Tracks: Chapter 1

The fireplace was still burning when I entered the room, casting a pale yellow glow against the dark hardwood flooring. A deep rich oak table remained, untouched, at the corner of the bed across the room. It’s corresponding chair, also of the same oak wood, lay overturned in a bed of shattered glass by the fireplace. What was most disturbing, however, was not the fact that this home, once a hive of life and activity, was now a grave. No, what was most disturbing was that this was a grave without a corpse.
The secret was out, it would only be a matter of time.
The assassination played itself over and over in my head as I walked back towards the harbour. All my experience, all my planning, and yet somewhere in the intricate web forged by years of experience there was a flaw. Most importantly, there was a missing body, and I was a marked man. It was a cold November morning, the sun had not yet pierced the skyline, the city still slept. Fumes rose as thick spires from the underground sewers, lacing the still air with a sharp polluted sting. I stood, gazing out towards the Chicago harbour, savouring the thought of an open ocean before me. I allowed myself to believe that I was to leave this corrupt world behind me, and ahead of me was nothing save open sea. Unfortunately, on my frequent walks to the harbour, I soon realize that I am the poison that corrupts the very world behind me, I realize that wherever I go I will never be free of the mendacities and immorality that plagues society, and I reluctantly slink back into reality. Deep into my contemplation, I failed to notice the dark figure who loomed over me. As I stood there, surveying the harbour, I felt a tug at my pocket and the rustling of papers. I resisted the urge to immediately turn and attack the stranger who interrupted my solace, instead I peered over to my pocket to see exactly what this stranger was doing. I saw a gloved hand nimbly slip a photo into the gap in my trench coat. I was experienced enough to know that this stranger put an effort towards appearing inconspicuous, and so I did the same. I did not look at the stranger, instead I continued looking straight ahead, at the harbour.
The stranger spoke in an icy, rough voice. “Barkeep took a stroll down flint street, found an empty case and a box of matches. Nine o’clock.” Without another word, the stranger departed. I took this time to peer at the picture stashed in my pocket. There was an open fireplace burning, contrasting a dark hardwood flooring. The room looked much more hostile in the picture than it did when I left it not an hour ago. What was most alarming however was not the painfully familiar room, but the body stretched out on the floor. My face went pale as I stared at the photo before me. I turned around, trying to find the mysterious stranger holding such incriminating evidence, but he was nowhere in sight. I knew better than to search for him, instead, I took the time to gaze once more at the beautiful vista before me. For all I know, I mused, this may be my final sunrise. And so I stood, gazing into the rising sun, a silent sentinel of a waking city, I stood.
I thought over in my mind, trying to find a meaning behind the cryptic message of the stranger. I lived in Chicago all my life and had never heard of a flint street, and I failed to see the importance or any connection with an empty case and a box of matches. An empty case, I considered, most likely referred to a corpse, a body without a soul. But the relevance to a box of matches was not as evident. I was deep in thought, even as I entered the dingy café. I crossed directly to the barkeep, as I have many a cold unwelcoming morning, for information.
“G’ morning.” He said, “ and what can I do for you today?”
I replied in a hushed voice, “What can you tell me about an empty case and a box of matches?” Immediately he stiffened, his eyes widened and scanned the room violently, they seemed to rest on one point in the corner of the room.
“I couldn’t tell you that, mate.” He replied slowly and cautiously, “You’ll have to look somewhere else.” He began to anxiously tap his fingers along the serving counter, still with his eyes fixated on a point across the room, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. It took a moment for me to realize the pattern in his constant tapping, but the realization came hard, it was morse code. He again repeated “I couldn’t tell you that mate, please look somewhere else”
Looking deep into his eyes I replied “I understand.” He immediately stopped tapping on the desk. Taking his cue, I followed his gaze to the corner of the room, where a hooded figure sat, with a newspaper covering his face. On closer inspection, I could make out the faint outline of headphones and a radio receiver under his hood.
