Colours Under the Door

"Tyre tracks that end mid-stride. Impossible colours bleeding from a toilet cubicle. My partner frozen like he's seen something I can't. Just another Monday."

"Karl, check this out," I called to him, my voice cutting through the sound of rain hammering against leaves and ground and our soaked bodies.

I watched Karl make his way towards me across the slippery, wet, muddy gravel. Despite the urgency of the situation, despite my focus on the potential evidence I'd found, some small, traitorous part of my brain took a moment to appreciate how his wet shirt clung to his abs, the soaked fabric plastered against his torso in ways that highlighted muscle definition that came from dedicated gym work and physical training.

Focus, Sarah, I told myself firmly, pushing those thoughts aside with more effort than I'd like to admit. This was neither the time nor the place, and I had more important things to concentrate on than my partner's physical attributes.

Like the evidence literally at my feet.

"Look at this," I directed his attention to what I'd found—two distinct sets of tyre treads etched deeply into the mud, clear enough to be unmistakable despite the rain trying its best to wash them away. The patterns were fresh, the edges still sharp, the depth suggesting vehicles moving at speed rather than carefully navigating.

Together, we followed the tracks, our footsteps squelching in the soft earth as we traced their path. The treads led us perhaps twenty metres, then, bewilderingly, the tracks came to an abrupt and inexplicable end.

Just... stopped. As though the vehicle had simply ceased to exist mid-journey.

"Well, this doesn't make sense," Karl said, crouching down to examine the set of treads more closely, his brow furrowed in concentration.

I echoed his confusion, my words tumbling out in a mix of bewilderment and mounting frustration. "These tyre tracks look like the vehicle didn't even stop. How can they just end here? It's as though the car just disappeared?"

The implausibility of the situation was maddening. Tyre tracks didn't just end in the middle of nowhere. Vehicles obeyed the laws of physics—they continued forward until something stopped them, whether that was braking, collision, or some other force. They didn't simply vanish mid-stride like they'd been plucked out of existence by some cosmic hand.

Yet here we were, staring at tracks that did exactly that. The treads showed no signs of the vehicle slowing or stopping, no change in depth or pattern that would indicate braking. They just... ended. Terminated. Ceased to exist as though the vehicle producing them had suddenly achieved flight or dematerialised or been transported to another dimension entirely.

Karl's gaze shifted from the impossible tracks on the ground to the large toilet block that stood perhaps ten metres ahead of us—a sturdy structure that looked like it predated modern plumbing by several decades, the kind of basic facility that parks departments installed for bushwalkers and maintained only grudgingly.

"I don't know," Karl replied quietly, his voice tinged with uncertainty that I rarely heard from him. "There wouldn't be much left of that wall if they'd driven into it."

His words hung in the air, adding to the mystery rather than solving it. He was right—if a vehicle moving at the speed necessary to create these deep, aggressive tyre treads had impacted the toilet block, there would be catastrophic damage. Splintered wood, collapsed walls, most likely a vehicle embedded in the structure. The wall stood intact, showing no signs of impact, no fresh damage beyond the weathering of years exposed to Tasmania's harsh climate.

It was a dead end in the most literal sense—the tracks ended, the structure stood undamaged, and we had no explanation for how a vehicle could simply cease to exist between one tyre impression and the next.

"There's still this second set of tracks," I called out to Karl, gesturing towards another set of treads that diverged from the first, leading in a slightly different direction. My voice had to rise to be heard over the rain and a sudden loud clap of thunder that rumbled through the sky above us, the sound so close and violent that we both instinctively ducked despite knowing thunder itself was harmless.

The storm was intensifying—brilliant. As if this situation needed any additional complications.

"Where do you reckon they go?" I yelled to Karl as he drew closer, his figure slightly blurred by the heavy downpour that seemed determined to reduce visibility to absolute minimum.

"Well, they can't go too far out here," Karl replied, his voice barely audible over the rain and another roll of thunder echoing across the hills. "They break away from the first set of tracks down there and then veer to the right. It looks like they head to the back of the toilet block."

My curiosity piqued immediately. Without waiting for further discussion or Karl's agreement, I found myself already running alongside the second set of tracks, following their path with mounting urgency.

My feet splashed through puddles and muddy patches, rain streaming down my face, hair plastered to my head, every part of me absolutely soaked and uncomfortable. But I barely registered any of it now, my attention fixed entirely on where these tracks might lead, what we might find, whether this was finally the break that would make sense of this impossible situation.

"It's here!" I called out, my voice tinged with excitement and anticipation as the tracks led me around the back corner of the toilet block.

And there it was.

"Shit!" Karl exclaimed, rushing to my side, his earlier frustration transforming into sharp alertness as we both took in what we'd found.

