Down Vendetta Road
Part 10

The Taurus and the Navigator rolled down the street at 1:58am, both with their lights off. The Taurus slowed and the Navigator swung alongside, its gleaming, black paint and chrome rims a stark contrast to the Taurus’s dirt- and salt-covered body and missing front hubcap. The occupants conversed for a moment, then the Navigator pulled forward and approached the front office of Mitchell Imports.

Four men dressed in dark clothing climbed out of the Navigator, two of them carrying shotguns. They had disabled the interior lights and they closed their doors gently. They crept up to the front windows of the building and peered inside.

Troy watched from an office across the street. He took one last sip of coffee and set the mug, still half full, next to the nameplate on the desk behind him. It was his fourth cup since he broke in. He had no idea who this Mr. Knutson was, but the guy had great taste in coffee. He made sure he turned the coffee machine off, then walked out of the office and weaved his way through the piles of plastic and bins of paper and old electronics destined for recycling in the back room. Cold air blew in through the small window he’d broken to unlock the door.

Troy shut the door quietly behind him, then stuffed his right glove into his pocket and drew his pistol. It couldn’t get much better than this: the recycling facility gave him a perfect view of Mitchell, and because there was absolutely nothing of value in the place, it was cheaper to make repairs or pay the insurance deductibles than install an alarm system and pay a monitoring service. Mitchell Imports had been closed during the dockworkers strike two months before and never reopened. However, it was no secret it was a semi-legit front operation for Mr. Scalzi, so Detective Fitzgerald had no problem buying the anonymous tip saying Troy was hiding out there.

An anonymous tip Delilah had called in.

And here the detective was, complete with a goon squad courtesy of the Pharaoh. Now that Troy knew where he stood, it was time to have a conversation with the good detective.

Troy sprinted to the building next door, then stopped to listen from cover. There was no indication anyone spotted him, so he ran behind the building and peered around the next corner. He could just barely see the rear end of the unmarked Taurus. He sprinted across the drive, hopped the parking barrier, and pressed his back to the next building. As he crept to the front of the building, he could see two men sitting in the Taurus. The driver sipped from a Styrofoam coffee cup. Their goon squad had already gone around back or inside.

Time to move. Troy rushed the Taurus from the driver’s blind spot, leading with his pistol. He knocked on the window with the muzzle and adopted a low stance so he could see both men. They both flinched when they saw him. The lid popped off the driver’s cup and steaming coffee splashed his hand and leg. He grimaced in pain, but his eyes were locked on Troy’s gun. The passenger remained calm and cool, his hands flat on his thighs. His right hand crept slowly toward his hip.

“Unlock the doors, then both of you put your hands on the ceiling.” They did as they were told. Troy kept his gun trained on them as he opened the back door and climbed in. The view through the steel mesh between the seats was not entirely unfamiliar to him. “Which one’s Fitzgerald?”

“I am,” the driver growled. He was tall and dense, with a thick handlebar mustache.

“And who are you?”

“Fuck you,” the passenger said. He was a lot younger than his partner, with a lean, hungry look.

“Funny, you don’t look Chinese.”

“Ha ha, asshole,” Fitzgerald said. “Were you Scalzi’s jester, too?”

“I prefer comic, thanks. When I say go, you’re going to drive up to the Lincoln.” Troy pulled out his second pistol and pointed one at the back of each detective’s head. “Mr. You here is going to pull out his gun, slow and easy, and shoot out the driver’s side tires. Then you’re going to get us out of here, and you’re both going to toss your pieces out the window. You stall, I kill you both. You try to pull a fast one, I kill you both. You so much as look at me funny, I kill you both. Got it?”

“You’re not dumb enough to kill two cops. It’d be a death sentence.”

“The goon squad out there isn’t exactly the neighborhood welcome wagon. Are you two ready to go or shall we just end this now?” Troy cocked the hammers back on both pistols. The ratcheting clicks sounded like knuckles cracking.

“Whatever you say, hotshot.”

“That’s better. Now… go.”

Fitzgerald shifted to Drive, then kept both hands on the wheel as he drove up next to the Navigator. Mr. You lowered his window and drew his pistol from the holster near the small of his back.

“Show me how that range time pays off, You!”

Blam! Blam!… Blam! The Navigator sagged hard on the driver’s side. Fitzgerald slammed the accelerator and all three men sagged into their seats.

“Nice shootin’, You! Now heave those weapons out the window.”

Both detectives complied without argument, then rolled up their windows. A shotgun blast rang out behind them.

“Whoo!” Troy said. “Sounds like your boys are angry!”

Fitzgerald made a left turn at the next intersection without being prompted.

“You, cuff your left wrist to Fitzie’s right.”

“I don’t know what your game is, but you’re not going to get away with it,” You said as he closed the cuffs around his and his partner’s wrists. “If the Pharaoh doesn’t find you, we will.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“You’re goddamn right it is. You can’t expect us to just sit here while you –”

Blam! Troy splattered his head across the dashboard.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” Fitzgerald shouted. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“I got tired of his yappin’. I trust you’ll be a little more cooperative from here out?”

Fitzgerald shook his head. Troy noticed a tremble in his hands as they gripped the steering wheel, and the way his eyes darted to his partner’s arm hanging limp from the cuff around his wrist.

“What do you want from me?” the detective asked.

“That’s what I like to hear. Let’s you and me go someplace private to talk.”

Welcome back! Did you miss us?

Muy Mal officially relaunches tomorrow, 1/1/08. All of the original content is still available here on the site, but given I’ve left you hanging for so long with Down Vendetta Road, a refresher may be in order. The following link is a PDF file containing all nine existing episodes.

