The Night Chicago Died (Pt 2)

The Fed gave Crowe the willies. Once, he had woken up to find a huge spider crawling across his face; being around Winters and her partner, Agent West, was just like that. In fact, he got that same sick feeling from being around the crazy lady they arrested earlier, too.

“What?” Crowe asked.

“A line from Dawn of the Dead. It seems apropos, yes?” Winters answered, much too cheerfully. “I heard you mention that the current situation was like something from a horror movie.”

Crowe stared. “I…didn’t say that.” Not out loud, anyway, he thought.


“Take us to the prisoner, Officer,” Agent West barked. Where Winters was tall and pretty (if a bit too pale and thin), West was short and ugly with a Gomez Addams mustache and the manners of a pit bull. He too hid behind a pair of dark glasses.

Crowe led them down to the holding cells. The men in the cells were unusually quiet as they passed: they were all watching Winters, a look of dread on every face.

I know exactly how you feel, Crowe thought.

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