose to her feet. With a half-step back, she spread her arm toward William, offering him the stage.

"Voilà," she purred, vowels thick with honey and smoke. "Now go on, chile… see if this don't make ya heart skip."

The man's eyes glowed now, sharp and yellow-green — more lizard than cat. Not as hypnotic as William's own, but convincing enough. For strangers in the dark, it would pass.

"Hm." William tilted his head, forcing a smile that didn't reach his mouth. "A little rough, yeah. But it'll do. Long as it looks real in the dark."

He scratched the back of his neck, his gaze restless, flicking between the prisoners and the hulking silhouette of the slaughterhouse.

"So why here, Cain? Outta the whole damn city… why this place?"

Cain grinned like it was obvious. He grabbed both captives by the scruff and yanked them out of the van, their choked groans muffled under tape.

"You really gotta ask? We put on a show, Willy boy. Make it look like you and me had it out — real bloodbath, violent as hell. Endin' with us takin' each other down. Curtain call."

He dragged the men toward the iron-sided building. William followed, but every step sent a deeper unease grinding through him. Like his own brain refused to lace the story together, rejected it outright. The unease dug under his skin like a splinter — stubborn, festering. Every breath whispered the same thing: something terrible waits inside those walls. Cross the threshold and it'll have you.

"Still don't see why it gotta be here," William muttered, voice running ragged.

This time Leticia spoke, her tone quiet but edged, her eyes darting from William to Cain.

"Baby, I don't like this none," she drawled, her voice slow and rich, thick with unease beneath the sweetness. "Jus' yestahday, right 'roun' this very place, I had ta' slip a detective under my little spell. Twist his mind some. If he come back 'round he gon' feel it — somethin' familiar scratchin' at his memory. An' sugah, memories like that, they don't ever stay buried. They claw dey way back."

Cain waved her words away like buzzing flies.

"Jesus, you two. Paranoid much? Cop gets a déjà vu, he'll write it off as intuition. We're in and out before anyone knows. Show goes on."

They reached the slaughterhouse door. Heavy iron, clenched tight with chains the color of dried blood. Cain slammed his fist against the lock, and the metal screamed before collapsing into rust flakes, as though it had never been solid at all. The chain clattered to the ground. The door wheezed inward, dragging darkness up from its gut like a wave.

The smell punched them instantly. Rot. Old blood. Something else William couldn't name, something wetter, deeper, like meat that had been rotting in water. For Cain it was foul but bearable, for Leticia just another stink to wrinkle her nose at. But to William—

—It was alive.

The stench coiled into his lungs and strangled him from the inside. His vision swam. Cold pricks rushed over his arms and neck, every hair standing. Shattered chains dangled down the walls, meat hooks stabbing the air — black stains clung there, thick and unmoving, hard clots that ate the light.

And then — a flicker.

Not memory. Vision.

He saw the walls moving, breathing. As if some invisible lung swelled inside the slaughterhouse, waiting for him to step deeper so it could inhale him whole.

His chest tightened. His head roared. William bent double, palms against his knees, choking on his own breath. The world sang with static.

"Hey—hey, man, you good?" Cain blurted, dropping the prisoners to the concrete. For the first time, his voice didn't carry a smirk.

But William snapped his head up.

And his eyes… weren't human anymore. They shone with a savage yellow light, slit through with a predator's hunger.

"No, Cain." His voice trembled, but fury dripped through it like venom. "I ain't good. I'm the opposite of good. Somethin's wrong here. Wrong all the way to the bone. This place. This plan. We gotta walk. Now."

His chest heaved like he was drowning. His gaze ripped across the dark, but he wasn't seeing walls anymore — he was watching the unseen. Something watching him back. From the shadows. Watching, hungry. Patient as a grave.

"What the hell's happenin' to you?" Cain asked, stepping forward with caution, one arm up like he might steady William — or stop him if he went feral.

Leticia's hand lifted slowly, her drawl soft, coaxing, almost lullaby-like.

"Sugar, let mama help ya. Lemme hush that storm rattlin' round in ya head. I'll put it down gentle, promise."

Yet her eyes betrayed her calm. She could see it — glitter around his body, an aura jagged and unstable, burning hot orange like rust set aflame. Madness clawing through him, paranoia splitting into paranoia until nothing solid remained.

"No!" William howled, staggering back. His claws ripped out, tearing jagged lines across his own arms. Blood fell in sharp drops, splattering the gray concrete like tiny sigils. His breath came broken, ragged. His voice cracked open, raw:

"You don't get it! You don't hear it? Don't feel it? It's here already. Close. Breathing at the edges. Watching."

The prisoners whimpered louder on the floor. Chains swayed from the ceiling with no breeze. And in the slaughterhouse's dark throat, something shifted wetly, as though the shadows themselves had begun to stir awake.