Crampton

  Crampton

  Thomas Ligotti and Brandon Trenz

  Originally published in the UK by Durtro Press in 2003

  This epub is version 1.0, released August 2014.

  FADE IN:

  EXT. INNER CITY DETROIT - NIGHT

  It is after midnight in one of the most run-down areas of Detroit--all long-abandoned buildings, many gutted by fires.

  EXT. OUTSIDE WAREHOUSE - NIGHT

  In the street outside an old warehouse, about two dozen cops in bulletproof vests are assembled. They are antsy, ready for action. Among them is--

  BRADY WELLS, a cocksure twenty-five-year-old cop.

  BRADY

  (whispering to his PARTNER)

  What the hell are we waiting for? This vest is cutting off my circulation.

  BRADY'S PARTNER

  You volunteered us for this.

  Slightly removed from this group are RICKY SMITH and LARRY JOHNSON, two weary-looking men in their early 40s. Ricky is large-bodied and bearded; Larry is slim and clean-shaven. Their bulletproof vests have "FBI" on them in big yellow letters.

  RICKY

  (to LARRY)

  Are you ready or what?

  LARRY

  All right. But this is it, do you hear me? After tonight I'm done with this fucking case.

  One of the cops steps over to the FBI agents.

  LEAD COP

  We're ready to move.

  RICKY

  Let's do it.

  The cop turns back to his men.

  LEAD COP

  We're going in. I want three of you in front with the ram. The rest of you in teams of two, three teams per floor. Remember, don't shoot unless there's a gun pointed at you. And keep your radios on and your mikes open--I want uninterrupted radio contact.

  The cops break up into units. One takes a heavy ram out of the back of a van and heads to the warehouse entrance.

  EXT. WAREHOUSE ENTRANCE - NIGHT

  An old wooden door, deadbolted and padlocked. The cops get in position--two holding the ram, a third directly behind, gun at the ready. Larry and Ricky are right there, ready to jump in as soon as the door is open. The rest of the cops are lined up behind.

  LEAD COP

  (whispering)

  Okay, let's do this neat and clean, just like on t.v. On three. One ... two ...

  The cops holding the ram swing it back.

  LEAD COP

  ... three!

  The ram swings forward, SLAMMING into the door just below the deadbolt. With a CRUNCH the ram GOES THROUGH THE DOOR, punching a hole in the old wood, spraying dust and splinters into the air.

  LARRY

  Shit!

  LEAD COP

  Hit it again!

  The cops work the ram out of the hole and swing it again. It CRUNCHES into the rotten wood, splitting a long crack down the middle of the door. The lock still holds.

  RICKY

  Goddamn it. The hinges! Hit the hinges!

  The cops aim the ram at the bottom hinge and swing. With a SQUEAL the screws that hold the hinge to the doorframe let go. The ram swings at the top hinge. The hinge POPS out of the frame. The door hangs cockeyed, held up only by the two locks. Ricky steps up and KICKS THE DOOR AJAR.

  LEAD COP

  Go! Go! Go!

  Ricky and Larry rush into the building, the cops streaming in behind. Brady is among them.

  BRADY

  So much for neat and clean.

  INT. WAREHOUSE

  The cops move in silently, guns and flashlights extended. The flashlight beams reveal complete disarray--racks of clothing are everywhere, some tipped over, clothes in a pile on the floor. Boxes are stacked against the walls, many tipped over as well, spilling out clothes hangers.

  They pair off and head in different directions. Some go up a set of rickety stairs.

  RICKY

  (to LARRY)

  You stay down here. I'll check upstairs.

  LARRY

  Ricky--this doesn't look right at all.

  RICKY

  I know ... which means it probably is.

  They split up.

  INT. CORRIDOR IN WAREHOUSE

  A PAIR OF FLASHLIGHT BEAMS shine up from a stairway, dust swirling in the light. Brady and his partner enter the corridor.

  BRADY

  (into microphone)

  We're on the third floor. Still no sign of anything.

  LEAD COP (ON RADIO)

  Keep your eyes open.

  INT. FIRST FLOOR

  Larry and two cops stand in front of a door. Larry tests the knob--unlocked. He looks at the cops, his eyes saying "get ready." In one quick movement he turns the knob and enters the room gun-first, the cops right behind him.