Down Vendetta Road: The Story So Far

This is also a great jumping-on point for our new readers. I took the liberty of cleaning up a sentence or two here and there, but the story is completely unchanged.

Read it, dig it, and if you like, share it.

Down Vendetta Road
Part 9

Troy sat in the parking lot for five minutes and watched the cars coming and going. He walked down to the end of the motel, went up the stairs, and back across to the room, all the while watching the parking lot, the back alley, and the nearby buildings. Near as he could tell, he had not been followed and the motel wasn’t under surveillance.

He knocked gently before going into the room, then closed the door and put up the chain.

“Delilah?”

She coughed a few times on the other side of the bathroom door, then flushed the toilet.

“Are you okay?” he asked as she opened the door. She had the duvet wrapped around her shoulders and she sipped from of a cup of water.

“I’m fine.” Her voice was dry and hoarse. “I think it’s just nerves catching up from last night.”

“Here, come get some breakfast. I picked up some sandwiches from the donut shop.” He set the breakfast bag and the two plastic Wal-Mart bags down on the table. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I’ve got a couple different kinds.”

“Thanks.” She sat down at the table and fished a sandwich out of the bag. “What’s all this other stuff?”

“Our new essentials. I picked up a couple boxes of ammo for the guns and a few things to change our appearances a bit.”

Delilah picked up her sausage croissant sandwich, took a whiff of it, and set it down quickly. She sat back in the chair and held a hand over her mouth.

“You okay?”

She shook her head. “I can’t eat right now.”

“Suit yourself.” He took her sandwich and took a big bite out of it.

“You didn’t get any coffee, did you?”

“No, it would have gotten cold. I can brew some with the room machine if you want.”

“I’ll take care of it. I need to kill the smell of that greasy damn sausage, anyway.”

“Mm. So don’t take this the wrong way, but I have no idea how to handle your hair. I got some clippers, dye, stuff like that for me. You’re welcome to any of it.”

“I’ll figure something out.” She stopped, then turned around. “Wait a minute, you went to the Wal-Mart?”

“Only place I could get all that and bullets, too.”

“Are you out of your mind!? They’ve got cameras all over the place!”

“Relax, it’s the graveyard shift so they wouldn’t know anything. I was in and out before the morning news.”

“But–”

“It’s fine, Delilah.”

She shook her head and turned back to the coffee maker. “Whatever.”

Troy opened up a second sandwich and turned on the TV. He turned to channel eight, a local station that carried news programming through most of the morning. He sat on the edge of the bed to wait out the sports and weather until the headlines returned at the top of the next hour. When Delilah’s coffee finished brewing, she curled up against the headboard behind him.

The gunfight in the parking lot made the top spot.

“A Wild West-style gunfight in a public parking lot last night left four men dead and two more wounded following what some believe was an act of retribution following the murder of alleged mob boss Salvatore Scalzi just two days ago. We go now to Nina Cisneros live on the scene. Nina?”

The picture cut to an attractive Latina standing across the street from the parking lot and a swarm of cops buzzing around the yellow police tape. The trademark lock of pale hair in her bangs peeked out from beneath her red hat. Troy always liked the way she swept that lock out of her eyes when she asked the deep, probing questions – which she did every time new allegations emerged about the Boss.

“…and no witnesses have come forward,” she was saying as he turned up the volume. “Police last night pursued a black Honda Civic they believe may have been involved in the crime, but that pursuit ended abruptly when the police cruiser hit a city bus. Officers Jason Clarke and Tom Hackney were treated and released early this morning, and no major civilian injuries have been reported at this time. Police are still looking for the owner of the car, one Juji Newsom of Port Ransom. At the moment police have declined to label her a suspect, and say they merely want her for questioning.”

Delilah’s license photo appeared on the screen.

“Oh, fuck me!” Delilah shouted. “I’m screwed!”

Troy turned around and raised an eyebrow at her. “’Juji?’”

“Don’t even start! It’s an African word.”

“Meaning?”

She sighed and mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“’Heap of love,’ alright? It means ‘heap of love.’ My parents were a bit strange.”

“Wow. I didn’t know there was such a thing as black hippies.”

“I said don’t start! I’m not in the mood!” She hurled a pillow at his back.

“At the moment police have not speculated on a motive for the shootings, but Channel 8 News will continue to update you throughout the morning as the story develops. Back to you, Jim.”

“Did you see how pissed she is?” Troy asked. “She’s just aching to pin this on someone, and the police aren’t telling her a damn thing.”

“The hell they didn’t! How did she get my name and driver’s license photo?”

“We used to say her fillings picked up the police band. She’s an overachiever looking for a big scoop to get herself some national attention. Every time the Boss took a dump, she’d want to be there to take a sniff. I’m guessing she picked up your license plate number during the chase and rolled with it.”

“So they don’t know we did it, right? That’s good news.”

“No, it’s not. If the cops are in tight with the Pharaoh like he says, then they know exactly who was involved. That means they don’t want the info to go public and have a couple of dumb rookies bring us in. If we’re in the system, they’ll have a hard time getting to us.”

“You mean…”

“They want us dead? Yep.”

Delilah sagged against the headboard. “So what are we gonna do?”

“I’ve got a few ideas, but they’ll keep ’til tonight. For now, I’m going to get some sleep.” He crawled onto the bed and stretched out. “Wake me up around three, would you Miss Love? Or would that be Of Love?”

She hit him with another pillow, but he caught it and rolled over onto it. She jumped off the bed, snatched the Wal-Mart bag off the table, and went back to the bathroom.

“Delilah?”

She stopped in the doorway. “What?”

“Trust me. This is what I do.”

She slammed the bathroom door behind her.