“Would you like yourself a drink? How about some coffee?” He knew I hated coffee. “Il give it to you double layered,” he lowered his tone significantly, “this is going to be hot.” After ordering the coffee, I left the building, taking one more look at the hooded figure at the corner of the café.
After I was a safe distance from the pub, I dumped out the coffee from my cup. At the bottom oft the cup there was nothing. No address, no number. Perplexed, I tried to find a reason behind this. As I moved to throw the cup out, a rattling from the bottom took to my attention. I carefully peeled away the top layer of the cup, in between both layers lay a box of matches.
*****
“Ah, you made it.” Under the shade of his top hat I could not make out the expression on his face, but his tone of voice was far more welcoming than it was earlier.
“It was the inscription on the matchbox, I’ve seen it far too many times it my line of work to be unfamiliar with it. What disturbs me most is that you had knowledge that such a group existed. This is classified information, our activities are all classified. Your knowledge of this proves that our web of secrecy has been fractured. In turn, the very stability of this country has been jeopardized.” Hearing this, he leaned in close, and spoke in a harsh whisper.
“War existed long before you were born, Winston.” I recoiled, shocked that this stranger knew my name. “This organization existed long before our nations existed. We carry on ancient tradition, we are the backbone of the nations, the marrow of the iron fist with which civilizations rise and fall. We are the architects of history, and you and I are only pawns, subject to time and change. What you fail to understand is that subterfuge will exist regardless of your fate Winston. You are fortunate, however, that I take a personal interest in your well being, if not, I would not share this information.” At this he took out a piece of paper and started to write with his crimson pen. After a few minutes he folded the paper and slid it across the table. I did not pick it up immediately.
“Your hesitating.”
“I don’t know if I trust you, my only association with you is that body. If news of our existence reaches the public, Americas stability will be compromised. I am a very dangerous man, and I’m not the kind of person you want to keep a secret from, I have ways of… extracting secrets if necessary. Now how did you get that picture?” We sat, staring at each other across the table, neither of us spoke a word for a long while.
“In the dead of night, an artist assumes his work. He relies on secrecy to propel the existence of his masterpiece. He fails to realize that the very walls have eyes, and itching ears will always listen to the wrong conversation. The very tide runs against you. Know that I am not the only one with itching ears. I suggest you bring that with you.” He nods towards the paper, still untouched on the table. “I have already given you all the answers to your questions. Good luck, Winston. “
Without another word he left, leaving me alone with only a piece of folded paper as my lifeline. That, and a box of matches.
It would have seemed like a normal matchbox to anyone who may have chanced a glance at it from afar, but in my hands I could feel an unusual weight to the pack. It was, of course, nothing more than an ordinary matchstick pack, usually carrying five small matches stashed within the innermost folds of the box, no more than an inch or two in length. On the front of the matchbox was the silhouette of a tiger’s visage, with one red mark on its right eye. At a glance, this was no special matchbox, but I was familiarized the illustration on the front of it, greatly familiarized. This matchbox bore the insignia of a notorious society, hated by all citizens who sought peace and solace in their existence, hated, but not known. A society of shadows, my society. Inside the matchbox lay a single match, with the inscription Umbra Congregatio.
On the bottom lay a red dot, similar in size to the red dot on the insignia. The eye of the tiger.
The sun was setting before I reached the safety of my home. On all other occasions I would have driven home, but I considered it unwise to do so with a potential mark on my head. In my profession I personally witnessed the grotesque result when a marked man overlooks this danger. Through the tinted glass of my attic window, I could see the last golden rays of the dying sun as it illuminated itself against the skyline. A brilliant gold saluted the fading sun, momentarily brightening my dim room. I breathed a sigh of gratitude, for under the dazzling light of the sunset my atmosphere ceased, for a brief moment, from being the hostile setting for the inhumane practices that it was. For a beautiful, albeit short period of time I could almost forget the troubles that engulfed me. In the majestic light of the waning sun, I almost felt at peace. I relished this feeling, allowed the belief, lie though it was, to coarse through my mentality, I begged it to influence my reality, to make me feel moral, but the night came too quickly. I was once again swallowed up by the thick shadow that I resided in. I relied on darkness so greatly for the efficiency of my duty, yet it granted me no comfort. Years of darkness destroys a man. It first chokes his soul, infests his morality, and corrupts his heart. My existence was tainted by the darkness I was cursed to live under, yet without it, I was a dead man.
