Signing in for the second half of his fourth double shift in as many days, Sergeant Lumler decided that he’d finally had enough. Despite its perks and privilege, he no longer liked his job. In fact, he was really beginning to hate it.
It was midnight, the start of the late shift, but the IC was bustling with activity and Lumler had to thread his way past a couple of officers struggling with a wild-eyed, thrashing perpetrator, an obviously deranged, gibberish-spouting old woman, and a phalanx of cheap desks, where red-eyed PF men toiled at their endless paperwork, to make his way to his own little office. Here, sitting behind his desk, he found his latest assistant, Nails, already waiting for him.
He didn’t know much about Nails, either where he came from or what he’d been Before, but then again, he didn’t really care. Average in height and weight, dark in complexion and hair color with a long, sharp beak of a nose and beady little, close-set eyes, the man was obedient enough, always quick to act on orders, but Lumler just didn’t like him. He was the kind of guy who would smile and salute to your face and then stab you in the back—maybe literally—the very first chance he got. In other words, an average, dedicated, hard-working Police Force officer.
Lumler nodded a greeting as Nails quickly gave up the seat and moved to stand at the ready. On the desk was a clipboard with the latest list of suspected traitors to be investigated or brought in. With a heavy sigh, flipping the pages, he saw that it was even longer than the last, almost two dozen names. Feeling Nails standing there waiting, annoyed for no good reason, he grunted without looking up:
“Coffee, Nails. Black.”
“Yessir!” snapped the other. “Right away, sir.”
Then the breath caught in Lumler’s beefy throat as a name on the list leapt from the page like it was written in fire: Santiago, Norman S., Medico Third Class. Frowning darkly, he read and re-read the name, but there was no mistake. It was his friend. And under the name, the usual, ominous, non-descript order: Wanted for questioning.
Lumler threw down the clipboard and rubbed his temples. Questioning. Yeah, that was a good one! Oh, folks got questioned, alright, but that was far from all! No, even someone of Lumler’s phlegmatic, blunt-edged nature had to admit that the best term to describe what went on in the IC cells was nothing less than torture, plain and simple. In the last week he’d witnessed more of them than he liked and the screams alone haunted his sleep. The screams, the blood, the terrible smells and the crack of bones breaking, the raw, chunky sound of joints being ripped apart… And over all of it, Chief Hanson Knox’s mad, blood-flecked, smirking face, a mask of lustful, maniacal pleasure at the pain he was causing. And now his friend—his only friend, truth be told—was next in line for just such treatment.
Nails returned with the coffee, the usual weak, acrid brew like watered-down battery acid, and took a seat in the other office chair. Lumler glared at the printed words and slurped some coffee. Some part of his stolid mind noted that he’d never known his pal’s first name. Norman? Go figure. He wondered what Santiago had done to land on this list, but then shook his head; it could have been almost anything. An idle remark, a careless word in the wrong ear, would be enough, and Santiago, a born smartass if he’d ever known one, had never been one to keep his thoughts to himself. Like a living thing, something fearful twisted deep in Lumler’s guts.
“Looks like another busy morning, eh Boss?” said Nails eagerly.
Lumler only grunted in reply.
“How’d that EI go the other night?” asked Nails conspiratorially. “The one you helped the Chief with. Did the guy finally crack?”
Lumler glared at Nails from under thick brows and scowled. “Yeah,” he said. “He cracked.”
“Aw, I knew it!” said Nails happily, as if rooting for a favorite team. “Ain’t nobody can take the Chief fer long! Hell, I hearda one, he ripped this guy’s—”
“Nails, shut the fuck up, OK? Lumler growled, cutting the man dead. “Do me a favor and just keep your trap the fuck shut.”
Nails blinked at the rebuke but recovered and nodded smartly. “Yessir,” he said curtly. “Can do.”
For a long moment, Lumler stared at the arrest order, but there was just no way around it: He was being ordered to deliver his friend to almost certain, probably very painful, death. Finally, he got up from the desk, handed the clipboard to Nails, put on his blacked peaked cap with gold badge, and got ready to face the morning’s work. It was going to be a long day.
Chapter Forty-Two
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Coming to the ruined Super America store, Teresa halted their march and brought out Justin’s trinocs for a long look. Erin Swails and Justin took a seat on a guard rail. The Kid, obviously fascinated with the trinocs, not to mention their user, hopped about nearby. Finally, when nothing stirred, Teresa put the glasses away.
“Don’ see nothin’” she said. “Might as well go have a gleep, hey?”
Setting a blistering pace, pausing only now and then to scan the gravel shoulder, Teresa had led the way all morning and they’d made good progress under sunny, balmy skies. She’d pointed out the tread-marks that she said they were following, but to him they were no more than scratches in the dirt. How she could follow them, let alone pick them out from the others, was utterly beyond him; just another of the woman’s considerable talents.
Now, though, surveying the half-wrecked SA, Justin frowned and shook his head.
“No, I disagree,” he said. “Bowler said the floor was unstable, remember? He fell right through it! No, I say we don’t risk it.”
“Aw, c’mon, Case,” Teresa cajoled. “They might be all kinda good scroungin’ in there! Food, smokes, sparkers, who know? Don’ wanna pass all that up, do we?”
Justin considered. It would be nice to stock up on some basic amenities. Right now all they had was some rabbit meat, some water in a gallon jug, the clothes on their backs and the odds and ends they’d scavenged from the wrecked farmhouse. Indeed, having gone without for almost a week, he would risk quite a lot for just a roll of dental floss. And if Teresa thought it was safe, who was he to judge? Finally he gave up and nodded.
“Alright,” he said. “But let’s be very careful, OK? We don’t need anyone breaking a leg or something.”
“We be wary,” Teresa said. “Alway. Now how ‘bout it? Me? I hope they gots some jerky beef. Maybe some stupidwater.”
Trailing Teresa, they walked up to the ruined building. The Kid, who followed warily once he saw where they were headed, followed behind. A big signpost lay on its side, the sign itself smashed to pieces, and the gas pumps had exploded, leaving torn, rusting sheets of metal and twisted remains of wire and pipe work. The front windows had been shattered, the frames charred and twisted, and one corner of the roof had collapsed. Justin grimaced and shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said leerily. “Up close, it doesn’t look very safe. I mean, look at that hole in the roof!”