Chapter 18: Hell on Earth
Early the next morning, Hell's Kitchen.
A homeless man named Old Tom pushed his squeaky shopping cart through the narrow alleys, searching for bottles and cans he could trade for a bit of cash.
When he passed the long-abandoned meat processing plant in the West District, his steps came to a stop.
A thick metallic stench seeped through the cracks of the factory's sealed gate. It carried something far harsher than rust, something sharp and nauseating that drilled straight into his nostrils.
Old Tom frowned. Years of surviving on the streets had sharpened his instincts. This smell wasn't right. It wasn't dead rats, nor was it rotting trash.
It was blood.
Driven by a mix of caution and curiosity, he circled to the side of the building. A filthy window there had a corner of the glass broken off. He rose on his toes and leaned in, peering through the jagged opening.
The next second, the murky look in his eyes was instantly replaced by utter terror. A strangled rasp tore from his throat, as if someone had clamped a hand around his neck.
He lurched back like he'd seen a demon, scrambling on all fours. His prized cart was forgotten completely as he clawed his way across the ground and fled, tumbling out of sight at the far end of the alley.
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By noon, yellow police tape stretched around the entire perimeter of the factory. Dozens of patrol cars flashed red and blue, sealing off the area until not even a breeze could slip through.
Outside the tape, news reporters with noses sharper than bloodhounds aimed their long-barreled cameras at the factory gates, trying to capture any glimpse of a worthwhile shot.
Onlookers gathered farther back, murmuring among themselves as they tried to guess what sort of catastrophe had taken place inside.
A black sedan stopped in front of the police tape. The door opened, and a middle-aged man with a stern face, wearing a trench coat, stepped out.
George Stacy, Commissioner of the NYPD.
"Sir!"
The officers guarding the entrance saluted at once.
George gave a brief nod, lifted the tape, and stepped inside.
The first thing that hit him was the thick, suffocating reek of blood.
Even someone like George Stacy, who had spent decades navigating the darkest corners of law enforcement and had seen more corpses than he cared to count, felt his stomach twist as soon as he took in the scene before him.
This wasn't a crime scene. It was a slaughterhouse.
No, even a slaughterhouse kept its floors cleaner than this.
Bodies were everywhere. Some lay sprawled in pools of blood, others slumped against walls, and a few still froze in the posture of raising a gun.
Blood soaked the floors and stained the walls, turning dark and viscous under the dim lighting. The air was thick with the stench of blood, gunpowder, and bodily waste.
Behind George, a few younger officers finally reached their limit. They doubled over and vomited violently.
George forced down the taste rising in his throat and surveyed this vision of hell with a steady gaze. His eyes stayed cold, but the tension in his clenched fists revealed the storm beneath.
"Mike. Sean," he said in a low voice.
A lean man in a detective's uniform and a medical examiner wearing a mask and gloves hurried over.
"Sir." Detective Mike Miller, one of George Stacy's most reliable men, looked unusually grim.
George's eyes remained on the corpses. "Tell me what we're dealing with."
"We initially received a call about a gang shootout here." Mike pointed to the corpses on the ground.
"The victims are mostly confirmed. Russians from Boris's crew and locals from the Gilru gang. At first we thought it was a case of rival groups tearing each other apart. But once our people got inside…"
He paused, choosing his words.
"We realized it wasn't that simple. So we locked down the scene fast and contacted you. This is something you need to see for yourself."
George's gaze landed on the scattered shell casings beside a corpse. "Shootout?"
"That's the issue." Mike guided him toward the open space in the center of the factory. "Look over here."
He pointed toward the concrete wall at the far end of the open space.
George followed the gesture. His pupils tightened.
The surface of the wall was covered in dense clusters of bullet holes. Chunks of cement had been blasted away, leaving wide patches of exposed rebar. The shots were so concentrated it looked as if everyone inside the factory had unloaded on a single target.
"We examined the bullets in all the victims' weapons and compared them to the ballistics at the scene."
There was clear disbelief in Mike's voice.
"The conclusion is that Boris's men and Gilru's men weren't firing at each other. Their target was the same person, or rather... the same thing. Right here."
He pointed to the open space in front of the bullet-scarred wall.
One enemy. Against more than fifty automatic rifles.
George's brow furrowed deeply. This didn't resemble a shootout. It looked more like a siege. A siege that ended with every attacker wiped out in a way that defied reason.
"Sean," George turned toward the forensic examiner, "cause of death?"
Sean Allen pushed his glasses up his nose, the confusion in his eyes showing even through his attempt to stay clinical.
"That's exactly the problem, and the part that's giving me the worst headache." He crouched beside a corpse and pointed at the wound in the man's chest.
"There are bullet holes everywhere, yes. But not a single one of these people died from gunfire."
"What?"
"Their causes of death are all over the place, and every one of them… falls outside anything I've ever seen." Sean's voice carried an uneasy dryness.
"Look at this one. Massive perforation through the chest. The edges are smooth, almost like something cylindrical drilled through him at high speed. And that one there…"
He gestured to another corpse.
"The throat is torn open. Not by a blade, at least not any knife I know. It's more like something with fangs the size of a wild animal's bit straight through him. And there's something even stranger…"
He led George to a body curled in the corner. The dead man's expression was twisted in pure terror, but his body was untouched.
"This one shows no external trauma. But all his internal organs are pulped, as if crushed from the inside out by an invisible force." Sean took off his gloves and rubbed his forehead.
"I've been a coroner for thirty years, I've dissected more corpses than some butchers have processed livestock. But I swear, I've never seen wounds like these, and I can't imagine what weapon or animal on Earth could cause such effects."
Mike added, "We didn't find any third-party blood, prints, or DNA. Whoever, or whatever, did this left nothing behind. It walked in, slaughtered everyone, and vanished like a ghost."
George didn't respond.
He stood amid the carnage, mind racing.
A gang deal. A supposed shootout. A mysterious target immune to bullets. Killing methods that defied natural laws.
These clues didn't point to a criminal. They pointed to a monster.
George knew the rot in Hell's Kitchen by heart. He'd dealt with Kingpin. He'd dealt with every kind of brutality the local gangs could muster. But even those thugs operated within the rules of physics.
What he saw here went beyond anything human.
Since the exposure of the superhero group "The Avengers" after the Battle of New York, more and more strange people and things have emerged around the world. Perhaps this is the work of some perverted, murderous superpowered individual.
"Seal everything," George finally said, voice low and rough.
"Classify all records as top secret. Public statement will be a chemical leak in the abandoned factory. No media, no civilians get near the truth."
"Understood," Mike replied at once.
"Sean, gather a full team. Bring every body back and dissect them thoroughly. I want the most complete report you can give. I need to know what killed them."
"You'll have it."
With the orders given, George Stacy swept his gaze one last time across the slaughterhouse that used to be a factory, then turned and walked out.
When he stepped back into the sunlight, the noise from the crowd outside felt unreal, as if it belonged to a different world entirely.
He knew one thing.
As of today, a new presence stalked the shadows of New York. Something far more terrifying and unpredictable than Kingpin.