Cataclysm 13

A vast, unearthly roar drowned out the explosions and gunfire. Smoke, dust and sand filled the air, and Virgil could hardly see the nose of the Hummer just a few feet beyond the windshield. None of it stopped the driver from keeping the accelerator pinned to the floorboard, and the GPS readout flickered wildly as they bounced across the terrain.

“Lock ‘n’ load!” McLean shouted over Virgil’s shoulder. A small chorus of receivers racked open and clacked closed.

Virgil chambered a round in his own weapon. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly to ward off the jitters.

“You and I have point!” McLean shouted in his ear. “As soon as we stop we’re out the door and running. Don’t look back, we’ll keep up!”

Virgil nodded. This is a really stupid plan, he thought for the tenth time since they laid it out for him. The jarhead colonel who came up with it called it elegant in its simplicity: throw all the ordnance they have at the site all at once so a trio of Hummers packed with hardasses could race in undetected. They charge the ravine, take out the Dour Man, blow the hole, and save the world.

Yeah, just like that.

The GPS coordinates flashed closer to their goal. The driver let off the gas at last. Virgil held his rifle close to his chest and reached for the door handle. Here we go, he thought.

The Hummer jerked to a stop, hurling Virgil against the dash. His flak vest spared him a shattered sternum, but the impact knocked the wind out of him. Tiny lights swam before his eyes as he tried to draw breath to cuss the driver. Then the windshield shattered inward, and he knew the driver had nothing to do with the sudden stop.

A sinewy black tentacle shot through the cabin and out the back window. Virgil popped the door and the Hummer went airborne. He clung to the frame and the door and his rifle tumbled out. The roof ripped open with a squeal and pop of metal, and the Hummer spilled the men onto the desert floor. The others were already shooting as Virgil hit the ground. He crawled around in search of his own rifle as a roar assaulted his ear drums. The wind of it blasted his cheek and the other men screamed around him.

The Hummer crashed to the ground to his left, and two of the screams died.

“Get up!” McLean grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. “Go go go!”

Virgil stumbled and ran and gulped down a great lungful of dust. He coughed as McLean dragged him along. Were they even headed for the ridge? He looked for the other men around them but couldn’t be sure whether they were there or he was seeing things in the swirls and whorls of dust.

A hand reached down and grasped the rim of his helmet. It yanked his head back while another hooked his armpit. Three arms descended on McLean; one wrapped around his throat and two ripped his rifle out of his hands. More arms – half a dozen at least – encircled Virgil’s chest and legs and hoisted him into the air.

In the space of a second they were twenty feet in the air. Then thirty, then fifty. He felt almost weightless at the apex of the lift, right before the ground came rushing back up at them. Virgil screamed and clung to the arms, but they held fast as the trip down snapped short twenty feet in the air. McLean did not fare so well. The arms did not so much release him as fling him at the ground. He hit with a sickening, crunchy splat. The arms whisked Virgil away before he got a good look at the impact.

Virgil tried to get a look at the people holding him, but saw nothing but arms. Left and right, up and down, even behind him – nothing but arms. Something exploded overhead, and in its glare he spotted the thick black and red stitching fastening the arms together, one to another to another to another, as far as he could see. Virgil threw up twice and watched the streams spiral away into the darkness.

A circle of light swept into view beneath him. The arms zoomed in closer, and he caught brief glimpses of the tangle of torsos and then legs that comprised the towering monster of flesh that had him in its grip. The circle splintered into an array of bright spotlights which illuminated the swarm of creatures and corpses scattered across the floor of the oasis.

The Dour Man stood near the black doorway. He looked up as the swarm of arms lowered Virgil into the pit. The arms opened up seven feet up, and Virgil tumbled to the ground at the man’s feet.

“Welcome back.” The Dour Man held a hand out to Virgil.

“Why am I here?” Virgil stood and brushed the dirt from his hands. The Dour Man didn’t seem as offended as Virgil hoped he would.

“Do you refer to your mission to assassinate me, or are you asking me why you’re still alive?”

Virgil flinched. Oh yeah, he was a dead man.

“You’re alive because the golem sensed the idol upon you, and the role you played in getting it here. Furthermore, they think you have a new role to play.”

“What role is that?”

The Dour Man smiled. Virgil didn’t recognize it as such at first, but it scared the hell out of him and he looked away. A slithering shimmer rolled through the leathery creatures lurking around them, and he got the distinct feeling they were laughing at him.

The ground trembled, then lurched. Virgil fell to his right and hit the forward edge of a waist-high wall. The corner crumbled beneath him and and he tumbled over it. The creatures let out an excited burble.

“Was that an earthquake?”

“Yes,” the Dour Man said. “Soon the Earth will vomit up its molten contents and bathe the surface in liquid metal.”

“You can’t do that!”

“It’s done. The two halves will become whole, and we will enter the last great age of the world.”

Another tremble shot through the ground. Virgil hissed as his knee landed on a brick-shaped chunk of rock he had knocked off the wall. He watched the black doorway, expecting molten iron to come pouring out at any second. In his mind he saw the planet as a huge chrome sphere floating in space.

The Dour Man stood in front of the entrance, arms cast wide as if he beckoned something. The ugly creatures around them chortled and croaked, and some clambered over the edges of the pit and disappeared. The distant explosions of missiles and canon fire had stopped.

Virgil trembled. This couldn’t be the end. It wasn’t the Book of Revelations his mother read to him so often as a child, and it certainly wasn’t any kind of way he’d want to go out himself. The ground lurched again, and he swore he felt a blast of hot air out of the black door.

No, he thought. Not like this.

His hand fell on the chunk of brick as he pushed himself to his feet. He hefted it and examined the cracked, ragged edge on one side.

