Volume 1 - Prologue

OCTOBER 7, 2022 ~ CTRLDEVIL

I wipe my wet face with a towel and start the engine. The water on the front window is swept off by the windshield wipers. Raindrops, with the wind’s borrowed momentum, keep hitting the window continuously. Visibility a hair’s breadth from zero, whatever ambient light there is blurs into the darkness.

Made contact with the communications center by radio. The windows of the contractor’s home – deserted on vacation – were not properly locked. “The storm caused the windows to open and the alarm malfunctioned.”

Just tonight alone, how many times have I repeated the same exact phrase?

August. It was the early typhoon season.

The humidity and heat were growing unbearable at night. For a security guard, it was busier than ever. Wind-blown chips of wood and birds hit the glass of buildings and residences. Sensors frequently report anomalies.

There are big dark circles hovering under my eyes. The night shift has taken a toll on my body. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, I loosen my stiff shoulders. Even my foot on the gas pedal feels tired. It feels as if there is a lump behind each of my eyes. At times, I even have trouble focusing.

I’ve gotten old.

A man’s sigh of resignation fills the air.

The radio’s signal announces another alarm activation. Worn out to the bottom of my heart, I press the microphone and agree.  I can’t complain since everyone is working at full capacity. There is no such thing as time to eat – it is already past 2 am.

Five Market, Fukasaku location. 

A convenience store open 24 hours a day – just a stone’s throw away from Higashiomiya, where this old man happens to be. More specifically, it’s in a residential area near National Route 16. The voice filtering through the radio informs me that the nearby police station has already been notified.

Eventually, I arrive at the newly developed residential area, which is undergoing rezoning. The orange glow of the convenience store lights are blurred by the rain. Next to the purple mosquito light, a red light is rotating, indicating that an alarm’s gone off. Two cars are parked in the parking lot, and a scooter sits under the eaves of the store.

I pull the van into the parking lot, reach behind me to put on the helmet I had rolled onto the back seat, and open the door. The rain blowing right beside me makes a sound against the windshield. The wet sleeves of my shirt absorb more water, clinging to my skin. The hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.

In this heavy rain, the glass doors of the store are open. The linoleum floor is wet, and the newspapers sitting in the stand by the entrance have already been discolored from the storm. Inside, people are nowhere to be seen – not even a clerk at the counter. Drawn from focus by the reminder of the rain on my back, I step on in. I pull out the baton that’s attached to my belt. When I step on the welcome mat, water seeps out. I approach, breathless, and look down over the counter.

A sharp intake of air fills my lungs.

A young man in a uniform is curled up on the ground. His blue jeans have been discolored by dark blotches. Under him, a pool of blood. There are finger-shaped smears on the counter and register that look as if they’ve been made with red paint. The register’s been left open – change is strewn everywhere. I lean over the counter, about to call out to him, but stop.

The animal smell of thick blood and excrement hits my nose. The young man’s stomach, along with his uniform and the t-shirt underneath, have been ripped open, and he is hunched over, holding his overflowing guts. As if showing signs of a fight, cuts and tears litter his uniform, and deep lacerations on his arms and chest are torn open, revealing fat and pink flesh.

Video-game discs and DVDs for rental meant to be put on the shelf behind him are soaked in blood on the floor. Despite the gruesome scene, the store is filled with the sound of easy-going pop hits and the scent of oden. The smell of boiled food and fresh death hits me with a wave of nausea.

“Oi-”

As I approach the young man’s body behind the counter, I notice the head of what looks like a person lying on their side at the back of the store, not too far away. A middle-aged woman with disheveled brown hair is crumpled up on the floor. She is dressed simply – tank top and shorts. A basket lays next to her, and snacks and water bottles are scattered about.

Kneeling down, I try to shake her awake. At the same time, I notice another smell that makes me grimace. A bloodshot eyeball has been displaced from its socket. Her tongue is far enough out of her mouth to reach the floor. There are string-like marks on her neck, and the congestion of blood under her skin lends them a purple color.

I tread halfway around the store. A bespectacled boy leans against a shelf of dairy products. His arms and legs are stretched out like a puppet with cut strings, without so much as a twitch of a muscle. His cotton tank top, formerly white, has been dyed reddish-black. There is a large rip in his neck, like the gruesome smile of a specter. Piercing his chest are numerous holes, and his surroundings are stained with a spray of blood, as if a spray can had exploded. Red drops cover the bread, milk, cheese, and cornflakes on display. 

“Someone..”

At this point I might as well be immune to the sight of death, but even my voice is laced with anxiety and fear. Shaking off the nightmare that looms over me, I kick open the door to the back room. At once an inexplicable rush of excitement and fear comes over me. Beyond the door is a small stockroom with bare concrete and steel frames. Cardboard piles of juice and cup noodles are stacked in a heap. A sense of relief and dismay falls over me at the fact that nothing awaits me here. I open the windshield of my helmet and wipe the sweat dripping from my forehead with my sleeve.

The sound of a Super Cub engine approaches. When I exit the back room, I am met with the sight of two uniformed officers. One, a young cop in a black jacket, is frozen like a stone at the entrance. The other, a thirty-something cop with a protruding belly, is a familiar sight. They’re faces I know well – they’re from the police station in front of the train station.

My head drifts into a nod. The young cop looks at the clerk behind the counter and makes a girlish screeching sound – the middle-aged one mutters something urgently as he grips the microphone on his radio. In just a few minutes, the parking lot will be filled to bursting with cop cars.

Melancholy besets me. I wonder how many faces I will recall among the police here. Just how many faces will I see? Stepping out of the store, I escape the smell of murder, a mixture of blood, guts, and excrement, heading out into the torrential downpour. Taking off my helmet, I reach for the car’s radio microphone. The sound of a noisy siren filled my ears, drowning out the sound of the heavy rain.