Hey, what's happening? Yeah, I'm not dead! Although there have been days I felt like the old man in the 'Not Dead Yet' scene from Monty Python. "There, he says he's not dead." "Yes he is." "No, I'm not!" "Ee isn't?" "Well, he will be soon, he's very ill." "I'm getting better!" "No you're not, you'll be stone dead in a moment." I rang in the New Year with food poisoning at 0300 hours, then a few weeks later rolled my car into the ditch (black ice is no joke), and have recently contracted some lung gunk/stuffy nose/coughing crud. So, things are a little behind schedule. BUT! We are moving forward, just not as fast as I'd like. So, without further delay, FLCL: TPW comes in from the wilderness with new chapters! Please enjoy!
. . .
Patrolman Hynen had been assigned what amounted to guard duty. Technically speaking, he was held in reserve as part of the Quick Relief Force to reinforce any Task Force in the field. In reality, he and other officers that had drawn short straws were stuck at the State Police station. This ensured he had a front-row seat when Sergeant Kauffman and the Mobile Command Center began surrounding the building.
"Yo, Hynen. Are you seein' this?"
"Seein' what?" Hynen had his feet up, Autotrader Magazine in hand. He was considering an advertised CJ-8 Scrambler. Condition: MINT! Or so the advert claimed. The Officer on Duty dragged him to the lobby desk's bank of CCTV feeds. The station was being encircled by fellow troopers, and the M.C.C. truck had pulled up outside.
"Why're all the Command guys here?" Hynen watched them disembark their vehicle and march up the front steps. He did not fail to see their grim faces, or drawn weapons. "The look plenty pissed about something."
"Damn right. Better call Chojnacki; there's something wrong with this picture." The Duty Officer lifted his phone. "Captain, it's Corporal Haines at the front desk. Is the M.C.C. supposed to be returning already? I thought so. Well sir, they're outside right now, and with guns drawn. Yes sir, I am serious. No sir, I am NOT joking. They're almost to the front door and…"
"Phone down and hands up!" The first of the M.C.C. entered the lobby. Each had their pistol or issued long arm at high ready. "Put the phone down, NOW!"
"Put that fuckin' piece away Trooper!" Corporal Haines was used to telling others what to do, and aiming his gun at them. It was unnerving to be the one staring down a gun barrel and being screamed at for a change; and he didn't much care for it. "All of you! What the hell's going on?! Have you lost your damn min-…" BANG!
"Hands up, Hynen; or you're next." Shot at a range of five feet, Corporal Haines' brain evacuated at the back of his head and fanned across the station's great seal on the wall behind the desk. Hynen decided the M.C.C. really were serious.
"You got it, Barnes." Hynen correctly assumed the M.C.C. weren't there for him. They'd have shot him straight away if they were. His best option was to play along, and maybe even find out what was going on. The M.C.C., more of them streaming in and taking up positions, relieved him of his pistol and ammunition, OC spray, handcuffs, and T-handle. He was pointed to a corner of the lobby with a handful of others, then told 'stay there and don't you damn move.'
. . .
"Sergeant, we're in for a world of hurt." Chojnacki was watching a security feed on his computer. Perks of being Chief of the State Patrol.
"You mean besides Haines getting popped?" One the Sergeants that had been assigned to stay behind that night peered out the door and down the hall. "Christ, I still can't believe they did that! What's going on?!"
"I'm not sure, but I know HE is at the bottom of it." Chojnacki watched Cole Kauffman stroll into the station as if he owned the place.
"Kauffman? Didn't he just get promoted?"
"Yes, and it seems the little bump in power went to his head." He lifted the phone and dialed for the PA system. "Sergeant Kauffman, this's Captain Chojnacki speaking. I don't know what's put the burr up your ass, but shooting Haines and taking over the station is NOT how to deal with it. If you would please disband the M.C.C. and come to my office, we can discuss this…" Three more gunshots echoed down the halls, a pause, then four more. "Alright, be that way. All Troopers who can hear me: barricade and fortify your positions. Kauffman and the M.C.C. are attempting a coup. Defend your lives and this station."
"Captain, are you serious? A coup?!"
"What else is there?" The Sergeant shrugged in agreement and drew his pistol. With his orders given, Chojnacki now dialed for the Sheriff's office. It was a slim hope a posse of deputies could be assembled to assist. There was no signal on the phone, Cole had the M.C.C. throttle the line. No help was coming. "Damn it, where's that blasted Man in Black?!"
. . .