  Three flashlights sweep the room--a maze of empty shelves.

  FIRST COP

  Holy shit!

  Larry and the SECOND COP turn toward where the first cop's flashlight is aimed. Captured in the circle of light is a woman's headless body.

  SECOND COP

  Her head! Where the fuck is her head?!

  INT. FOURTH FLOOR

  Ricky and two cops are searching the fourth floor. They stop dead when they hear--

  SECOND COP (ON RADIO)

  ... Where the fuck is her head?!

  RICKY

  (into mic)

  Larry, what's going on?

  INT. FIRST FLOOR

  Larry approaches the decapitated torso cautiously. He runs his flashlight down the body toward the floor. Where the woman's feet should be is a metal stand.

  LARRY

  It's not a body. It's just a dresser's dummy.

  INT. THIRD FLOOR

  Brady and his partner listening to the radio.

  LARRY (ON RADIO)

  Repeat: it's just a dummy.

  BRADY

  (to PARTNER)

  This is a total cluster fuck.

  LEAD COP (ON RADIO)

  Wells, your mike is open, remember?

  BRADY

  Shit!

  INT. FOURTH FLOOR

  Ricky and the two cops.

  RICKY

  (into microphone)

  Keep looking.

  Ricky shines his flashlight down the hallway. At the far end is--

  A DOOR, HALF OPEN

  Ricky walks slowly toward it.

  The two cops don't see Ricky break away. They enter a large room. The floor CREAKS OMINOUSLY under their feet.

  THIRD COP

  This place is going to fall down on our goddamn heads.

  INT. THIRD FLOOR

  Brady and his partner enter a room. Their flashlights crawl over shelves laden with mannequin parts--arms, legs, torsos, hands in various poses. The top shelves are all heads, with and without wigs. Brady and his partner are obviously creeped out.

  BRADY'S PARTNER

  Brady?

  BRADY

  I know. Just keep your focus--we're looking for real people. Nobody ever got killed by a mannequin.

  An OMINOUS CREAKING comes from the celling above their heads.

  INT. FOURTH FLOOR - OLD OFFICE

  Ricky pushes the door fully open and enters a long room. Along the walls are rows of small desks with switchboards. At the far end is a large desk. A HEAVY BLACK ROTARY-STYLE PHONE sits on the desk.

  Ricky looks nervous but excited.

  RICKY

  (INTO MICROPHONE)

  Larry, I think I found it. The desk, the phone ... it's right here.

  INT. FIRST FLOOR

  Ricky's voice is all SQUELCH AND STATIC in Larry's earphone.

  LARRY

  Ricky? Say again, I didn't get that. (Beat) Ricky?

  INT. FOURTH FLOOR

  Ricky scans the room with his flashlight. The beam stops on
the back wall where heavy floor-to-ceiling--

  CURTAINS

  --hang, completely concealing the wall. They are torn, tattered and ugly. A roaring sound, like an approaching tornado, begins to rise from behind it.

  INT. FOURTH FLOOR - CREAKING FLOOR ROOM

  The floor lets out a MOAN. The two cops have a second to look at each other before--

  INT. THIRD FLOOR - MANNEQUIN PARTS ROOM

  The ceiling GIVES WAY. One cop drops through the rotten wood, hitting the shelves of mannequin parts. Plaster arms, legs, and heads tumble to the floor. Brady falls backwards, throwing his arms over his head to protect himself.

  BRADY

  Jesus fuck!

  The cop hits the ground with a loud OOF! Shelves and body parts topple onto him.

  Brady looks up, flashlight out. The air is choked with dust. At his feet, a fallen MANNEQUIN HEAD is still spinning. For a second, Brady seems hypnotized by it.

  LEAD COP (ON RADIO)

  What's that? Is everyone okay?

  BRADY

  (to the cop that dropped through the ceiling)

  You okay, man?

  THIRD COP

  (groaning)

  Yeah, I think so.

  A PIERCING SCREAM bursts out of the radio, making Brady WINCE.

  INT. FIRST FLOOR

  Larry whips the SCREAMING earphone out of his ear.

  LARRY

  Christ, that sounds like Ricky.

  (to the two cops)

  Upstairs! Let's go!