One of the vehicles we'd been chasing sat there, abandoned in the small clearing behind the toilet block. The passenger side door hung wide open, interior already collecting rainwater, creating the unmistakable impression of hasty exit rather than careful parking. The vehicle was definitely Gladys Cramer's car according to the registration plate that matched what I'd run earlier.

But no Gladys. No second driver. No explanation for why they'd come here or where they'd gone next.

Caution warred with intrigue as I took in the scene. Karl approached the vehicle carefully. I drew my weapon, the familiar weight of my service pistol somehow reassuring despite the bizarre circumstances, following close behind him and slightly to the side to provide cover if needed.

My heart hammered in my chest, pulse racing with a combination of adrenaline, exhaustion, and the sharp edge of danger that came with approaching an abandoned vehicle during an active pursuit. Every sense was heightened, every nerve alert to potential threat. This was the moment when situations could turn deadly—suspects might be hiding nearby, might be armed, might be desperate enough to make catastrophically bad decisions.

"They must have taken off on foot," Karl called through the rain, his voice slightly muffled by distance and weather as he peered into the vehicle's interior, checking for occupants we both suspected wouldn't be there. "There's nobody here."

Relief and frustration mixed in equal measures. Relief that we weren't about to be in an immediate confrontation. Frustration that the suspects had apparently fled into the dense forest on foot, which meant tracking them through Tasmanian wilderness in torrential rain—a prospect that ranged somewhere between "extremely difficult" and "practically impossible."

The chase had taken a sudden turn, transitioning from vehicle pursuit to foot pursuit, but the latter was going to be exponentially more complicated given terrain, weather, and visibility. Still, at least we'd found one of the vehicles. That was something. A lead, if nothing else.

But where was the second car? And more importantly, where was Gladys now?

The atmosphere shifted suddenly, tension ratcheting up another impossible notch as a sharp clang resonated from the vicinity of the toilet block beside us. The sound was metallic, deliberate, distinctly out of place against the natural symphony of rain and wind and thunder.

Instinctively, I pointed my gun towards the small building, as I scanned for movement or threat. My eyes swept the structure systematically—entry points, windows (though this particular block had none), potential hiding spots. The toilet block sat in a small clearing, about ten metres from the edge of the dense forest, isolated and exposed. I noticed two large myrtle trees growing just off to the side, their gnarled lower branches scraping against the block's tin roof as they swayed in the increasingly fierce wind that accompanied the storm.

That could explain the sound, part of my brain noted. Branches hitting metal. Completely natural.

But another part—the part that had kept me alive through years of policing—wasn't so sure.

Karl, with his own weapon drawn and ready, signalled for me to follow him. Together, we moved towards the entrance of the building with careful, measured steps, weapons leading, bodies positioned to provide mutual cover. Despite the pounding rain and howling wind that threatened to drown out everything else, we maintained complete focus, ready for whatever—or whoever—might confront us inside that decrepit structure.

"Police!" Karl called out authoritatively as we neared the entrance. "Come out slowly with your hands up."

We waited, weapons ready, bodies tense, every sense alert for response or movement or indication of what might be waiting inside.

Before we could react further, another loud clap of thunder boomed directly above us, the sound so close and violent it felt like physical impact, reverberating through our chests and making our ears ring. It was quickly followed by another metallic clang from inside the toilet block—louder this time, more deliberate, distinctly not the sound of branches scraping tin.

My grip tightened on my weapon, finger resting alongside the trigger guard, ready to move to firing position if necessary. I exchanged a glance with Karl, saw my own tension and alertness mirrored in his expression. We were both aware that whatever or whoever was inside the block wasn't going to come out willingly, wasn't responding to lawful commands, was either unable or unwilling to comply with police instructions.

The adrenaline coursing through my body heightened every sense to almost painful acuteness—I could hear my own heartbeat beneath the rain's percussion, could feel the individual drops hitting my face, could see details with preternatural clarity despite the poor lighting. Every nerve was alert, ready to respond to threat, prepared for the moment of confrontation we both knew was coming.

This was it—the moment when everything became real, when the theoretical training transformed into actual danger, when decisions had to be made in fractions of seconds with potentially lethal consequences.

The storm outside mirrored the storm within me—chaotic, violent, barely contained, demanding release.

Karl's silent signal was clear—a brief hand gesture. I nodded understanding, readying myself to back him up as he moved. He advanced, weapon leading the way as he rounded the corner and stealthily entered the building.

Inside, the dim lighting barely pierced the gloom. The toilet block was simple in construction—just two cubicles. Karl focused immediately on the cubicle in the far corner, its door ominously shut whilst the nearer one stood partially open, revealing nothing but a grimy toilet.