The Dour Man muttered to himself. He still faced the entrance.

The frog creature blinked a viscous eye at Virgil.

This is it, he thought. McLean was dead, and the other men probably were, too. The world’s finest armies had dropped enough bombs to level an entire country to no effect. The fate of the world now rested in the hands of a dude with a rock.

Virgil took a deep breath, raised the rock, and charged the Dour Man.

The Dour Man turned slowly. His eyes went wide.

The frog creature cocked its massive head.

Virgil let out a cry of rage and smashed his rock across the Dour Man’s forehead. The two of them fell to the ground in a tangle and Virgil kept beating him with the rock, smashing him in the jaw, in the shoulder, in the chin, and on the right temple. The Dour Man fought him at first, but within seconds his hands went limp. Bone broke and teeth shattered. The blunt face of the rock came away wet and red, and Virgil’s last blow splashed into the side of the Dour Man’s head.

Virgil let go of the rock. His hand was covered with blood, and a fine spray speckled his chest, belly and legs. He felt more on his face as he stood and turned to the frog creature.

“Well? Go on, get out of here! Your master is dead!”

The ground shook again. The frog burbled out a long, guttural laugh.

Virgil dropped to his knees. “It’s over… It’s gotta be!”

A hot whisper fell across his ear. No, not over. The Fourth Age begins.

Bastard Precinct
Episode 1.10

“Alright, now take a right up here.”

“Where are we going?” Jason asked. “Isn’t the next block the precinct boundary?”

“Yeah, it is, but we won’t be long. I just need to stop at my place.”

“For what?”

“I’ve gotta take a shit.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“There’s shops and restaurants all up and down the street! Look, I’ll pull into the gas station over here.”

“No! Don’t.”

Jason corrected the wheel and caught back up with traffic. “Then I’ll take you back to the station.”

“Won’t work.”

“Fine, I’ll bite: what’s wrong with public crappers?”

Hack shifted in his seat. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“It’s not just any one thing. You’ve seen how people treat public toilets, right? God only knows what’s still on those seats! And have you ever sat on a warm seat? One someone warmed up just a few minutes before you? That just freaks me out. And you can’t just relax and let go, because then you might end up with a noisy one. Or you’ll be sitting there and some asshole will come in and rattle the door, or will squeeze one out next to you and stink you out of the place.”

Jason shook his head.

“The last straw for me was when a guy had a frickin’ meal in the next stall. I’m sitting there, and this dude in a warmup suit walks in and squats down. Then I hear him open a can of pop. And he’s not just sipping, he’s chugging it down, man. I can hear the gulps! He sets it on the toilet paper dispenser, and then he opens a bag of chips! You know what it’s like hearing a man strain out a turd between bites of chips? It was disgusting, man! I got this mental picture of his guts, like he’s got an instant one-way path from end to end, you know? Takes a bite, swallows, out it comes. And he’s just crunching ‘em down, like –”

“Whoa, I get it! I’m sorry I asked.”

“See? I’m not taking a chance on another one of those, man. My home is my sanctum, and my throne is white, cold, and welcoming. Hang a left here, and I’m halfway down the block.”

“You’re an odd man, Hack.”

Jason followed the directions and pulled up to the front door of the apartment building Hack indicated. He wondered if he’d have time to pick up a cup of coffee while he was waiting.

“Why don’t you come on up?” Hack said. “Maybe you can meet Edie before she goes to bed.”

Jason didn’t like the idea of being out of their own territory, and he worried that if the three of them got to chatting they’d get nailed for sure. But it might be nice to meet the woman who put Hack in such a great mood the last couple weeks, so he put the car in park and climbed out.

“She should still be up,” Hack said as they walked down the hall. “It’s been great having her back home, I’ll tell you that. If we had sex as often before the separation as we do now, I don’t think we’d ever have broken up. Like yesterday morning, for example. When I came home…”

“Hold it right there, partner. I think I heard enough about your bodily functions for one day.”

Hack laughed and slid his key into the door. “Fair enough. But if you ever need a few pointers to use on your girl, I’ll be happy to fill you in.” He winked at Jason and shoved the door open.

A peculiar scent wafted out of the apartment, something dense and cloying. Jason could almost taste it and he put a hand to his face. “What’s that smell?”

“Sorry about that.” Hack lowered his voice to a whisper. “For all her good qualities, Edie’s not a very good cook.”

Jason nodded. It didn’t smell like any food he’d ever had.

“Honey, I’m home! If you’re not dressed, don’t come out unless you want to give my partner a show!” Another salacious wink at Jason. There was no response from down the hall or the adjoining rooms. “Looks like she’s asleep. I’ll just hit the head and we’ll get out of here, okay?”

Jason agreed that would be a good idea. He stood around for a moment after Hack disappeared down the hall, then his curiosity got the better of him. He started in the kitchen, sniffing around the sink drain and checking the garbage can.

Hack went into the bathroom and draped his duty belt across the rim of the tub. He hung his jacket and cap on the hook behind the door, dropped his pants, and sat down. The toilet seat was white, cold, and welcoming. He plucked the latest issue of Maxim from the small library of magazines in the basket beside him and started flipping through the articles and eyeballing the swimsuit shots.

Jason moved on to the living room. He glanced behind the couch, the lounge chair in the corner, and the credenza topped with the television and stereo speakers. No stench. The closet down the hall was open a crack, and he glanced inside. Still no luck.

Hack read a review of some of the newer digital cameras. He was thinking it would be good for he and Edie to take a vacation soon, somewhere nice like Florida or the Bahamas, or maybe one of the Mexican resorts. They’d need a good camera to record their memories, and maybe it would inspire Edie to start her scrapbooking again.

