A God's Last Death

In the Footsteps of a Light-Footed Ghost

I watch the officers file out the station with long stompy strides, all shriveled and angry. The courage it took me to get out of bed and face those little bastards every day was enormous. I wish I could spend my last days on a tropical beach, eating grapes and having people waving coconut leaves to cool me down.

"You coming?" Noah approaches me while holding a bulletproof vest.

"I'll catch up with you later." That's a lie. I have no intention to follow them, but he doesn't need to know that. I grab the vest and put it on.

"Okay," he says and follows the others.

I lean against the doorframe of the station's entrance and wait for them to split up and disappear behind the buildings.

"Alright, listen up," the captain's voice is suddenly heard through the radio. "We have a code five. I repeat, code five. Main points of interest are medical establishments. We are looking for a single party, showing physical as white male, six foot, young, probably in his thirties. Black hair, black clothes, has a tattoo on his palm. He is wounded. You know the drill. Do not disappoint me."

I shake my head and start walking. I don't hurry, I take my time looking at the road, searching for signs of him. I don't know what I'm looking for; a footprint, perhaps, glass, or even blood, but I know I'm asking too much. The forensics found nothing; I doubt I'll be so lucky.

I try to think like a fugitive running for cover. I wouldn't go south, where the surveillance is thicker. Besides, we have combed the area for every possible hideout in the past and haven't found anything. But what if that's how he wants us to think? What if his plan is to mislead us north while he sneaks in south undisturbed? I decide to follow my hunch.

I pass a few stores, a petrol station, a diner shuttered long ago. A greasy garage right across from a black building burned down two years ago. That's New York for you. It could be worse, I guess, but the chilling sensation that someone is watching me makes me fidget in my coat. Ι find myself imagining how it must have been in the past when the roads were a marriage of sounds, from bicycle wheels to chattering. The people would flow like rivers, never stopping for obstacles but swirling around them. That city seems so foreign now.

I spend hours walking. I search for blood drops on the ground, a piece of cloth, a sign of flight. I look for something, anything I can cling onto and let it lead me to a clue. Nothing. Just me, the deserted roads, and the silent streetlamps. Slowly, I start to realise I'd better give up and stop with this charade. With resentment heavy on my shoulders, I begin walking back to the station.

The streets should be empty by now but then echoing down the concrete walls are footsteps. Anyone down here should at least be sneaking, but they aren't. Each footstep rings out like a church bell on a quiet Sunday morning, rudely awakening the Saturday night revellers. How could someone come here so bold? Whilst I slink in the shadows in soft soled shoes, this person allows their footsteps to echo off the buildings announcing their arrival to all in a several hundred metre radius. I can never imagine doing such a thing. I prefer to sit back in the shadows, wait, assess. I'm curious to see who walks so fearlessly.

I hide behind a decaying building and look out. From around the corner walks an old man in a simple shirt and shorts, no weaponry, his boots falling loudly with each step. I frown. What is he doing out so late in the night? Isn't he cold?

The man looks straight at me, as if he knows exactly where I'm standing. "Oak Terrace Street, number fifteen," his raspy voice reaches my ears. "That's where you'll find him."

And with that he is gone, nowhere to be seen. Maybe I am losing it.