I flicked on my dim attic light, which only added to the hostility of the room. Every crack and crevice in the room was shrouded in darkness, but I felt no fear. I knew that no darkness in this room could combat the darkness that dwelt inside me. Hate it as I did, I shared a symbiotic relationship with this darkness. No, more, I not only thrived in shadow, I was it’s master.
I took out the paper, still neatly folded, from my pocket. I found myself trembling as I reached to open it. Not until now did I realize how greatly my life relied on the contents of this paper, scribbled down in a few seconds by a mysterious man at a location he should never have known existed. Had anyone been in the room with me as I opened the paper, they would have been able to see the look of utter dismay wash over me. They would have been able to witness the deep lines of tension and worry etch themselves into my usually stone cold features. But no one was with me, at least as far as I knew at the time. On the paper was a single red dot, and the words Umbra Congregatio written underneath it.
There was nothing else, this was my lifeline.
As I went downstairs, deeply troubled, I was alarmed to see the outline of a hooded figure in my doorway. He was wearing a long dark trench coat, with a blaring red circle over the right breast pocket. I didn’t need the extra light to guess what surrounded the red circle on his chest, I had seen it enough to realize that the red was only a small yet pivotal part of the insignia he bore. I needed no more light to realize the Eye of the Tiger was at my door.
“Package delivery from the Shadow, please sign.” He handed me a package and a pen, which I took. As I was about to sign I hesitated.
“Sign what?”
“That is all I need, thank you.” He carefully retrieved the pen from my hand, and placed it into a sealable plastic bag. I chided myself for being so foolish as to take the pen without gloves on, I just gave him all the information he could possibly need. My stress was manifesting itself in my actions. With that he left, and I let him. I still had the control to realize that if he was confident enough to stand in my doorway and reveal that he had just taken my fingerprint, he was also smart enough to have a plan if I was not fully cooperative.
I closed the door, locked it, I also double checked all my windows and my chimney. I returned to the attic, but not before propping an additional sturdy table against my house door.
Again upstairs, I concentrated on the matchbox before me. A single match with a red dot at the tip, a red dot on the paper, and the eye of the tiger on the insignia. After a prolonged period of thought, the answer stuck me violently. I pulled off the match, lit it, and set it onto the eye of the tiger on the matchbox insignia. Instantly, the entire perimeter of the matchbox burst into violent flame, causing me to drop the box, in shock, onto my workbench. Curiously enough, the wooden desk did not burn. I watched as the flames ate away at the corner of the matchbox, slowly reaching the center of the box. As if suddenly reminded, the flames burst once again into a brilliant flash of white light, exponentially more violent than before. A wave of heat hit me, forcing me to shield myself from the blast. The burst of flames did not recede, instead increased constantly, eventually flaring into a magnificent display of white light. I realised that this matchbox was far more dangerous than I expected, as the highly reactive magnesium host that perpetuated this flame was clearly still instable. It was moments like these that inspired me to tint my attic window to preserve my secrecy. As the flames died down, I could make out a golden glint amidst the cinders. I waited until the flame died off completely, then brushed away the ashy remains. Expectantly I found a thin metallic slab, still flimsy from the heat. After many minutes of waiting, the metal seemed to have cooled off, but I could clearly see a message etched into the thin sheet. On it was an address, and a note.
Don’t accept the package.
I looked over my shoulder at the package, still wrapped in the manila standard covering. As I moved to open it, a gaping hole in the package caught my attention. There were five more identical holes on each side of the square package. I ripped it open, only to find six small low definition cameras and what I expected to be a live transmission device. I just gave whoever was watching this a full tour of my secret working area, my lines of tension deepened severely into my visage. There was a note in the middle of the package, I read it.
The very walls have eyes.1