He heard footsteps in the hall outside the door.

“Jason? Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sure. You just about done in there?”

“Yep, be out in a minute.” He flipped to the next page and found a tall, leggy blonde in a skimpy black nightgown. “Now that’s nice.”

Jason sniffed around the bedroom door and recoiled as the stench assaulted his nostrils and threatened to gag him. He swallowed hard against it and pressed his nose into the crook of his elbow. He prayed the smell wasn’t what he thought it was as he twisted the door handle.

“Oh God.”

“What’s the matter?” Hack asked.

There was no answer.

“Jason? You okay?”

“You better get out here.” His voice was close to the door now.

“What is it? Is it Edie?” He pulled up his pants and snapped them shut. Jason didn’t answer again, and he left his zipper down and belt open as he threw open the door and rushed into the hallway.

Jason stood in the bedroom door. His face was a pale oval in the dark hall.

Hack shoved past him and into the bedroom. He turned to the bed, and saw Edie sleeping softly beneath the covers. The terror went out of him.

“Jesus, Jason!” he whispered. “You could have woken her up. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“Hack, look at her. She’s… dead.”

“What are you talking about?”

Jason fingered his radio mic. “We need to call someone.”

Hack stepped closer to the bed. He didn’t get it, she looked fine. Then he blinked.

He saw the drawn flesh, the black around her eyes and lips, and the fluids on the bed. He fell back against the dresser and blinked again, and saw tanned skin and a beatific smile.

“She’s been dead for a while,” Jason said. “Days at least. Maybe weeks.”

Hack swallowed. His hands shook as he reached for the sheet. He drew it back and saw her flesh swollen by bodily gases and the flies buzzing around her groin. Maggots squirmed beneath and around her.

“Oh, shit.” Jason turned to his partner. “If she’s been dead that long, that means you…” His face turned green and he ran out the door.

Hack didn’t even hear his partner, neither his words nor his throwing up in the hallway. He stared only at his dead wife, lying in his bed these two weeks since she came home. He remembered the fight now. He remembered her cussing him, throwing things at him.

He remembered drawing his nightstick and threatening her with it. She slapped him, and he hit her. Then hit her again. She sprawled across the bed, and he continued hitting her.

He could see the blows now, the bruises imprinted into the side of her face and head. He fell to his knees.

“What have I done?”

* * *

A swarm of vehicles clogged the parking lot. Jason had just finished talking to the captain and a crisis counselor and was wondering how the hell he was going to write this one up in the reports when a pair of uniforms led Hack out of the building. They cuffed him in front and draped his jacket over his wrists, but Jason didn’t see how it mattered with the badge still clipped to his chest. Camera flashes erupted in his face and a few more uniforms had to shove the reporters back.

Jason approached the car as they put Hack inside. He caught the door before the other officers could shut it. They nodded to him and walked away.

He looked at his partner, and realized he hadn’t the first clue what to say.

“Take care of yourself, Jason,” Hack said. “Don’t let them get to you.”

“Who?”

“The bastards. They’re out there, kid. They’re all over the fuckin’ place. Don’t let the bastards get to you!”

“I won’t, partner.” Jason slammed the door shut and watched the car pull away. “I won’t.”

Cataclysm 10

The screen went black, then flickered and went blue.

Cold sweat dripped from Virgil’s knuckles. He blinked hard to keep back a tear.

McLean walked across the room and turned the television off.

“So what, you gonna try to pin that shit on me?” Virgil asked. “I don’t even know what I’m looking at!”

“Then why are you shaking?”

“Man, fuck off! I want a lawyer.”

McLean laughed, a long, low chuckle that would have made a movie madman proud. “You’re not getting a lawyer.”

“I know my rights! I’m a civilian contractor, not some G.I. bitch you can stomp all over!”

McLean grabbed another chair and set it in front of Virgil, then sat down so their knees were within inches of one another. He leaned forward, slowly, and Virgil leaned farther and farther back. A huge black pistol hung from a shoulder holster beneath McLean’s jacket.

“Boo!”

Virgil flinched so hard his chair skittered two inches across the tile floor.

“Yeah, you’re a real tough guy,” McLean said. He didn’t lean back, and his breath rolled across Virgil’s neck. “You think you’re smart, too, that you can mouth your way out of this. The fact is it’s not going to happen, kid. I strongly suggest you start cooperating.”

“Or what? You gonna pull an Abu Ghraib on me?”

“Or I turn you over to the Iraqis and let them try you for murder.”

“What!? How do you figure that?”

“We’ve got half a dozen families looking for their men. Men who, by all accounts, climbed into a truck and rode into the desert with you and another man whose description fits that of the man in the video you just watched. Not a one of them has been seen since.”

“You don’t know they’re dead.”

“We don’t know they’re not dead. But that will be the Iraqis’ problem. And what kind of lawyer do you think they’re going to find for you?”

Virgil sagged into the chair. He’d heard stories about the local jails, and he doubted many of the guards would have a lot of sympathy for a foreign invader, much less one who may have killed some of their own people. “What do you want from me? I was just trying to make a few bucks, that’s all! The guy needed a ride, he had money, so I took him. End of story. If you want to get me for stealing the truck, then fuck it, I’ll cop to that! But I promise you I had no idea who that guy was or what he wanted with the oasis!”

McLean leaned back at last. He reached into his jacket and for a second Virgil worried he reached for that big gun. Instead he withdrew a photo and held it out.

“Who is this man?”

Virgil frowned. The picture showed himself and the hitchhiker he had picked up. The hitchhiker was sitting in the passenger seat and even seemed to be smiling at the camera. “I don’t know his name. Just some dude I picked up.”