'Well now…that can't be right…' The Man was on scene of a shootout between the Osceola Mills P.D. and a band of determined civilians. The police were clearing up the mess, the civilians had taken their shots and departed. He'd opened his pocketwatch to check the time and stock of events. He scowled at what he saw, grinding his teeth in growing annoyance. 'No…no, no…no…it's all wrong.' The hands were on the incorrect headings, the small orbs were out of alignment. He held it up to his ear and heard a faithful ticking. Nothing on the watch was broken, which only meant ill tidings.
"Sir, there's been an order over the radio." One of the Osceola Mills' officers approached. The Man, thinking hard, said nothing. "It's s'posed to be from the State Patrol; Sergeant Kauffman. We've been ordered into full retreat. Sir?"
"…" The Man's thumb hovered over the pocketwatch's smallest face, the one at the bottom of its body. He was loathe to press it. Surely, this was somehow all in error? Cole had not failed him in any way so far, so why this, and why now? He actually thought well of Cole; he had the correct attitude for an Officer of the Red Star Interior Police.
"Sir? Are you alright? Can you hear…?"
"Officer, a moment's peace, if you would. Thank you."
"Sorry, Sir." The officer backed off. Behind them the rest of the team had cleared the small battlefield and was ready to leave. Then the officer's radio crackled.
"OM-PDD to Task Force Alpha-Four. Task Force Alpha-Four, come in."
"Dispatch, this's Corporal Rohrs; Alpha-Four acting command. Go ahead."
"Rohrs, it's Charlie. Are you anywhere near The Man? Last I heard he was with you."
"He's right here, a little busy. Can I take a message? What's going on?"
"We're getting calls from State guys claiming their M.C.C. has surrounded their station, and isn't letting anyone in or out. A few shots have been heard in the building, but none of the M.C.C.'s saying anything."
"Are there any contacts, any comms channels open to the station?"
"Nothing. Complete radio silence, and the phones are all giving us a busy signal."
"Roger that. I'll pass it along to our Man and we'll go from there. Stand by."
"Standing by."
"Sir, you caught all that, right?"
"Yes, Corporal Rohrs, I did." The Man heaved a bitter sigh. "Nothing left now but to clean up yet another mess." He muttered while closing his eyes and pressing the pocketwatch's smallest face with his thumb. A blink of time later, the pocketwatch was stowed and The Man on the move. He joined Corporal Rohrs in the crew compartment of the last departing MRAP. Their column was southwestern bound for Osceola Mills. Corporal Rohrs wondered why The Man wasn't redirecting them East/Southeast towards Port Matilda and the State Patrol station. He thought better of it, deciding not to question The Man's judgement, and kept quiet.
"Goddamn, what a shit-show." One of the other officers remarked. He scratched at the bandages wrapped around his head. "Ten years on the job, never had a night this messed up. Total F.U.B.A.R." The others nodded in grim accord while the MRAP's trundled along. The wounded officer opened a pouch on his harness and extracted a pack of Camel 99's.
"Hey, smokin's not allowed in…" One of the others began to remind, but saw The Man's waved hand.
"After the morning you brave troopers have had, I'd say you've earned it." The Man's smile brightened the gloomy compartment. "May I?" The officer shook up a cigarette and extended the pack. The Man took the offered cigarette and used his own lighter; the lighter usually reserved for burning orders and messages. A too-heavy drag pulled in a lungful of unfiltered smoke. Not wanting to appear foolish, The Man resisted as long as he could; trying to appear aloof.
"Sir, you're turning green." One brave officer observed aloud.
"…M-hack! Hack! Uhgh-ghuh-hack! By Syrinx! How many of these do you smoke a day?!" The Man let out the smoke as his lungs protested. Smoking, seen as an unhealthy and disgusting habit, was banned within The Red Star's borders, by decree of The Priests. Left unspoken were rules on drinking and smoking outside The Red Star; however.
"Pack a day. I've cut back from two."
"It's a wonder you can still breathe at all." The Man marveled. He had another pull, lighter this time.
"I thought you didn't smoke, Sir?"
"Oh, I don't." Everyone grinned a little. There were lots of things officers did, that they didn't. "But I'm about to do something terribly upsetting to me, and I've seen how some of you Humans smoke to calm down; so I thought I'd try one myself to see if it would help."
"What're you doing that's so upsetting? If it's not out of place to ask?"
"A thread has come unraveled." The Man was typically cryptic. Another drag. Somehow, the taste was growing on him. "And loose threads are snipped before they cause trouble. That is all."
