CB leans against the boardwalk rail, looking at the old Hyatt building tenement he used to call home. A few days ago it was. Then someone from his past showed up, and everyone died. That’s the word on the street: no survivors.
The cops have the whole building under wraps—literally under wraps, covered in some kind of industrial-grade cellophane or saran wrap. Police tape encircles the entire building. The only way in is through an isolation tent set up in front of the hole Red Shift put through the lobby wall.
CB pushes himself off the rail and heads toward the building. There aren’t too many people around—it’s still mid-morning, and the Boardwalk is mostly nocturnal. The four cops on the scene are huddled off to one side of the airlock tent, sitting on the hood of a police car, drinking coffee and looking bored.
“Oi!” CB calls out to the cops, waving in their direction. They turn to him, startled, and gape as he ducks under the police tape, walking toward the tent. Two cops hastily set their coffee on the hood of the car and move to intercept, hands resting on their holsters.