“Where’d he go?”

Virgil shrugged. “Beats me.”

“A scout team shot this right before we picked you up. Don’t make me ask you again.”

“I’m telling you, I have no idea! I’m sorry I picked the fucker up in the first place! He was real interested in the oasis, too. Maybe he’s headed out there. Shit! You think maybe he’s partnered up with that other guy?”

The picture disappeared into McLean’s jacket. “Doubtful. What did he say? Tell me every detail.”

Virgil laid out the conversation as best he could remember it.

“That’s it?”

“What do you want from me? I’m no interrogator. That’s your job.” He scrunched his shoulder to sponge the sweat off his neck with his shirt. The vent in the ceiling kicked out some air, and he wished they had stuck him under it. Then he remembered the idol. “No, wait, there is something else. He took something.”

“Go on.”

“It’s like an amulet, but he called it an idol. It looked like jewelry to me, like something you’d hang at the end of a big chain around your neck. I found it the first time I was at the oasis and thought it might be valuable, you know? This other guy, he was talking about keys and locks and shit, and that’s when he asked for the idol.”

McLean stood up and walked over to the window. He jammed his hands into his pockets and thought about whatever it is spooks think about when they’re quiet.

“So?”

McLean looked over his shoulder. “So what?”

“So now what happens? You going to go get him?”

Virgil didn’t like the smile that crawled its way across McLean’s face. The spook scratched at the underside of his chin and did another slow circuit around the room.

“Okay, kid, you’ve got two options. Option one is you lead our team out to the oasis to end this. You show us how to get in there, give us the lay of the land, and tell us everything else you can think of about the place. Then we drop all charges, square things with your now former employer, and you get a free ride home.”

“Fuck that, man! I ain’t going back out there!”

“Then there’s option two. We charge you with high treason, take you out back, and hang you from the nearest telephone pole.”

“Treason? You gotta be kidding!”

“Try me.”

Virgil’s guts twisted into a tight knot. The chafing around the handcuffs on his wrists was insignificant compared to the prospect of a stretched neck. They may as well ask him which of two death sentences he preferred.

“Why can’t you just nuke the guy or something? I remember the GPS coordinates. Can’t you just drop some cruise missiles on their heads and end this?”

“This is the US military we’re talking about, Virge. We already tried it. Something knocked them all out of the sky. Two bombers were destroyed and the Iranians have been shooting Scuds at the site all day. No dice.”

“So what the hell chance do we have?”

“There’s only one way to find out, and we’re not going to just sit on our thumbs.”

“Jesus Christ. It’s suicide.”

“Does this mean you choose option two?”

“No!”

“Then make up your mind, kid. I don’t have all day.”

Virgil gritted his teeth. He hadn’t done that since Mr. Morris threatened to expel him six weeks shy of high school graduation. At the time, the stakes had seemed very high. Now he’d kill to be back in that chair.

But wait a minute, maybe the first option would work after all. McLean didn’t say he had to do anything, just show the team how to get in. If they wanted to get shot up, let ‘em! After they all get mowed down, sucked into that hole, or eaten, he can slip away and get the hell out of the country. It wouldn’t be easy, but it just might work.

“When do we leave?”

Bastard Precinct
Episode 1.9

Jason had never seen a Porsche 911 before, and he might have pulled this one over for a better look even if it weren’t doing 30 over the speed limit in a residential neighborhood. Jason caught up with the car half a block after it ran a stop sign and lit it up.

“Ten bucks he runs for it,” Hack said.

“No way,” Jason replied. “That car’s got to be one of a kind around here. If he runs, he won’t be hard to find.”

The Porsche’s brake lights flashed on and the car slowed.

“We never shook on it!” Hack said.

“Whatever.” Jason pulled over to the curb behind the Porsche. “Whose turn is it?”

“Mine.”

They zipped up their coats and got out of the car. The Porsche was smaller than Jason would one would be, and he wondered how anyone could tolerate sitting in one for any length of time. Of course, he was a lot bigger than both the dark-haired man in the driver’s seat and the slim blonde riding with him.

Hack rapped “Shave and a Haircut” on the driver’s-side window.

Except for the spray of snow and salt around the wheel wells, the sleek, black car was showroom clean. Yet the registration tags expired in a few weeks, so the driver must have had it at least a year. He probably pampered the hell out of it, kept it indoors, and had it detailed frequently. Given the price tag and its status-symbol appeal, it would be stupid not to.

“Driver’s license and proof of insurance, please.” Hack leaned close to the half-open window.

Jason couldn’t make out the driver’s response. The blonde sat straight in her seat and stared out through the front windshield.

“No, I don’t suppose that’s a problem. But you were doing 57 in a 25 and… Uh huh. Right.”

Jason stopped at the right rear fender. Hack stood straighter now, but looked confused or disoriented. He nodded slowly.

“Yeah, it definitely is a beauty. I certainly couldn’t afford one.”

What the hell? Jason thought as he moved around the back of the car. He picked up the driver in mid-sentence.

“…and just let us be on our way? I promise we won’t cause any more trouble.”

“Alright, then. You two have yourselves a great night. Take care, now!”

The driver fired up the engine.

Jason drew his weapon and pointed it at the driver’s head. “Don’t even think about it!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Hack demanded.

“I should ask you the same thing! We had this guy dead to rights and you didn’t even check his ID!”

“Now officer, why don’t you–”

“Not another word!” Jason told the driver.

“It’s a sportscar,” Hack said. “It’s made for speed. Wouldn’t you want to make it fly?”

“Is that what he was telling you?”

“Yeah, he… ahh, shit.” Hack’s hand went to the grip of his pistol.