  INT. FOURTH FLOOR - HALLWAY

  A half-dozen cops run down the corridor toward the open office door. The SCREAMS are still coming from that room.

  LEAD COP (ON RADIO)

  ... somewhere on the fourth floor. Repeat: FBI Agent Smith possibly down, somewhere on the fourth floor.

  INT. FOURTH FLOOR - OFFICE

  The cops enter the office. The switchboards and the large desk are gone--nothing but faint outlines in the dusty floor. Ricky, still SCREAMING, is lying on his back near the far wall.

  The cops surround him and shine their flashlights on his face--eyes wide, mouth an "O." His fist is clamped around one of the long curtains, now pulled partway off its hooks.

  Ricky's SCREAM wavers and dies.

  LARRY (O.S.)

  Set away from him!

  The cops turn around. Larry is in the office doorway.

  LARRY

  Give him some room, goddamn it!

  The circle of cops breaks up, Larry pushing them aside as he approaches. He kneels next to his partner.

  LARRY

  (softly, to RICKY)

  Jesus, Ricky. I hope it was worth it.

  The cops are starting to gather around Ricky again.

  LARRY

  (to the COPS)

  Is someone going to call an ambulance? Come on, move it!

  They move it. Larry shines his flashlight toward the curtain, part of which is still clutched in Ricky's frozen hand. Behind the tattered fabric is nothing but BARE BRICK WALL.

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - OFFICES - 8:55 A.M.

  A room full of desks separated by cubicles. FBI agents are just arriving and settling in. One of them is--

  LARRY JOHNSON

  He's a few years older, a few years fatter. He hangs his jacket on the back of his chair. Another agent catches his eye.

  FBI AGENT

  Hey, Larry. You watch the Caps game last night?

  LARRY

  Shut up, I taped it.

  FBI AGENT

  Do yourself a favor--skip the third period.

  LARRY

  Didn't I already tell you to shut up?

  FBI AGENT

  I'm just saying, unless you've got a thing for lucky goals--

  Larry's response is a slow-burn stare. The other agent finds something else to do.

  Larry drops a brown paper lunch sack on his desk. It lands next to a MANILA ENVELOPE, which Larry notices for the first time. "CAREFUL - PHOTOS" is stamped across the envelope in red ink.

  Larry picks up the envelope and sits down.

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - LOBBY

  A few stragglers are rushing to get to their desks by nine. To enter, they have to show an FBI ID badge to a SECURITY GUARD and pass through an electric arch.

  Into the lobby rushes--

  BRADY

  --wearing sunglasses and a wrinkled suit. Tossing a perfunctory "Excuse me" over his shoulder, he cuts in front of a few people and tries to blow past the guard.

  BRADY

  Hey, Russell.

  SECURITY GUARD

  Where's your badge, Brady?

  BRADY

  (searching his pockets)

  Right, right. All personnel must display proper ID at all times.

  SECURITY GUARD

  It's not me, my man. It's the eye in the sky.

  The guard indicates the three cameras in the corners, all aimed at them.

  VIDEO MONITOR - On a black-and-white screen, we see the guard pointing up into the camera.

  LOBBY

  Brady comes up with a little plastic badge. He waves this in the guard's direction.

  BRADY

  Bingo. One badge.

  Brady clips the badge to his jacket. The guard lets him pass.

  INT. ELEVATOR

  The doors are closing. Brady, running, just gets his hand in before it's too late. The doors slide open and he gets into the car, panting to catch his breath. It takes a second to register that with him in the elevator is--

  HELEN SWEETEN, a pretty woman in her early 30s.

  She's dressed in a suit that flatters her figure. She's got one of those stick-on nametags neatly affixed to the breast pocket of her jacket.

  Brady tries to sneak a peek at her nametag without being too obvious about it. He tilts his head this way, then that way.

  None of this is lost on Helen. At first she looks slightly irritated, then flat-out annoyed. Finally--

  HELEN

  Would it help if I took my blouse off? Or would you prefer I get it wet?

  BRADY

  (removing sunglasses)

  I was Just trying to read your nametag, Miss ... Sweeten.

  HELEN

  Agent Sweeten.

  BRADY

  Sorry, Agent Sweeten. First day?

