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something with her toe, thirteen fleshy objects lined up in a neat row on the blood-sopping carpet. “Are those…”
    “Jesus. Tongues.”
    “This is some serious shit.”
    “Can you read that?”
    Christian points through the swirling mass of flies. The black cloud shifts, and Megan sees writing on the wall. Somebody has covered most of the living room wall with scrawled words. She can’t make out much through the shadows. The words are written in a sloppy scrawl, and she can only make out fragments. She tries to make sense of them but fails.
    A Darkness Below…and All…Rises.
    She makes out the phrase several times among the writing. As the writing approaches the lower right hand corner, it grows more and more erratic, almost desperate. It’s a scribble of words she’s never seen or heard, never even imagined. It pulls at her, and she takes a step forward before she realizes what she’s doing.
    “Look,” Christian says. His voice startles her back into her head. He points to the opposite wall, and Megan follows with her eyes.
    Only three words fill this wall. Somebody wrote them in huge letters, making great sweeps with a blood-soaked hand. They work together with the nonsense words to create a sense of dread deep in Megan’s chest. This isn’t a gang thing. This is something new and terrible, and it’s something she can’t mold into any kind of sense.
    She reads the words again, and they spread through her mind like ice across a pane of glass.
    HE STEPPED THRU
     
    Rawls bounces the banger’s head off the steel table. The sound stabs at his ears a few times as it bounces around the tiny space. He expects the homeboy to follow it with some noise of his own: a scream, a grunt. Something. The Gray Streeter keeps quiet, though. Hell, he’s silent.
    “You wanna talk to me now, you fuck?” He tightens his hand into a fist and slams it into the homeboy’s sternum. He hears the man’s air rush out in a violent burst, but again the banger doesn’t make any sound that would indicate pain.
    Fuck it. He’s cracked thicker skulls in the past.
    “We’re running out of chances, shithead. You keep giving me this silent treatment bullshit, and I’m going to have to do some serious damage.
    “So what was that bullshit at the restaurant? New drug on the streets? Turf beef? Is this the start of a war? Tell me what we’re looking at.”
    Nothing.
    “Fucking answer me!”
    The banger looks up at him and smiles. The corners of his mouth creep upward slowly, like an old man climbing stairs. His eyes brim with shadows and fire, and Rawls almost thinks he can see the insanity and desperate anger in them. It’s the first time the man has acknowledged his existence, and suddenly he wishes he was anywhere but interrogation room four.
    He suppresses a shiver as he eyes the glittering teeth behind blood-caked lips. “Well? You have anything to tell me?”
    The banger opens his mouth and speaks in a whispering voice. The unintelligible syllables sound like a broken speaker, all static and air.
    Rawls blinks. He tries to say something, but his throat clicks and nothing else comes.
    The banger’s smile widens.
    “Everything and all. There is a darkness below, and it rises.”
    “What?”
    “But he stepped through.”
    He stares as the banger juts his tongue past his teeth. The wiggling muscle is a dull non-color, and it extends farther than Rawls thinks should be possible, inches becoming a foot.
    And then the Gray Street boy bites clean through.
    Blood spills from the man’s lips like somebody’s cranked a faucet. Rawls watches in stunned silence for a moment, trying to figure out just what the fuck he’s supposed to do. He thinks of the camera and the cord he yanked free. They’ll think he did this. No one will believe him. They put him in here to get the truth, and now a gangbanger is going to bleed to death in an interrogation room while his tongue flops on the table like a dying fish.
    He backs against the door