“You guys really–”

Jason pressed his pistol to the side of the driver’s face. “One more word and I blow your fucking jaw off. Hand over your ID, nice and slow.”

The driver went pale. His hand trembled as pulled out his wallet, withdrew his driver’s license, and passed it through the window. Hack took it from him.

“Put your hands on the steering wheel and keep them there. Hack, you want to call that in?”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” Hack flipped the card through his fingers as he walked back to the cruiser.

“Turn off the engine.” The guy did. Jason ducked down and looked at the blonde, who still stared blankly out the windshield. She liked quite a bit older than the driver. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
She looked at Jason and blinked. Her mouth moved but her lips never parted.

“What’s her problem?”

“She’s mute.”

The woman shook her head rapidly, and pointed at her mouth.

“Try again,” Jason told the driver.

“I told her to keep her mouth shut.”

“So you somehow have influence over people, is that it?”

“Look, you don’t have to–”

“A nod yes or no will do.” Jason prodded him with his pistol for emphasis.

The driver nodded.

“This isn’t your girlfriend, is it?”

The driver shook his head.

“You ’suggested’ it might be fun to hang out?”

An uncertain pause, then a nod. The blonde gasped.

“And then the night would end with a romp between the sheets. You know, that sounds a lot like rape, my friend.”

“What!?”

“That’s not a nod.”

The driver shook his head rapidly, desperately. The woman made an angry squeak and pounded on his arm.

“That’s enough, ma’am! Why don’t you come on out of there?”

She got out of the car and slammed the door shut, then kicked it.

Hack returned with the ID. “Meet Gavin Best. He’s got no priors or warrants, but the car’s not his.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Let’s take him in. We’ll let the lawyers sort it out.”

“Good idea.” Hack opened the driver’s side door. “Come on out of there, Gavin. You’re under arrest for grand theft auto and attempted rape. You have the right to remain silent, and I strongly suggest you use it.”

* * *

Gavin, it turned out, was only nineteen and terrified of jailtime. He spilled his guts before he even made it to holding, claiming he got his hands on some kind of potion that let him convince others to do things, then talked his way into a $1000-a-plate dinner, borrowed a doctor’s Porsche, and got a rich, 35-year-old woman to leave with him. Afterwards he promised to keep quiet until they were sure the potion wore off, and Hack’s promise to break the kid’s jaw if he got stupid sealed the deal.

Jason and Hack returned to the patrol car after the booking process.

“Nice job today, kid,” Hack said. “I almost let that punk go.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m just glad we caught him before he did something worse, like convince a few people to empty an ATM for him.”

“Still, I’m glad you caught on to him. In fact, you’ve come a long way in the last week, and I think you’re a good fit for the precinct. You going to stick around?”

Jason didn’t respond at first. He climbed into the car, closed the door, and started the engine. The car rocked as Hack dropped into his seat.

“Well?”

Jason thought about his last conversation with Tamara as he backed up and drove out of the parking lot.

“I guess I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Cataclysm 7

Panicked idiots choked the highways.

The closer Burt got to D.C., the worse traffic got. The poor plebes fled the city, thinking it must be the next to fall after the long litany of major cities wiped off the map in the last 24 hours.

Burt knew they were wrong. D.C. would not fall.

Not yet.

Evacuating traffic forced him into the median and onto the shoulders for long stretches at a time. When he could he just took the Jeep off-road. Cops and firefighters ignored him; they had bigger problems to deal with. Night fell by the time he reached the city, but the massive spotlights the Army set up around the perimeter lit up the sky.

Burt felt his palms go slick as he approached sandbagged machine gun emplacements flanking the highway. He had no fear of their bullets, only of failing his mission. A soldier held up a hand. Burt slowed the Jeep and fished for his ID as the soldier gave him the once-over.

The soldier waved him through. They didn’t care who he was, or why he was heading into the city. They had heard the reports and seen the news footage.

They waited for something far from human.

Burt located Pennsylvania Avenue on his map. He passed looters and burning cars on his way there. Someone chucked a bottle at his windshield, but he was otherwise left alone until he reached the White House.

Marines and Secret Service agents cordoned off the entire block. Burt parked down the street from them, climbed out of the Jeep, and walked toward them.

“Can we help you, sir?” The man wore a simple, black suit beneath a heavy jacket. He pointed the muzzle of his rifle in Burt’s vague direction.

“Is the president here?” Burt asked.

“The president is safe, sir.”

Burt’s started to say no, he wasn’t, but reconsidered. These men were twitchy, and if they thought he made a threat, they’d shoot him and never understand the importance of the DVD. Instead he smiled. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Is there something we can help you with?”

Burt reached for his pocket and six guns turned on him.

“It’s okay,” Burt said. “I have something for the president.”

He slowly slid his hand into his pocket and withdrew the DVD. The Secret Service agent motioned for him to hand it over, but did not lower his weapon.

“What is this?” the agent asked.

“A message for the president. I imagine you’ll screen it first, and that’s fine, but I assure you he’ll want to see it as soon as possible.”

“Oh yeah? What’s on it?”

“The end of the world.”

The agent’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a good one. Can you show me some ID, funny man?”

“I’m afraid I’m just a messenger, and now my job is done. Best of luck to you all.”

Burt pulled out his pistol. More guns were pointed at him. Several men shouted at him, telling him to drop the gun, to put his hands on his head. He didn’t listen.

He pressed the pistol to his right temple and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Rob wiped his bleary eyes while the laser printer spat out three pages of data. He scanned it, then carried it down the hall.

“Mr. McLean? I’ve got another one for you.”

