DeVirek took his eye away from the cold rubber gasket of the gunscope to get a macroview of the lot from his three-story high vantage point. He saw nothing yet. Nothing moved in the yellow light which shone sparsely on the asphalt top of the lot from a few dirty bulbs fastened a long time ago to the side of the brick building he was on. Behind the lot in front of him was the Harbor Boston Harbor. In the windless moonless night it might as well have not been there. The candlepower of the bulbs diminished exponentially as it always does until the only reflection from the water was an occasional spark of light on a small wave from some unknown faraway boat. Otherwise the water was a black void against the blacker sky.
DeVirek put his eye back to the rubber gasket of his gunscope using the pinpoint of light as a guide. He refocused the lenses and received a closeup image of the lot. He zoomed out until he just about encompassed the lit part of the lot in his sights. He waited.
There was a faint noise of static from his radio signaling an incoming message.
"...DeVirek, do you read?...Over..."
DeVirek closed his right eye momentarily in exasperation. His left was already closed. Doerti. How he hated that bastard.
DeVirek made the necessary jaw tightening motion for the radio to transmit the signal. Years before it was found to be more advantageous to design a radio which required as little manual manipulation as possible, especially hand or laryngeal activation, to reduce the chances of an officer being noticed in his or her position while transmitting or receiving.
He whispered, feeling the small microphone setup on his chin which would transmit his whispers to a receiving person. The radios were designed to amplify and slightly modify whispers to a point where they sounded like normal speech. For safety, the radios modified the received messages and not the transmitted ones, that way any nonofficer listening in would be unable to make out the whispers. In fact, to compound this, all transmissions were deliberately distorted somewhat to foil any minor graphic equalization which could take place in a nonofficer's radio. Some were made with that type of equipment.
DeVirek whispered his response.
Doerti heard the telltale static hiss of DeVirek's message.
"...Yeah I read...Over."
Even with the graphic distortion Doerti could still hear the scorn in DeVirek's whisper.
Too bad they don't have a distorter to get rid of that, he thought.
Doerti tightened his jaw.
"Any sign yet?...Over..." he whispered
Static.
"...No, he hasn't shown up... its not like I'm going to keep it from you if he does... Over."
Tightened jaw.
"I'm just checking It's been five minutes. It happens to be standard procedure, DeVirek, something you aren't doing. Over."
Let the Grouch suck on that, he thought.
Static.
"...It isn't standard procedure to annoy the shit out of me which you are doing. If you call me one more time asking if he's here yet, I'm going to shoot you instead of him. Where I am I can have my bead on you in less than a second. So you listen to me, Mr. Procedure, or you'll fuck this one up too. Understand? Over."
Doerti was stunned. That was the first time DeVirek had ever blatantly threatened him. There was no doubt in Doerti's mind that DeVirek meant what he said. People got crazy to a point where there is no true or false, no sarcasm or sincerity. That was what it was like.
There was also no doubt in Doerti's mind that DeVirek was about two steps past that point..
Doerti thought about that first time he and DeVirek had worked together, that "one" that Doerti Had apparently "fucked up". A drug bust at a storage facility on the outskirts of New Boston (most of Old Boston was a heap of rubble in the middle of New Boston where, in the center of that, was a space known as the circle of Low Tolerance; a playground for street gangs).
It was decided around the turn of the century that the cost of renovating Old Boston to a livable state plus stopping gangwars was much greater than the cost of just designating it off-limits and creating a new city around the remains of the old.
During this bust that he and DeVirek were in, the drug lords involved got wind of the Police presence and the situation deteriorated to a gunfight. The guard Doerti incapacitated had managed to give a warning, and DeVirek had been beside himself in rage after Doerti had followed simple, strict procedure.
DeVirek hadn't.
DeVirek was mad.
Yet DeVirek had never threatened him. Something was different about this
bust.
DeVirek had pivoted around until he was facing away from the lot. He was looking down the alley, searching through the gunscope without bothering to take his eye away to take a rough aim. He had a pretty good idea of where to look.