I waited near the entrance, my own weapon at ready position, covering Karl's approach whilst maintaining awareness of our surroundings. The smell inside was unpleasant—damp wood, mildew, and the particular odour of poorly-maintained public facilities—but I barely registered it, my attention fixed entirely on Karl's movements and the closed door that might contain our suspects.

He slid along the wall with cautious grace. I watched as Karl checked the first stall—the open one—his movements quick but thorough, confirming what was already obvious: empty except for fixtures. One potential threat location eliminated. Now just the closed door remained.

Then suddenly, without warning, the wind's howling crescendoed to a shriek, its whistles weaving through gaps in the rooftop with an almost human quality that made the hairs on my arms stand up. Thunder clapped violently overhead, the sound so loud inside the confined space that I felt it in my chest. The frail light source in the toilet block—a single bare bulb powered by what was probably a solar panel outside—flickered treacherously once, twice, before surrendering entirely to darkness.

The world went black.

My heart pounded in my chest, the sound nearly as loud as the thunder had been. In near darkness, every other sense compensated—I could hear Karl's breathing, could track his position by sound alone, could feel the weight of my weapon in my hands, and the rain still somehow finding its way inside to drip down my back.

I heard rather than saw Karl react instantly, pulling out his flashlight and positioning it under his gun. The beam of light sliced through the darkness with sudden brightness, revealing the closed door of the far cubicle in stark relief against the surrounding shadows.

As the cold, white light flooded the small space, something completely unexpected happened—colours spilled out from under the door of the closed cubicle. Not normal colours but a surreal rainbow of hues that painted the grimy floor in patterns that had no business existing, shifting and dancing in ways that defied explanation.

A shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold or wet or exhaustion. The hairs on my arms stood up, primitive instincts screaming warnings that my rational mind couldn't articulate. This wasn't right. This wasn't normal. This was something my training hadn't covered, something that fell outside the bounds of logical explanation.

Then both our radios erupted with that same interference we'd heard earlier—not quite static, not quite feedback, but something in between that felt actively hostile, as though the very air around us was rejecting electronic communication. The sound was alive in a way normal interference wasn't, crawling through our ears and into our brains with almost malicious intent.

In that moment, with the storm raging around us and impossible colours bleeding from under a toilet cubicle door and our radios screaming interference, Karl delivered a swift, powerful kick to the cubicle's door, his boot connecting with the thin plywood with enough force to tear it free from its already-compromised lock.

The door swung violently open, slamming against the wooden wall with a resounding crack that echoed through the small space. Then the door rebounded with the same violence it had opened with, slamming shut again and plunging us back into oppressive darkness broken only by Karl's flashlight beam.

Karl froze.

Just... stopped moving entirely, his body tensed and motionless in a way that immediately triggered alarm in my mind. He stood there like a statue, his flashlight beam pointing at the now-closed door but his eyes—even in the dim light, I could see his eyes—looking at something else, something I couldn't see, something that had rendered him completely still.

Stepping past him, moving partly from professional instinct and partly from concern at his sudden immobility, I nudged the cubicle door open with my foot, my weapon leading the way, ready for any threat that might reveal itself in the confined space.

"It's empty," I announced, a mix of surprise and confusion in my voice. The cubicle contained nothing but a toilet and cracked porcelain and years of accumulated grime. No suspects. No Gladys. No explanation for the impossible colours or the sounds or any of the bizarre circumstances we'd encountered.

Just an empty toilet cubicle in a run-down bush facility during a thunderstorm.

I turned back to Karl, expecting him to respond, to acknowledge the information, to make some decision about our next move.

But Karl didn't respond. He stood there, silent and still, his expression distant and unfocused, his eyes looking at something that wasn't there—or seeing something I couldn't perceive. It was utterly unlike him, this withdrawal, this absence. Karl was decisive, active, constantly thinking and planning and moving forward. Seeing him frozen like this, seeing that distant look in his eyes, was profoundly unsettling in ways I couldn't fully articulate.

"What the fuck's up with you?" I pressed, concern lacing my words as we stepped out of the toilet block into the relentless downpour that had somehow become reassuringly normal compared to what we'd just experienced inside. The cold rain hit my face, grounding me back in physical reality, washing away some of the unreality of the past few minutes. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Still, Karl remained silent, his gaze distant, his mind seemingly elsewhere—somewhere I couldn't reach, processing something I hadn't witnessed. It was unlike him to be so withdrawn, especially in the middle of an operation, especially when we still had suspects to locate and a situation to resolve.

Whatever he'd seen—or thought he'd seen—in that moment when he'd kicked open the door, whatever had transpired in those brief seconds of lightning-illuminated clarity, it had affected him deeply enough to render him temporarily non-functional. And that was concerning on multiple levels, both professionally and personally.