Chapter Forty-Three
FORTY-THREE
Tim
The building was dark, of course. It hadn’t had power in decades, and as Tim studied the boxy structure in the early morning light, he felt a pang of sadness about that. A longing for what once was.
When he was a kid, the Rivermouth Arena was the place to be, a humming neon den of fun.
All week long, he and his friends would make plans, the entire grade abuzz about who was going to be there and when.
The skating rink was the big draw, but folks came for the arcade and cheap pizza, too.
The fact that parents gave the place a wide berth only added to its mystique.
The Rivermouth was where Tim first held a girl’s hand as they spun around the ice, and where he made out with his first real girlfriend.
The game machine—it had been Mortal Kombat, which in retrospect was fitting—had been warm against his back when he circled the girl’s tongue with his.
Tim took out his flashlight, turned it on, and angled the beam inside.
In zombie apocalypse movies, malls and movie theaters often made an appearance.
There was impact in showing once-active places in a state of abandonment and disrepair.
It disarmed you. Left you spooked. That was what this felt like: an end-of-days flick, with Tim about to battle for his life.
As he took in the scene before him, his breath whistled through his teeth, the sharp intake of air catching like a barb in his throat.
There were places where actual plant life grew on what remained of the floor, nature creeping in where it didn’t belong.
The ceiling was ravaged, slabs of insulation dangling from rusted nails.
Drywall peeled like an overripe banana, spotted and brown.
Graffiti tags disfigured the wall behind the concession stand, and Tim wondered who the hell had the balls to cross the threshold.
If the tetanus didn’t get you, the walking dead would.
Inside the abandoned lobby, the dense low-pile carpeting that used to scuff against his shoes was covered in broken glass and paper Pepsi cups that numbered in the hundreds. Plastic water bottles had been left behind too, all customized with Rivermouth Arena in red and yellow font.
Turned over to the seasons, snow and rain and humid summers and waterlogged springs, the structure was saturated with moisture. Decomposing like a corpse. The Rivermouth was special once, but the building before him had been slain, guts spilling out like an animal left for dead.
Not yet eight a.m., and the temperature was climbing. Back in his car, Tim felt clammy and was fairly certain the putrid funk of decay had seeped into his clothes. He wrestled off his jacket and tented the front of his shirt to let in some air. It didn’t help.
As he made his way to the barracks to interview Woody Durham, the Rivermouth clung to him like a hot, wet coat. The old ice rink was significant, a girder on which the crime had been built.
He just had to figure out why.