"I don't think we need to be bothering with anymore business questions right now." Corporal Rohrs sensed a secretive nature to The Man's answers. The other officers nodded and decided they were on a need to know basis; and didn't need to know. "Right, Sir?"
"Correct, Corporal Rohrs. Do not worry yourselves with my troubles."
"But…Sir, the State Patrol?"
"As I said, worry not." The Man soothed. "With The Priest's wisdom as our guide, The Red Star shall provide." The MRAP's continued on.
. . .
"Is he breathing? He was when we brought him in."
"I don't think so."
"Jeff, either he is, or he isn't."
"Right...he ain't."
"Okay, checking airway…" Johnny peered down the wounded officer's throat, shining a flashlight to see. We had him on one of the welding tables. Josh and Shifty shared a second, and George had the third to himself. Welding tables are not the most sanitary platforms, but they were empty, level surfaces. "It looks clear. Turn him on his side." Johnny pushed while Kamon and I pulled to roll the officer onto his side, hopefully to clear whatever was stuck in his throat or lungs. Still no signs of movement. "Get his gear off. We'll have to check his chest."
"Kamon, hold this." I pulled my knife and started cutting straps. I tossed Kamon first a plate carrier and vest, then uniform, then undershirt and compression wear. "Dump it over there, then come straight back."
"Good God, that's ugly." This was one of the officer's swatted by the Industrial's backhand. His chest was deflated, concave almost, and turning purple and black with bruises. He would have fared better getting hit by a car; at least the fiberglass would have some give to it. A solid steel fist offered no such mercy. "I can't tell if…wait, hang on…there might be a tiny pulse, wait, no, lost it. Get the A.E.D., Kamon, now!"
"Got it, here." We hooked him up, one pad near the right shoulder, the other below his left pectoral. There was a slim chance he had a shockable rhythm, but we had to try. The A.E.D. scanned, scanned, then scanned some more for at least three eternities.
"Shockable rhythm detected. Shock advised. Charging. Stand back!"
"Back up, back up! Keep away from the table!" The welding table, a slab of solid steel, would transmit any charge from the A.E.D. and the officer, straight into any of us touching it. Then we'd have another casualty.
"Charging. Delivering shock. CLEAR." Kr-thmp. The officer twitched slightly. Johnny began CPR with thirty compressions and two breaths. Two minutes later the A.E.D. bade him to stop. "Scanning. Shockable rhythm detected. Shock advised. Charging. Stand back!" We were already clear, so now we just waited.
"Rig, your turn on CPR after it shocks."
"Got it." We were going to switch on and off. If you do it right, CPR will wear you out. It will also crack your patient's ribs, but his already were, so that was out of the way; I guess.
"Charging. Delivering shock. CLEAR." Kr-thmp. Again the officer wriggled a little, but didn't fully wake, sit up and laude us with his thanks. I began compressions. The weirdest feeling is the crunching and crackling of bones under your hands. It feels so wrong, you know you're basically mashing his heart and are breaking ribs. But that's how you manhandle a heart to beating again, aside from cutting him open and pumping the heart with a machine; or even by hand. Already his skin felt cool, and his lips were starting to turn blue. I finished my two minutes and let the machine take over again.
"Stop CPR. Scanning. Scanning. Shockable rhythm detected. Shock advised. Charging. Stand back!"
"Kamon, if you're up to it, it'll be your turn next. Are you willing to do that?"
"Y-yes. Yes, I am."
"Good. Get ready then." Johnny handed him the mouth shield so Kamon wouldn't have to make skin to skin contact.
"Charging. Delivering shock. CLEAR." Kr-thmp. So much for third time's the charm. Kamon began his thirty compressions. Now Tommy came over to see how we were getting on. He requested Kamon to let him look. He made the same checks. Airway was clear, but no breathing. Pulse intermittent, fluttering and weak. With a flashlight shone in his eyes, the officer's pupils were unresponsive. Tommy gave a final once-over from tip to toe, looking for anything else that could be a problem. Finding none, he made a final call.
"Johnny, Jeff, Kamon. You've done all you can. Move him over there with his equipment, and wrap him with the tarp. We have our own wounded to tend to."
"Tommy, can't we give the A.E.D. one more…" Johnny started to ask.
"I am not asking you, Sergeant. That's enough. Move and cover him, then help Rita. Now."
"…Yes, Captain." Johnny conceded. "Rig, get his feet. Kamon, lay the tarp down would you? Okay Rig, got him? On three then. One, two, three!"
