Nightfall Protocol

Andrew's eyes snapped open to darkness. His cheek pressed against cold, wet concrete, and for a moment he couldn't remember which way was up. He pushed himself upright, wincing as pain radiated from the back of his skull. Brick walls closed in on either side of him. A dumpster. A rusted fire escape overhead. An alley. Where the hell am I? He patted his hip instinctively — the familiar weight of his Glock was still holstered. Small mercy. He straightened up and caught the distant red glow of an emergency sign bleeding through the fog at the alley's end. A hospital. He was maybe two hundred metres from the entrance. Then the memories started crawling back, fragmented and wrong. The 911 call. A man's voice, barely holding together — frantic didn't cover it. Something about the hospital morgue. Something about a body. Not a body found. Not a body moved. A body moving. Andrew had told himself it was a psych case. Grief does strange things to people. He'd gone in anyway, because that was the job. He touched the back of his head and his fingers came back dark. He hadn't come out the same way he'd gone in.