He leaned into the door, stepping through as it swung outward onto the sidewalk. Somewhere in his mind, he vaguely recalled the street seeming brighter when he walked into the bar about an hour earlier. Shaking off the recollection, he turned right and headed toward the four-story parking structure where he had left his car.
As he reached the garage, an unexplained chill swept quickly through his body, suddenly leaving him with a sense of dread. He climbed the stairs to the second level, twice nearly tripping on the grimy, chipped concrete. Emerging from the stairway, he could see his car on his left, parked nose-in toward the center of the ramp. Something was definitely wrong.
Getting closer to his car, as he approached from the passenger side, he could see dark streaks, glistening as if wet on the black paint of his rear fender. His taillight had been smashed too, shards of red plastic littering the oily cement below. “What the hell?” he muttered to himself.
He pressed the button on his remote control to unlock the doors. The click of the locks made him jump, and he realized he was scared. Walking around to the driver’s side, he saw the shape sprawled on the ground, unmoving. It was a man. Well, it was person; he couldn’t tell for sure if it was a man or woman, until he carefully leaned closer. It was man, unconscious and badly bleeding from cuts and scrapes all over his face. The man’s lips were split, as swelling enveloped his entire right eye.
“Hello! Sir!! Hello!!” The voice sounded hollow and tinny. He realized it was coming from a cell phone grasped in the injured man’s bloody left hand. Prying the phone from the man’s grip, he looked at the screen. He saw the number: 9-1-1.