. . .
Urban Dictionary defines a Clusterfuck thusly: "A military term for an operation in which multiple things have gone wrong. It is related to 'SNAFU' (Situation Normal, All Fucked Up) and 'FUBAR' (Fucked Up Beyond All Repair). In radio communication or polite conversation (i.e. with a very senior officer with whom you have no prior experience) the term 'clusterfuck' will often be replaced by the NATO phonetic acronym 'Charlie Foxtrot'."
We weren't quite there yet, a clusterfuck, but just barely so. The spalled slivers in my leg, shoulder and head Shigekuni pulled out with pliers. He also rewrapped the bandages I'd done around my head; its cut wouldn't stop bleeding. Every heartbeat sent a little leak of blood down my face. To be fair, it was a head wound, and they just bleed; it's what they do. With two wounds in it, Josh's leg had swollen with blood and fluid. It was starting to turn funny colors as it pushed against his armor; a kind of yellow-purple. We couldn't undo the straps, so we cut the plates off him with an angle grinder. His leg was now neatly wrapped, splinted, and propped, while he monitored the police radio traffic. Shifty was a stable walking wounded, but could not move his left arm. At all. From the shoulder on down, nothing. Both the bicep and triceps were torn and his fingertips tingled from damaged nerves. With his arm in a sling, he stood guard with Mike and Kamon outside. All three swapped lies about previous women in their lives and nervously chain smoked to soothe jittery nerves. Rita, Johnny, and Canti were focused on George. The second state trooper we'd quickly tied to a chair. The something bloody Tommy had spat up was from one of his ribs; one cracked during the fight in Clyde's basement. A shotgun slug had slammed into his armor and from the dent in the steel, it had re-cracked the rib and given him a small cut in his lung. While he wasn't up to running, he could still move quickly. He was able to establish contact with the others and began getting updates. Meanwhile, I took a timeout from everything to FINALLY put on some damn pants.
"…Many made it in?" Tommy was asking as I reentered the shop. Ah…to have jeans on again. I took over guard duty of the second state trooper, my rifle trained on his forehead.
"We're doing another headcount now." Mr. Pike reported through a voice chat on the computer. The phones were not working, either shut down or destroyed, and radio was surely being monitored by now. "After the first count, it looks like I'm missing at least fifty."
"We're only missing fifty? It sounds morbid, but if that's all, then…"
"No, Tommy. I am missing at least fifty. Just me. Everyone else is more or less the same."
"Oh. It, it's still early yet. More will trickle in as the dust settles."
"I agree. But with the phones down, it's been impossible to get ahold of anyone we haven't counted yet. In one hour we'll have an updated head count."
"Thank you very much Mister Pike. Let us know of anything going on or changing immediately, and stay safe!"
"I'll pass the word along, and the same goes to you too. Semper Fi. Out."
. . .
Naota sneezed himself awake. He'd only been asleep an hour or so. It was just barely getting light out. His body ached and throbbed, especially his back and fingertips. The ripped open nailbeds had finally scabbed over, but still felt like they'd been smashed with a hammer. Bleary eyes are hard to open, but he forced them to even as they itched for want of sleep. Everything was as he'd found it, nothing in the small cave had been disturbed. A mouse, finding its mattress home occupied by an uninvited guest, scratched in the leaves by the door. Slowly blinking, Naota tried to clear his vision. Small slivers of blue lines faded in and out, tracing from object to object, wall to wall, floor to ceiling. It was the same phenomenon as strands of a spider's web catching the morning sun's rays at just the right angle. He assumed it was an exhausted and paranoid brain playing tricks on itself. So he rolled over and went back to sleep.
. . .
"How's it coming up there?!" Cole yelled down the hallway. An acetylene torch from the motor pool was melting their way through a steel security door. On the other side waited the station's central control room and the offices of the lieutenants and Captain Chojnacki.
"Almost through, gimme…thirty seconds!"
"Breaching team, front and center; ready up!" The officers inside the station who had decided to fight Cole and his mutineers, had been doing so with desperate ferocity. They surmised correctly they were surrounded and outnumbered, and their only hope was to hold on long enough for a posse of deputies, or another department to arrive and break the siege. Meanwhile, they had armed themselves with the light machineguns from the armory, using primarily a pair of M240's and a collection M16A4's to turn their section of the building into a Gibraltar; and had racked up eleven kills and twice as many wounded thus far to prove it. Worse, no one in Cole's crew could remember if there were any AT4's still inside the armory. Once through the door, they'd find out.