  HELEN

  Transfer.

  BRADY

  (holding out his hand)

  I'm Brady Wells. Agent Brady Wells.

  HELEN

  (taking his hand)

  Agent Wells.

  She shakes his hand in a way that says she considers the conversation over.

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - LOBBY

  A MAN enters the lobby. At first we see only his shoes--shiny and black, like the kind that come with a rented tuxedo.

  He walks toward the security guard, who is concentrating on the newspaper crossword.

  VIDEO MONITOR - The man steps into the camera's view. Prom this HIGH ANGLE we can't see his face, only slicked-back hair and his clothes: a black suit, stiff white cuffs, white gloves--classic stage magician attire. He's only on screen for a second when THE PICTURE GOES ALL SCREWY, filling with snow and ghost images.

  LOBBY

  The man passes through the electronic arch and into the heart of FBI headquarters. The guard never even looks up.

  INT. ELEVATOR

  Brady and Helen, just standing there, watching the floor number change.

  BRADY

  So ... what's your favorite movie?

  HELEN

  I beg your pardon?

  BRADY

  Mine's Titanic. I've got it on DVD. Dolby sound system. It's almost like--

  HELEN

  Does this really work?

  BRADY

  What's that?

  HELEN

  This thing where you try to pick up women by talking about Titanic. Like you're going to seem all sensitive or something.

  BRADY

  I'm just making c
onversation.

  HELEN

  (a long pause; then)

  For the record, I've never seen Titanic. But you know what? I'll bet the boat sinks, doesn't it?

  BRADY

  Yes.

  HELEN

  There, see? I already know how it ends.

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - OFFICES

  The man in the black suit walks the halls with a deliberate but unhurried pace. Though he walks without pretense of stealth, his passage seems completely undetected: the FBI agents that mill about don't bother to look up as he goes by, or their attention is drawn elsewhere just as he comes into view. Those in his path step out of his way without even knowing it.

  The man enters a door marked "Criminal Division" that leads to a room full of desks. Sitting at one is Larry Johnson. He is studying a sheaf of what appear to be enlarged photographs. He looks vaguely troubled.

  The man strides to Larry's desk. He reaches into his Jacket.

  MAN IN BLACK SUIT

  (in a dead voice)

  Larry Johnson?

  LARRY

  (looking up)

  Yes?

  Johnson's face goes ashen.

  LARRY

  How did you get in here?

  LARRY'S POV - we get a vary brief glimpse of the man's face--handsome but bland, forgettable--before it is blocked by the barrel of a .44. The .44 EXPLODES--BANG!

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - HALLWAY.

  Elevator doors slide open. Just as Brady and Helen step out, they hear the .44 FIRING TWO MORE SHOTS. Lightning-fast, Brady's gun is in his hand. He moves toward the door.

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - OFFICES

  The man in the black suit fires THREE FINAL BULLETS into Larry's body. Larry is SLAMMED BACKWARDS out of his chair.

  The ROAR of gunfire breaks the spell--all the FBI agents in the room turn toward the assassin. One leaps at the man, catching him in a flying tackle.

  They hit the ground with an alarming CLATTER. The man in the black suit seems to fall apart--arms, legs and head all breaking off.

  The door to the office opens and Brady rushes in, entering a scene of utter chaos. What previously was a man dressed in stage magician's clothes is now a broken-up plaster mannequin. The head is STILL SPINNING at Brady's feet.

  CUT TO:

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - BRIEFING ROOM - LATER THAT DAY

  Several dozen FBI agents sit waiting for something to happen. There is a low-level buzz of conversation, but the mood is pretty grim. Brady is sitting near the front.

  The door BANGS open and the SECTION CHIEF stalks in. He's carrying a black plastic crate marked "EVIDENCE." He looks pissed. The conversation level drops to zero.

  SECTION CHIEF

  (addressing the room)

  I just spent the last half hour getting my ass chewed out by the deputy director, who spent the previous hour getting his ass chewed out by the director. This is one fucked-up situation, people. Someone enters the most secure non-military building in the country, carries a gun through a metal detector without a beep, walks past almost a hundred armed FBI agents, puts six bullets into a man, then vanishes. And we don't have the first clue how he did it. All we have is this...