A dim crescent of light filled DeVirek's gunscope. An
experienced sniper
would say it was the reflection off the edge of some rounded object,
lit ever so slightly from in front,
an object which might or might not have been Doerti's helmet.
It was standard procedure to check in regularly with the squad leader, DeVirek in this case. Standard procedure was the Tao of good officers.
But Doerti opted on keeping quiet this time.
DeVirek's finger flipped the safety off his 14mm Vostok Shortfire rifle. The Shortfire was a stubby rifle, significantly shorter than a standard rifle, which was the mark of a Vostok gun. Along the entire length of the barrel were over five hundred hoop and axial stress sensors, and at the end of the barrel was a six inch long pnuematic chamber. The large 14mm shells had an extreme tendency to tumble, so as a shell was fired, the sensors compared stress differences in the barrel indicating an uneven spin which would result in a loss of accuracy. As the shell left the barrel, the pneumatic chamber blasted a directed jet of air at the shell to correct the spin as much as possible. The result was basically an extremely accurate cannon.
As DeVirek unlocked the safety, a red warning led lighted up in his gunscope. He zoomed in on the crescent of light, his view caressing lightly over it, catching the fine details; motes of dust, shallow scratches, relatively good shine, new helmets had good shines.
DeVirek imagined the rest of the object in its ovoid shape. He imagined it as a head impossibly smooth turned toward him. Here would be the eye... up here the Frontal Lobe... behind that would be the Temporal... the Parietal... Occipital Lobe...
One little shot would turn it all off.
DeVirek shifted most of the weight of the gun to his left arm and he gripped the butt of his sidearm with his right. He felt the front of the magazine to check if it was full. He counted eight shells plus one in the breach, all nine. Nine shells, nine little pieces of death. Each had the potential power to propel an average man fifteen feet straight up if fired at the right spot. Otherwise you would get someone turned partially inside-out.
DeVirek slipped his palm around the rubber grip of the handle and felt an
instant surge of satisfaction, cool and opaque.
Doerti, out of apprehension, took the safety off his 11mm Therman Autoload rifle. The click of the mechanism seemed so loud to him in the extreme silence that he expected a call from DeVirek telling him to be quiet. No call came of course.
He wrapped his gloved fingers tighter around the handle of his large shoulder and hip mounted rifle. The Therman
, trying not to think about how asleep his legs were becoming in his position. He was on the second story fire escape of the brick building, leaning against the side for support. He was about halfway down the narrow alley that separated two large warehouses. The alley was better than a mile and a half long. New Boston had very large warehouses. New Boston also had very large laws concerning the right to privacy of the warehouses, to the point that any evidence found in a warehouse without a search warrant or substantial motive for entering could not be used in court.
That was why Doerti, DeVirek, and a dozen other officers were there; to catch someone in the act.
That someone was Steven Long; a relatively normal name for an extremely powerful person. Long was a gun runner, the main underground supplier for the city and the rest of the state. All the gangs all the murderers all the paranoid schizophrenics got their arms from him. Not directly, but from his many connections. He sold state-of-the-art weapons, no outdated stuff. Thermans, Cassuls, Rikters, Vostoks, Starriors, all the major military manufacturers. He was the number one target for the Police-cum-Military which had taken immediate control when Massachusetts had become a military state. Also their number one pain in the ass.
Doerti wriggled a bit, thought of the narc bust he did with DeVirek.
Thought of the guard he had held at gunpoint to find out where the drug
lords were.
DeVirek stared at the crescent of light, not hypnotised but fascinated. Oh, how lovely it would be to drive rifle shells through that perfect shiny object, to smash it to a thousand pieces with his .726 Cassul then scatter the pieces around with his hands and try to see what was inside it all.
That stupid Doerti had to hold that guard up. The little greenhead didn't stop to think about a deadman switch that could possibly warn the drug lords of Police presence, no. Didn't stop to think that by grabbing the little fish you were letting the big one get away, no. Didn't stop to think that his partner might get shot at while he's jerking around with a guard, no. Well, the little shit let big the fish get away.
