Story code: ST-001829
Part 2: Gathering Evidence
The heavy, sickening thud against the aluminum wall rattled the front windows of Eleanor’s house. She froze, her fingers hovering over the keyboard of her laptop.
Silence followed, thick and heavy.
Eleanor waited for another crash, her pulse fluttering in her throat, but the rusted Winnebago simply sat there, settling back onto its ruined suspension with a prolonged, whining squeal of protesting metal. She stared at the beige curtains drawn tightly across the RV’s small, rectangular windows. Whoever-or whatever-was inside had stopped moving, but the sheer force required to shake a vehicle of that size was alarming.
She glanced at the grandfather clock ticking methodically in her hallway. The police dispatcher had casually suggested a patrol car might drive by in a “few hours.” Two hours from now, the neighborhood children would be walking home from the private preparatory school down the block. Two hours from now, her husband would be returning from his dental practice, expecting to turn into a pristine driveway, not a junkyard staging ground.
Waiting was no longer an option. If the authorities required proof of a severe, immediate hazard to expedite their removal process, she would simply have to serve it to them on a silver platter.
Eleanor marched to her front closet and slipped on her sensible, rubber-soled gardening loafers. She grabbed her smartphone, unlocking it and opening the camera application before her hand even touched the polished brass doorknob.
Stepping out into the crisp autumn air, she felt a profound sense of righteous duty. The street was utterly empty, the usual landscapers and dog walkers having retreated indoors for the afternoon. She crossed her manicured lawn, wincing slightly as her shoes pressed into the damp, emerald blades of grass, and stopped at the edge of the asphalt.
Up close, the Winnebago was even more repulsive. The fiberglass siding was heavily oxidized, flaking away like dead skin, and spiderwebs of duct tape held the rear taillight assembly together. Eleanor held her breath, trying to avoid inhaling the sour, musty odor radiating from the undercarriage.
She pointed her phone at the puddle forming near the rear tire. She zoomed in, ensuring the sharpest possible focus on the dark, viscous fluid dripping from a cracked drainage pipe. It did not have the rainbow, iridescent sheen of motor oil or the bright green hue of antifreeze. It was a muddy, opaque rust color, and as a light breeze shifted through the cul-de-sac, it carried a distinct, metallic scent of copper and decay that made Eleanor’s stomach turn.
She snapped three photographs in rapid succession. Next, she moved toward the rear bumper, intending to document the expired, out-of-state license plate.
As she framed the shot, a low, guttural vibration echoed from inside the metal hull.
Eleanor lowered her phone, leaning slightly toward the vehicle. The sound wasn’t the rumble of a dying engine. It was a strained, physical struggle. A heavy scrape of metal dragged violently against linoleum flooring, followed by a frantic, rhythmic tapping, like claws or heavy boots scrambling for purchase.
“Stop fighting me,” a voice hissed from inside. It was the veteran. His voice was breathless, raw with exertion. “I know. I know it hurts. Just hold still!”
Eleanor’s blood ran cold. She took a step back, her heel hitting the concrete curb. The thumping grew louder, culminating in another sharp crash against the interior wall that made the entire chassis shudder.
“You’re opening it back up!” the man yelled, his voice cracking into a desperate plea. “Hold still! I have to get this in before you bleed through the rest of them.”
Eleanor’s mind raced through the municipal codes, but this was rapidly transcending a simple parking violation. The stained towels in the bucket. The frantic rush with the pharmacy bag. The metallic smell of the fluid leaking onto her street. He was harboring someone-or something-inside that rusted box, and he was clearly performing some sort of horrific, unsanitary procedure right in front of her house.
She needed to capture it on video. A recording of this violence would force the police to act instantly.
Eleanor ignored every instinct that told her to retreat to the safety of her living room. The neighborhood depended on her vigilance. She stepped off the curb, squeezing herself into the narrow, claustrophobic gap between her prize-winning hydrangeas and the RV’s passenger side. She sidled up to the nearest window.
The beige curtains were pulled tight, but time and rot had worn a frayed, half-inch gap along the bottom edge of the glass. Eleanor raised her phone, holding it flat against the pane to block the glare of the afternoon sun, and pressed her face close to the dirty window.
Inside, the cabin was cast in deep shadow. She could barely make out the veteran’s broad back. He was kneeling on the floor, his olive-drab jacket discarded on a ripped vinyl bench. He was hunched over something unseen on the floorboards, gripping a bundle of the white towels she had seen earlier. He was pressing down with his entire body weight.
A sudden, violent thrashing erupted beneath him.
Eleanor gasped, her breath fogging the glass. The veteran whipped his head around, alerted by the sound. Through the narrow gap in the curtains, his eyes locked directly onto hers. His face was pale, slick with sweat, and utterly terrified.
“Get away!” he roared.
Before Eleanor could react, he lunged upward. A large, calloused hand slammed flat against the inside of the window, right where Eleanor’s face hovered. The force rattled the frame, but it was the smear left behind that made Eleanor shriek. As his hand slid down the glass, it left a thick, wet streak of dark crimson.
Eleanor stumbled backward, tearing through her hydrangeas, snapping branches as she scrambled up her pristine lawn. She didn’t stop until she had thrown herself through her front door and engaged all three deadbolts.
Her hands shook violently as she brought the phone to her ear. She dialed 911.
Eleanor had never intentionally lied to the authorities in her entire life. She prided herself on being a pillar of absolute civic integrity. But integrity, she reasoned as her heart hammered against her ribs, was a luxury she could no longer afford when a violent maniac was parked on Oakridge Drive.
“911, what is the location of your emergency?” the operator asked.
Eleanor stared out the window at the bloody handprint drying on the RV glass. She crossed the line.
“Oakridge Drive, number forty-two,” Eleanor said, forcing her voice into a breathless, terrified whisper. “There is a man parked in an RV out front. He is holding someone hostage inside. I just saw him violently attacking them. There is blood everywhere, and I think I just heard a gunshot. Please, send the police immediately.”