It was no secret McLean worked for the CIA, and he was none too happy about leaving a covert assignment to do a job any number of junior analysts could have accomplished. But the brass wanted someone on-site immediately, and in this particular case he was closest. He took the papers and flipped right to the profile on the second page.

“Virgil Cross. What’s his deal?”

“He’s a civilian security contractor. He fell off the grid several days ago.”

McLean rolled his eyes. “Hand it off to the police.”

“There’s more, sir. Apparently he stole a truck from his employer. He also has several hours of unaccounted time before that, around the same time a number of Iraqis were reported missing. I checked some of those reports, and their families claim the men went on some kind of geological or archaeological dig.”

“And this Cross went with them?”

“I don’t know for sure. I would like to talk to the families and show them pictures of Cross.”

“No, don’t waste the time. I want this picture in the hands of every soldier in this city, then spread the word to the neighboring garrisons. Then find me everything there is to know about this kid, and everything he’s done since he set foot in this country. Find him, bring him back here, and I’ll ask him where he’s been.”

“I’m on it!” Rob hurried back to his computer.

McLean wandered to the window and smiled. Maybe he was in the right place after all.

I was just made aware of a problem that was preventing the sidebar and a couple of my stories from showing up properly in Internet Explorer. The problem was due to some extra code included when I cut and pasted my entries, so I went in and cleaned it up on the stories in question. The site appears to be working normally again.

If you’re seeing any troubles here or on Weston’s or John’s sections, please don’t hesitate to leave a comment or drop me an email.

Thanks!

Down Vendetta Road
Part 8

Mia turned off the shower. She took a moment to wipe excess water off her arms, chest and belly, squeezed out her hair, then opened the curtain and reached for a towel.

The gun that greeted her elicited a sharp gasp.

“Evening, officer.”

“What in the hell are you doing here?” She held up her hands. The cooler air outside the shower raised gooseflesh along her arms and legs.

Troy noted her pink nipples stood erect. Her black hair ran down her right shoulder where the water plastered it to her small, pert breast. She was softer than Delilah but not unattractive, built for long cuddles and warm squeezes rather than marathon sweat fests.

“You do dye your hair,” he said. “You a closet goth or something?”

“Do you always ambush women as they get out of the shower?”

“Just tonight, apparently.”

“I’m cold. Can I grab a towel or are you not finished staring?”

“You can close the curtain, but you’re not getting out.”

She rolled her eyes and tugged the curtain closed. “You’ve got balls coming in here like this, Romano.”

“I need some information.”

“You couldn’t set up a normal exchange?”

“I don’t have the luxury of time on this one.”

“Uh huh. And what’s in it for me?”

“I don’t splatter your brains all over your shower.”

She was quiet a moment. “What do you want to know?”

“I had a little chat with the Pharaoh last night. It seems whoever ordered the hit on my boss wears a blue uniform and says ‘oink’ a lot. I need a name.”

“What on this Earth makes you think I’d know anything?”

“You can’t be the only officer on the take.”

She laughed. “Right, and we have a secret handshake and compare notes under the full moon. Come on, Romano! Use your head!”

“All I need is a name.”

“I don’t know any!”

“Then you better come up with some theories.” Troy thumbed back the hammer of his pistol. The click echoed around the tiled walls.

“Alright, look. You remember the two guys from the rat squad found in the river a couple months back?”

“How can I forget? The extra scrutiny made it tough to do business for weeks.”

“Rumor is they were sniffing out the D.A.’s new undercover program, mostly its methods and the way the guys in charge have been using department resources. IA interviewed a lot of officers, both unis and plainclothes. Our Union rep made sure we all had his contact information in case we got pulled into an office.”

“They make any arrests?”

“No. The investigation died with the rats.”

“How convenient for the D.A.”

Troy knew all about Operation Blackout. The boss used to laugh at how a special undercover operation got so much media attention. It didn’t worry him in the slightest, either, as the Scalzi family was run just like a family. It took years for new soldiers to build up trust, no matter who vouched for them, and anyone even suspected of being an informant was quickly shut out.

“Who did they talk to?” Troy asked.

“In my precinct? Let’s see… There was a pair of plainclothes detectives, Fitzgerald and Kaminski. They were assigned new partners that same week. Then there was one of the captains, Hicks. Fitzgerald and Kaminski reported to him directly, now that I think about it.”

“Any patrolmen?”

“Not that I recall.”

“What about you?”

“No!”

“Club Ramses, that’s in your precinct, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“If there was a shooting there, one of these guys would cover it?”

“Yeah, why?”

“…One of those detectives will be very familiar to me,” the Pharaoh had said. What if the rat squad was investigating the program because its members were working with the syndicates and not against them? They must have been under suspicion of something to make it worth breaking them up. New partners would prevent them from covering one another’s tracks or playing games with their investigations. But if Internal Affairs was really after Operation Blackout, how were these guys related?

“You still there, Romano? What are you going to do?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Come on, you’re not dumb enough to kill a cop! Half the goddamn force will be looking for you!”

“Like I said, I haven’t decided yet. Run through it one more time. Tell me about these interviews and who they talked to.”

“What? There’s like three names. You have a short attention span or something? It’s freezing in here!”

“Just do it, Myers. Turn the water back on.”

“Fine.” She turned on the faucet and let the hot water smooth out her goosebumps. She told him what she knew of the IA detectives and their investigation, and how they had the whole precinct on edge. She talked about the Union rep venting his frustration in the office, and the long meeting he had with both Fitzgerald and Kaminski. All she could really do is embellish what she already said.

“You want me to write it all down?” she asked when she finished.

There was no answer.

“Romano?” She turned off the water. Still nothing. She opened the curtain an inch and peeked out. There was a clear view to the door.

She wondered how long he’d been gone.