Guards don't talk in Boston, New or Old. Guards kill themselves.
That stupid greenhead nearly got me killed.
A black sedan pulled silently into the parking lot. The occupants were
calm and collected, looking for nothing and expecting anything. Steven
Long was in the car.
DeVirek zoomed out on the crescent just enough to get all of it in his sight.
Holes holes holes...
He let go of the Cassul and returned his finger to the grip of the Vostok.
It rested heavily on the trigger.
Doerti remained motionless. He heard nothing.
The black sedan slowed quietly to rest. Equally as quiet all four doors
opened at once. Steven Long stepped out and began walking toward the back
of the car. He stopped in front of the trunk. Other people began getting
out, guns getting out with them. A door slammed shut.
DeVirek heard a loud noise and saw the crescent move suddenly. A hiss of static entered his ears and out of reflex he shot off six rounds out of his Vostok at the crescent. The crescent fell.
More static came into his ears.
Officers screaming about Long being there and why hadn't there been a warning over the radio and the whole thing was a setup.
A second crescent joined the first another helmet.
But Doerti was alone...
Doerti heard a faint muffled slamming sound then six staccato rifle reports.
What the Hell is going on up front?
Standard procedure was to stay at ones assigned position. Doerti stayed.
"...Alarics been hit..."
"...snipers..."
"Long's here! Long's here!"
"Who shot Alaric?! Who the fuck-"
DeVirek turned off his radio. Several gun reports came up from the parking lot.
Everyone makes mistakes.
Long had long since jumped back into the sedan. His men had broken out the heavy artillery, four Russian-made Dragnost Multifire SubRPGs. Things would get hot.
He started the engine. The driver had been stupid and had shut it off, not thinking about the possibility of a necessary quick getaway.
Everyone makes mistakes.
Doerti heard escelating gunfire. He saw bright flashes at the end of the
alley and dull booms a second later. Something big was going on.
Long watched his men as they bombarded the top of the warehouse. He wasn't worried; the roof was well shielded, so there was no danger to the weapons and explosives inside. But there was danger to the officers on the roof.
That was the point.
DeVirek swung his rifle down to bearing on the parking lot. His scope showed four men, all with subRPGs. One standing behind the car had his pointed at the roof he was on.
DeVirek lined the crosshairs on his scope on the man's forehead,
CrackSSss!!!
DeVirek could see the parking lot through a large portion of the man's forhead. The man's head was knocked backwards, further than any natural bending of the neck. But that subRPG was still pointed directly at DeVirek.
He centered on the man's chest through the roof of the car.
CrackSSsCrackSSss!!!
The man fell to the ground in a heap of himself. DeVirek panned his rifle around to find the other three. They were still standing. It had been at least four seconds; there were twelve officers hidden in the area, all four men should have been taken down by now, multiple times.
Where was everybody else?
Oh yes, he hadn't told them. He had shut off his radio. None of them knew what was going on. All the others on the roof, all in the dark...
Long's three men had been shooting at the top of the warehouse across the alley, but now two them looked at the fourth's body which was laying on the ground behind the car. The first seemed oblivious of anything short of firing the subRPG in his hand.
DeVirek pulled his eye away from his scope, a ring of skin around his eye smarting, and looked to his left at the adjacent roof. It was entirely in flames. RPG shells were landing everywhere. Officers were running around, most of them on fire. In a fortunate moment of panic, DeVirek turned back to the parking lot. He saw a ring of fire that was slowly growing larger, and knew what it meant; an RPG shell heading straight toward him.
He thrust his arms out against the side of the building and scrabbled haphazardly backwards on all fours, kicking with his legs against the tar roof.
He saw light and felt heat. The roof of the warehouse dropped out from under him, then returned very hard. Shards of of stone festered deep in the skin of his face and hands and his clothes. He rolled painfully onto his stomach and got up.