"Cutting's done! Ready for breaching." The door still smoked and heat rolled off as the breachers hefted their shields. Finding volunteers to join him hadn't been hard, Cole was delighted to find. Gallons of police blood had been spilt that morning, many thought needlessly. They wanted, demanded, someone to take the fall; and Cole seemed to have all the answers.
"Standby! Three…two…ONE!" The charges finished the torch's work and troopers surged into the hallway, the offices just ahead. At the far end, someone fired his M16. The rounds thudded against their shields, one failing to punch through, but breaking the officer's forearm, while drywall and concrete chips rained down from misses and ricochets. A vicious counter-fire left the shooter shattered and splattered against the wall; their half-blown off face unrecognizable. Now Cole was counting doors, forcing himself to remember the right one.
'One…two…three…' Chojnacki's office. The nameplate said so. "Three, this's it! Ready to breach!" It was paramount Cole gained control of the office, and the man inside. Both contained information, passcodes, a keycard and safe access. All would give their holder unquestionable authority; especially when he would be able to strip legal police authority, and all pay and benefits of anyone who got out of line. There was also the safe's contents. Cole knew The Man had to have given Chojnacki something to store. Orders, deals or contracts with The Red Star, Letters of Marque, promises once the fighting was over, personal effects, or maybe even some kind of secret weapon! The possibilities were only limited by Cole's avarice, and were just behind the door!
"Knock-Knock, Cap'n!" The door crumpled under the ram, and a plume of smoke roiled out. Immediately following the falling door was a burst of staccato gunfire. The shield bearers stumbled and the stack faltered as slugs slammed into the shields, one trooper falling as a round blew out his knee…and then the shooter's magazine ran empty. Stun grenades were tossed in, using the lull to get close again. Cole demanded Chojnacki alive, and the assault began. It was short. Three UMP-45's riddled the Sergeant behind the great oak desk; an old 1921 Thompson from the arms locker clattered to the floor. In the far corner, next to the floor safe, a dazed Chojnacki continued burning the safe's contents in the trash can. Cole kicked the trashcan over, scattering its smoldering contents and putting out the fire. He and another officer seized Chojnacki and threw him into his chair, where he was covered by six submachine guns.
"Call them off, Captain." Cole pushed the phone towards him. "Order them to stand down."
"No, Sergeant. I won't." An M240 began firing in the next hallway over.
"Your men are dying, Captain." The M240 abruptly ceased. "Will you let them keep dying to hold onto your failed command just a few seconds longer?"
"You'll kill them to take it from me?!"
"I already have! What's another ten or twenty backstabbers, more loyal to a politicking, unelected appointee, than to their fraternity?"
"You've gone fuckin' nuts, off the rails! What is with you?" Chojnacki's face had drained of life to a funeral pallor. "Is all this so you can take over the State Patrol, to be a lord over a miniscule fief?! Is that IT?!"
"It is what I am owed!"
"On what grounds, on what basis?!"
"A repayment of you, and your scheming lieutenants, setting me up to fail, to disgrace me in front of The Man, so you could overstep me in my place!"
"And you all followed this lunatic?" Chojnacki was stunned at the number of coconspirators bodying up his office. "If Cole jumped off a bridge, would you follow him down?"
"Yours are following you off a bridge right now, Captain." The gunfire outside was growing in volume as the ring of defenders shrank. "Off the bridge of moral self-righteousness, all because you're being stubborn and won't give me what's mine."
"Cole, with all the racket you've made, you can bet your ass The Man's on his way already. If I refuse you, you're going to shoot me; I can tell. If I cave to your demands, The Man brands me rightly as a traitor, and he doesn't strike me as the understanding type; and he'll do much, MUCH worse to a traitor than shoot him. If I am to die, it will be with my dignity intact."
"Have it your way." Cole gave the two guards at the door a curt nod. They disappeared into the haze filled offices. "Since you're so determined to die either way, I'll make living as uncomfortable for you as possible. Put him right here, hands on the desk. You, right here." The guards had returned with one of the captured officers. Blood from a shallow gash on his head covered most of his face, what wasn't streaked with terrified tears.
"What're you doing? Let him go, he has nothing to do with this; this's between me and you. It's not his fault."
"You're right. It's your fault. Okay, let's start with pinkies and work inward." The guards arranged the man's hands so only his pinky fingers were on the polished, solid oak desk. "What's your name?"
