CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Neon orange spray paint would show up even in the morning gloom. Cole grinned to himself as they approached the abandoned warehouse at the end of the wharf.
Apart from the creepy feeling of being watched that he was trying to ignore, it was perfect.
Especially at this time of year. With only six hours of daylight at the beginning of February in Anchorage, the mornings were late, and the evenings came in early, giving them the cover of darkness for longer. With the streetlights at this unused end of the wharf giving out barely more than a flicker, the chances of being seen—and therefore caught—were slim.
Which was just as well, because if Cole’s mother found out what he was up to instead of being on his way to school for the day, he would be in big trouble. The last time he had been caught doing this, there had been hell to pay.
It was worth it, though. Cole grinned at the other two boys and shook the can that he was gripping in his hand. He had perfected his tag now and he was proud of it. He had spent hours designing it until he was happy with the curve and shape of the letters, ensuring a distinctive style that would be recognized as his.
This was what his parents and teachers didn’t understand. Graffiti was an art. He had dreams of being a serious graf artist one day, even bigger than that English guy Banksy, adorning walls and buildings with art that actually meant something.
His mates didn’t really understand either. They just thought it was a bit of fun, a chance to stick two fingers up at the cops and the authorities, and at all the rules they were expected to obey by parents, teachers, society…everyone. Being a teenager was stifling. There were worse things they could be doing than tagging a few abandoned buildings.
But for Cole, this was serious. A way to make his mark on the world, to contribute to a subversive art form that transcended cultural norms of what and where art should be.
He never voiced those thoughts to his friends though. They would just laugh at him and ask if he had been getting high again.
“Cole. Come on, these rafters will be perfect to tag, look.” Billy pointed to the large wooden beams overhead at the back of the warehouse. Realizing he had stopped following them and gotten lost in his thoughts, Cole jogged over to his mates, holding up his phone to see properly. They should have brought better lights, he thought, because they could barely see anything just by using their phones. It didn’t really matter though; he could do his tag without looking now. With his eyes closed, even.
He reached Billy and the other boy, Jerry, and they shook their cans, ready to start spraying. Jerry started dragging some wooden crates over so they could climb up to the rafters in question. It was a bit dangerous, but they had done worse, climbing over rooftops and even over the school gates during the summer holidays. That had been stupid though; that had been the time Cole had gotten caught.
But this warehouse was perfect. All these bare walls meant Cole could come back on his own and practice the new designs he had been working on in his sketch book.
“Hey, what’s that?” Billy said suddenly, pointing upwards. Cole shone the light from his phone in the right direction.
“It looks like a bunch of plastic has been hung there,” Billy said, sounding confused. “Like there’s something wrapped in it.”
Jerry stopped dragging crates and came over, sounding excited. “Maybe it’s been hidden here on purpose.”
“What, like treasure?” Billy scoffed as Jerry started piling crates on top of each other and then using the wall to climb up. “We’re not playing pirates anymore. It’s not second grade.”
But Jerry wasn’t listening. He started jumping around on the crates trying to reach the plastic, nearly tumbling off but not caring.
Cole wanted to tell him to stop. There was something about the bundle of plastic that was making him uncomfortable. It looked vaguely humanoid, like some kind of giant alien chrysalis from a science fiction movie. It reminded him, too, of the art installations at the fancy gallery his mother had taken him to for his birthday, where there had been sculptures made out of plastic and metal.
Jerry gave up jumping and threw his spray paint can at the plastic, hard. It wobbled precariously, and a piece of plastic fell down. Grinning in triumph, Jerry grabbed the now hanging end of the plastic and pulled, and it began to slowly unwind, releasing whatever was in it slowly down toward them.
“Hey, something’s dripping on me!” Billy complained, wiping his face. As he spoke, a fat drop of liquid landed on Cole’s hand and he squinted at it, then recoiled in shock.
It was blood.
He raised his face to the thing lowering toward them with a dawning horror, and as the plastic slowly unraveled, he saw the pale face of a woman staring back at him.
In spite of the waxy appearance of her skin, Cole knew this was no sculpture.
The three boys screamed in unison as the corpse landed with a thump on the floor and the plastic burst, spraying them with blood.