A strange image came to him; the Department Janitor's scrub sponge. It was a nasty thing; the Department Janitor used it for cleaning up scum and grit off the floor and walls of the Department Building. It was a small misshapen sponge that was once yellow but now stained a dirty grey. Pieces got worn off on rough edges, and no matter how many times it was rinsed, it always produced dirty water.
That's what I am, an old used sponge.
DeVirek turned around and looked to the edge of the roof where he had been only a moment before. He noticed it was a good twenty feet away, plus most of it wasn't there anymore.
Huh, God only knows where my gun is.
Doerti saw the roofs of the warehouses light up and stay lit. Muffled
explosions reached him. And at the end of the alley two bright white
specks flickered. They werent explosions.
DeVirek looked at the other roof. Kierkgaard, one of the other officers, was still alive, albeit singed. He was standing quite still in the midst of the flames.
What is he doing?
DeVirek saw a shell fly up in a sharp parabola towards the roof. Kierkgaard ran toward it.
Hes a goner. What is he doing?
Kierkgaard saw the shell coming down and timed himself. It was dropping on him.
He jumped up, arms stretched upward. He felt his hand burn through his
glove and the RPG whisked by his face, the odor of the rocket fuel invading
his nose.
DeVirek saw Kierkgaard jump up and almost hit the RPG. After it passed
his face the line of smoke from its rocket suddenly turned a tight circle
in the space next to his body. The RPG flew away from him, back toward the
parking lot.
Kierkgaard fell to the roof's melted tar roof, not caring about the heat.
He looked at his gloves. They were burned all the way through.
DeVirek was amazed.
That ballsy bastard caught a live RPG shell in flight!
But then he looked down. He saw the black sedan pulling into the alley. A getaway. Long.
A second later the RPG shell hit the parking lot and detonated. If any or all of Long's men were killed he didn't care. Long was the guy he wanted.
But my gun...
Doerti.
Doerti could nail the guy. Where's my radio?
A hunk a twisted electronics at his hip answered his question.
"Oh shit, oh Doerti you gotta see him, he's coming right toward you! Get
him, get him... oh shit, Doerti, you've gotta be fucking blind not
to see him..."
Doerti saw him.
He steadied the rifle and injected a P-39 Armor Piercer round into the breach. He had never fired these before but that didn't matter. Engine grills nowadays needed armor piercers.
He leaned against the back of the cagey fire escape hoping it would hold.
Alas...
As Doerti fell backwards through the air, he thought of how much it was going to hurt when he hit the ground.
Doerti hit the ground neck first. He landed in a pile of garbage, but
that didn't break the fall quite enough. Something in his neck cracked.
DeVirek saw the fall through Kierkgaard's scope.
"Oh no, you stupid greenhead... 'Gaard, quick, get me a baton grenade! And give me your rifle, I want that fucker Long!"
"Watch out for Doerti!"
"Just get me the friggin' thing, will you?!"
Doerti felt his rifle on top of him then the ground beneath him.
There must be something wrong with my neck...
There was but he still got up.
"Get Long... engine..."
He switched on the automatic adjusting zoom on his scope and pointed it down the alley. The car was still really far away. By a longshot the scope just might have survived the fall with its calibration to the rifle intact.
He zoomed far in and saw the sedan. The zoom index read 2980. He centered the sedan in the crosshairs and activated the automatic zoom. This kept the sedan in full view at all time. The index began to get smaller immediately.
2860.
Not much time...
He fired the first round. There was a scraping sound as it exited the barrel. It hit far outside of his view.
2710.
He knew what was going on; the barrel of the rifle was bent slightly and the shells were being pushed over to the side. He remembered his training in gunfire emergencies, his instructor tutoring him.
"...A bullet wants to go straight. Thats what Newton showed us. Now, that barrel is bent and its strong, but whose going to win? After a few more shots that barrel's gonna want to go straight too..."
He began firing off shots madly, waiting for the hits to show in his scope. The zoom index was 2390.
