The Factory

An assignment to write a short scene that would occur in a crime novel. With writing the slow stuff fast, and the fast stuff slow. Originially published May 2023.

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Jelizabeth felt out of place in the old and dilapidated warehouse. She never liked abandoned buildings like these, especially when they creaked like they remembered every scream that ever bounced off the rusting steel. But her gut, her leads, and her client's money all led here.

She sat in the driver's seat, simply staring at the building. When the song ended she flicked the radio off. With a heavy sigh she stepped out, flicking the safety off her pepper spray.

The warehouse was massive, rust and steel scraps scattered everywhere. Abandoned weaving machines stood like headstones in a cemetery, taking up almost half of the space. Threads were still dangling on the spools on some of the machines. The scent of expired tapping fluid, coolant, and stale tobacco smoke hung heavy in the air. She hated that she recognised those smells. Her boots clicked against concrete littered with rust flakes and bent nails. She told herself to be careful.

Her keen eyes and ears looked and listened for anything that could be deemed useful. She wandered the place, looking for any clues or answers. Brushing over the steel beams that appeared to have fallen from the ceiling and the sawblades that stopped spinning decades ago, she found nothing within the first half hour. She told herself there was nothing here. Told herself it was probably empty.

It wasn't.

At first it was just...noise, heard as she adjusted her watch. Distant. Metal clanging against metal. Then silence. She remained still and held her breath.

Again. Closer. Rhytmic and heavy. Far away, but still close enough for her to deduce they were coming from inside the building. Could be the wind. A rat. Probably the foundation settling or a squatter. Maybe even some debris falling from higher up. Hell, maybe even just nerves playing tricks. Wouldn’t be the first time.

It turned silent again; still, she moved, walking further. Carefully. Clock ticking. She swept through the place like a shadow chasing answers, and found little more than dust and regret. Then, by a broken window, something: a balled-up shirt. Prodding it with a stick revealed splatters. Blood stains. Dried. Probably human. Finally.

The P.I. crouched, sealed the shirt in a bag, and kept on moving. Occasionaly that awful clanging could still be heard, and she froze everytime to listen to them. It sounded to her as if they were getting closer every single time.

Jelizabeth reached the back end of the warehouse with nothing but bruises on her pride. Time to turn back. Retrace her steps. Rescan the perimiter, see if she missed something. Pray the shirt was enough to justify the trip.

The way back to the entrance filled her with disappointment. Nothing more but debris. She hoped to have found a bigger lead than discarded garbs and made a mental note to return if the shirt didn't turn anything up.

Then she heard it. Too close. Her ears perked, her eyes darted around. Then she spun around. The sound stopped.

Out of the shadows, a shape peeled itself from the dark like it had always been there. A man. That man.

“You,” she spat, the word slicing through the silence, echoing throughout the hall.

He didn't speak a word, just moved, and fast. Grabbed her wrist. Fist like a hammer cracked her cheekbone. The pain came hot, sharp. Her hat hit the floor. Blood in her mouth. She stumbled back a step or two, but recovered quickly and spat out the blood that'd welled up in her mouth.

She knew him. That smirk hadn’t aged. Still as smug, still as punchable as all those years ago when she first chased him. Jelizabeth never forgot him, and how he had always been the one to slip from the hands of justice. The anger and disappointment that resided within her retaliated and punched him back. Even with all her might, he barely flinched. He squeezed her wrist harder. Jelizabeth felt he was going to twist it clean off.

"I've worked out a lot these past years." he mocked her.

"You? Not so much, hm? You've really let yourself go detective. Such a shame."

Shame that you are bald now. Jelizabeth thought. She could've grabbed his hair and slammed him into the ground. Anything goes in a fight like this.

With one wrist locked and the other flailing, she shifted her weight. When his arm drew back for another swing, she ducked under it and drove her shoulder into his gut. Not this time mister. He punched the air and staggered. Lost his grip, doubling over in pain. Glad to know she still had it in her. Rubbing over her wrist, she knew she had the upper hand now, and shouldn't waste a second to take full advantage of it.

The man stood unbalanced, like a tower of cards. A boot to the pelvis did the trick. As he laid, another kick to the stomach. A heel in his face. Blood now. His, not hers.

He lay there, wheezing, groaning. Subdued. Not unconscious. Good. She needed him talking.

She knelt, pulled a creased photo from her coat. Pressed it to his bloodied face.

“You know this guy?”