Free Fletcher by David Horscroft

mind. A pseudonym always leaves a trail. A handle tells me about the organization in charge.
    A real name? Those lead to family and friends. That terror-train stopped for no stations.
    For now, the name gave me a location. Thanks, possibly outdated phonebook. Cartwright lived in a small apartment, close to Riverside Mercy. The complex was called Arcadia. I glanced at my watch.
    15h49. Two hours until perimeter lockdown; three until full curfew. One hour for walking, one hour for talking. I’d probably have to jump the crossing again on the way out, but that wasn’t a problem.
    The streets were fairly empty, considering the time. Clusters of people hung around out of the wind, with one or two smoking on the fringe of their group. I ignored them, mostly, and met any curious stares with hateful daggers of my own.
    I made it to Alastor’s block twenty minutes later. Even the building reeked of old people—a weathered pink-mauve wall with barred windows and dusty glass. The gas canisters were burning a hole in my backpack, but I ignored the urge.
    Focus, K.
    I stumbled into an old lady leaving the complex, lifting her swipe tag in the process. Apologising profusely—it felt distinctly alien—I proceeded through the door. There had been no apartment number in the phonebook, just the complex and a landline number. I dialled and listened carefully.
    He lived on the fourth floor, five doors on the right from the stairs. 4-10 .
    Deceptively big complex.
    I knocked on the door. No answer. I bent down and stared through the keyhole. The key was still in the lock. I knocked again, louder. Still no response.
    I pulled one of the photographs out and slid it beneath the door. Using one of my thinner blades I gingerly pushed through the keyhole, hoping not to jam the lock. After a few seconds of tender jiggling I felt the pressure fall away, and a dull clatter as the key fell onto the page.
    I pulled the photo back out from under the door, until the metal was visible.
    Bingo. You deserve a YouTube series. If YouTube was still a thing.
    I pulled the key out and unlocked the flat. The smell hit me first—a musty, sickly sweetness. As an afterthought, I locked the door behind me.
    I turned into Cartwright’s room, and took a foul breath of air.
    His hair was white and thinning. His forehead was wrinkled with age, and his eyes—wide open—had probably been blue at some stage. The sockets gazed up into space, right through me, from the foot of the bed. The rest of his body was slumped in a chair, on the other side of the room. An over-eager breed of grave mould already hung on his frame.
    He was dead.
    I held a cloth over my face and tried not to taste it. Gloves would probably be best, so I hunted through the kitchen until I came across a heavy yellow pair.
    Back in the room, I parted the flesh around the wounds. It was soft and peeled back easily, exposing the bone beneath. Whatever had happened to Alastor, it hadn’t been pretty.
    I muttered to myself while I examined the remains. The head had been fully detached by a few heavy strokes to the neck, evidenced by chips on the spinal cord. A trail of blood streaked between it and the chair, but the majority was pooled around the corpse itself. The neck was messy, but the chest was complete carnage.
    Possible post-mortem decapitation. That’s a lot of rage. If the chest didn’t say that already.
    It did, in no uncertain terms. Decomposition didn’t fully explain the state. He was literally mincemeat. A sharp, heavy blade—most likely the decapitator—had been deployed to great effect. The spongy lung tissue, now extra spongy, poked out from between the broken ribs. Despite the cloth over my face, I found myself holding my breath. The smell was utterly vile, even to my experienced senses.
    I stripped off one of the gloves and took out my phone. I exposed the bones and their marks and took as many photos as possible. I was reasonably certain that this was the deadly damage. The head