"Cmon... Cmon..."
He saw a small spark off one of the walls and began shooting with greater speed. When it was somewhat near center he extrapolated where the next shot would go and lined the sedan's grill to it. He fired.
Nothing happened.
A red light in the upper left-hand corner of the scope alerted him to the fact that he was out of armor piercing rounds. He cursed his shortsightedness in shooting off rounds like they were candy.
1850.
He started a P-43 Blockhead injection into the breach. The injection seemed to take forever. He had the sudden image that the loader was jammed and he was without any means of defense. Claustrophobia gripped him. No matter where he stood in the alley Long could pick him off with the sedan. He couldn't reach the fire escape and there was no way he could get to the other end of the alley before Long reached him. He had to do something now.
1610.
Finally the injection took and the breach was loaded. He began to fire again with strong, steady motions of his finger from his years of training. The engine grill blew away in pieces but the sedan didn't stop. He stole a glance at the windshield. Long was in plain view, a manic look in his face, crouched low in the seat as if Doerti would try to shoot him.
I should, he thought, but I can't. He's got to be kept alive. Its procedure.
1290.
More rounds. The grill was nonexistent. Vapor and smoke were pouring out from under the hood, but the engine was still running. Long was pushing the car over one hundred miles per hour. Doerti had seconds.
1000.
Crack!!
No penetration.
880.
Crack!! Crack!!
No penetration.
650.
"Fuck!" he yelled.
Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Nothing.
His instructors voice came to him again.
"...If the engine doesn't go, the gas tank will. Just keep going at one spot and you'll `hit oil'..."
590.
Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Nothing.
Hit oil...
Crack!! Crack!! Crack!!
Hit oil...
410.
Crack
Hit oil...
350.
Crack-Crack-Crack-Crack-Crack-Crack-Crack-Crack!!
"Fucker! Die!"
The crosshairs found Long's forehead.
Crack!
10.
DeVirek saw the sedan hit Doerti square on. He caught a glimpse of Doerti's rifle flying backwards and Doerti himself being launched into the air.
And somehow, Long hadn't been hit.
DeVirek had already mounted the long missilelike baton grenade onto the front of Kierkgaard's rifle and injected the small bullet, which was it's firing mechanism, into the rifles breach. He centered the back of the sedan in the scope, fingered the visual lock on the base of the grenade, and fired. It followed its assigned path as if running along an invisible string attached to the sedan's trunk. Of all the propulsion weapons, he liked these the best. They always get the job done right.
And Doerti hadn't hit the ground yet.
Long's sedan somersaulted forward, upending itself beautifully, and came to a scraping, fiery halt.
And Doerti still hadn't hit the ground.
"Well," Devirek said, looking up from the rifle scope, "one less shit in the toilet of life."
"Who do you mean," Kierkgaard asked quietly, "Doerti or Long?"
Kierkgaard walked away.
Doerti hit the ground.
DeVirek stood up and his knees popped. He ached all over, but hadn't noticed it. He made a quick mental count of thirteen dead, including Long and the boy he had shot. He thought of Long and the image of the sponge came back to him. He pushed it out of his mind.
"Ohh, this place is the fucking shithouse," he said to the sky.
The shithouse of the living. The dead don't talk; why? Do we not deserve to know what comes after this chapter?
He looked off in the distance at the glint of orange that was the sedan.
What's it like, Long? Is it worth it? Is it any better? Does it get any better?
He sighed. He thought of the body laying out on the asphalt of the alley ,or maybe it was thrown clear out into the space beyond the warehouses. He would go and see later.
He looked at the sky.
"Oh, if only all were well in this place, I might be happy..."
But it wasn't. Human selfishness and greed. Pure evil, drugs, wars, fights over nothing, neglections of everything. Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. Human mistakes every last one.
And we have the nerve to complain.
"If all were well..." He said it as if they were magic words, then shut up.
He smiled to himself.
Everyone makes mistakes.
Back to the Stories page.