THE FIRST
By Joshua Epstein
(LEGAL STUFF: Evan Martin is my creation, and I own him. As this is a world that I am creating based on our own, certain real people may end up appearing, but this story is, in now way, meant as libel or slander to them, they are only there when and if the story requires them to be.)
CHAPTER 3: Rage
The door slammed hard behind Evan as he stormed out of Captain Anderson's office. He passed his desk on the way out, and hit the steel casing behind the rear door of the stationhouse with a clenched fist, letting a cry of pure rage rip loose from somewhere deep inside him. A number of concerned officers tried to stop him and calm him down, but he pushed past them like they weren't even there. All the pent up anger that had been welling up inside him for months, even years, was finally loosing itself, and it was a terrible sight to behold. He tore free of the few pairs of hands that tried to hold him and climbed into his car and sped away, tires screeching, leaving a trail of dark rubber on the ground, like an impermanent testament to their owner's anger.
On the FDR, the rage simply grew. Every car that was in his way became a bitter enemy, every small slowdown a part of a massive conspiracy. Evan could feel his heart hammering away in his chest as his foot slammed down on the pedal, sending the Buick recklessly careening down the slick surface of the freeway. He was so consumed in his anger for everything around him that he didn't feel the tears streaming down his face.
The Buick raced down the freeway, gaining speed, and Evan could almost feel the tires beginning to slip on the slick surface. Before he knew it, the car began to rotate, hydroplaning. The front end slapped hard into the concrete center divider. There was a loud crashing sound and the car flipped side over side, rolling down the highway until it slid to a halt among the cars that it had collided with. Slowly, onlookers began to gather. The car was totaled, part strewn all over the highway. One man stopped his car and climbed out.
"Everybody back!" He flashed a badge and moved toward the wreck. He'd already called it in on his radio. He had been headed home when he saw the maniac screaming down the highway. Something on the remains of the front dashboard caught his eye. It was the base mount of a siren-light. "Oh shit… it's a cop." He knelt down by the driver-side door and peered in. From within, he heard a faint moan. "God, this guy's still kickin! Somebody help me pry this door open!"
***********
COUNTY GENERAL: 4:15 AM
"How's he look, Doc?" Anderson asked, his arms held stiffly across his chest. Through the window he could see the battered form of Evan Martin, respirator over his face and an i.v. pumping through him.
"It'll be tomorrow morning before we know for certain. He suffered severe trauma to the cranium, cracked several ribs, and broke his left arm. A clean break, so it should heal within six to eight weeks. It's the cranial injury that has me concerned."
"Tell me plain, doc. Is he gonna wake up?"
"We really don't know, Captain."
"If he hasn't woken up by nightfall, then we'll have to contact his next of kin to determine whether or not to continue with extraordinary measures."
The doctor walked away and Anderson was left looking at the unconscious form of Evan Martin. He had known that Martin would snap, he knew it! And yet he had gone through with it anyway. He played the good company man, doing things the company way. And this was where it was led. A good cop… a good man lay dying on a hospital bed because Anderson had let done what he was told. He clenched his fist and bit back the tears that were welling up in his eyes.
"I'm sorry Evan."
By Joshua Epstein
(LEGAL STUFF: Evan Martin is my creation, and I own him. As this is a world that I am creating based on our own, certain real people may end up appearing, but this story is, in now way, meant as libel or slander to them, they are only there when and if the story requires them to be.)
CHAPTER 3: Rage
The door slammed hard behind Evan as he stormed out of Captain Anderson's office. He passed his desk on the way out, and hit the steel casing behind the rear door of the stationhouse with a clenched fist, letting a cry of pure rage rip loose from somewhere deep inside him. A number of concerned officers tried to stop him and calm him down, but he pushed past them like they weren't even there. All the pent up anger that had been welling up inside him for months, even years, was finally loosing itself, and it was a terrible sight to behold. He tore free of the few pairs of hands that tried to hold him and climbed into his car and sped away, tires screeching, leaving a trail of dark rubber on the ground, like an impermanent testament to their owner's anger.
On the FDR, the rage simply grew. Every car that was in his way became a bitter enemy, every small slowdown a part of a massive conspiracy. Evan could feel his heart hammering away in his chest as his foot slammed down on the pedal, sending the Buick recklessly careening down the slick surface of the freeway. He was so consumed in his anger for everything around him that he didn't feel the tears streaming down his face.
The Buick raced down the freeway, gaining speed, and Evan could almost feel the tires beginning to slip on the slick surface. Before he knew it, the car began to rotate, hydroplaning. The front end slapped hard into the concrete center divider. There was a loud crashing sound and the car flipped side over side, rolling down the highway until it slid to a halt among the cars that it had collided with. Slowly, onlookers began to gather. The car was totaled, part strewn all over the highway. One man stopped his car and climbed out.
"Everybody back!" He flashed a badge and moved toward the wreck. He'd already called it in on his radio. He had been headed home when he saw the maniac screaming down the highway. Something on the remains of the front dashboard caught his eye. It was the base mount of a siren-light. "Oh shit… it's a cop." He knelt down by the driver-side door and peered in. From within, he heard a faint moan. "God, this guy's still kickin! Somebody help me pry this door open!"
***********
COUNTY GENERAL: 4:15 AM
"How's he look, Doc?" Anderson asked, his arms held stiffly across his chest. Through the window he could see the battered form of Evan Martin, respirator over his face and an i.v. pumping through him.
"It'll be tomorrow morning before we know for certain. He suffered severe trauma to the cranium, cracked several ribs, and broke his left arm. A clean break, so it should heal within six to eight weeks. It's the cranial injury that has me concerned."
"Tell me plain, doc. Is he gonna wake up?"
"We really don't know, Captain."
"If he hasn't woken up by nightfall, then we'll have to contact his next of kin to determine whether or not to continue with extraordinary measures."
The doctor walked away and Anderson was left looking at the unconscious form of Evan Martin. He had known that Martin would snap, he knew it! And yet he had gone through with it anyway. He played the good company man, doing things the company way. And this was where it was led. A good cop… a good man lay dying on a hospital bed because Anderson had let done what he was told. He clenched his fist and bit back the tears that were welling up in his eyes.
"I'm sorry Evan."