"M, M, M-Morgan…" He managed to stammer out.
"Morgan. I want you to look the good Captain right in the eye, like you're telling him your darkest secrets." Cole knelt beside Morgan and pointed at Chojnacki. "Look him in the eye and tell him: This is your fault."
"Th-this, this's your fault…oh god…"
"Hit 'em." At Cole's word, the door battering ram was brought down on Patrolman Morgan's left pinky finger. A solid tube of steel encased concrete crushed the digit between it and a solid oak desk. Morgan's scream worked its way to the front hall; causing Patrolman Hynen to cringe at the thought of the pain causing such a sound.
"These are just his fingers, there's a whole lot more we can crush that'll hurt a whole lot more!"
"No, no-no-no, no, NO! Why're you doing this?!"
"Nothing, Chojnacki? Okay. Next pinky. Ready! Say it, Morgan…"
"Please don't let him do this Captain, it's not worth it!"
"I need to hear you telling him whose fault this is!"
"Don't make him do this! This's sick, you're just a damn bloodthirsty coyote!"
"Morgan, say it or we start pulling fingernails."
"Goddammit…this's, this's your fault!" Morgan howled as his second pinky went the way of the first.
"Don't make me take his trigger finger and thumbs too!" Cole admonished as the grisly end of the ram was readied again. "Have a heart!"
"Alright, alright already!" Chojnacki's hands shook as he lifted the phone. "I'm sorry Morgan, but this has to end somehow." Chojnacki pressed the PA button and gave the order. Shooting in the building ceased.
"Very good. See, that wasn't so hard. Now, dial eight to get outside, then for Sheriff Sarabyn. You'll be telling him you cannot continue as commander of the State Patrol, and are passing command to me. Go ahead." Cole motioned with his pistol at the phone, now holding it level with Chojnacki's head. The Captain sighed, looking between Cole, the phone, Cole's H&K-45, back to Cole, then the phone. He dialed eight, then a series of numbers. He waited while it rang, then took a deep breath as the other end picked up.
"It's Cole Kauffman! They're taking over the station! Send everyone before he…!" Chojnacki had dialed the direct line to the Sheriff's dispatch and the Duty Officer had immediately picked up. He didn't get to finish all of his warning. Realizing what was happening, Cole blasted the phone's cradle to bits with two shots, then swung the front sight back onto his Captain's nose. Bah-BANG-BANG…BANG! Chojnacki jerked away from his chair, spinning it around, and collapsed face down on the floor. Cole ripped off the safe keys around his neck, then fished out his wallet, password card, and keycards. With a room of devout troopers as witnesses, he entered himself into the database as the State Patrol's commander, and changed all passwords to only ones he knew.
A sense of warming calm slipped through him. The bud of contentment filled his heart with glee, and his face with a smile. It was his, all his to himself, and to command at his will and whim! The other departments would as a matter of course see the writing on the wall, and know where their best hopes lay. How fitting, how deserved and rightful indeed, the eldest son of an alcoholic would climb to command the Pennsylvania State Patrol of his hometown; especially when those he'd counted as allies were really jealous rivals. But now…as he looked around the room…how many of these troopers with him could he really trust? How many were just trying to ride his coattails? Already Cole wondered which of the Corporals, or surviving Sergeants, would be the first to challenge him…
. . .
"How's he doing Canti?"
"Not well. Look." Canti pointed to the images of George's brain displayed on his screen. "Your Uncle has a terrible concussion, along with bleeding in and on his brain. His brain is beginning to swell, and requires surgery immediately."
"We're not set up for that in-depth of an operation here." Rita was thinking of options, any options. She'd already taken care of us, and reset the bones in the trooper's broken foot. But George seemed beyond her power as our EMT to fix. Cutting into her husband's skull, on a metal-dusted steel table covered in four person's blood, in a smoke and gas filled shop, she wasn't up to. "Well, maybe…no, I don't think…ahhh…shit…"
"We can't cut him open here." I needlessly stated the obvious. "He's gotta go to the hospital for that."
"No can do." Johnny shook his head.
"Why not?! He's, he's fuckin' dying Johnny!" Losing another relative, an Uncle right after my Dad, it was too much for me to even entertain the thought. Dad had been far and away, and beyond our power. But George was right there in front of me, his own brain crushing itself against his skull, dying in a way there wasn't a damned thing I could do to stop. It was the helplessness I couldn't stand the most.
"Think for a second. The hospital's bound to be packed to the gills with dead, dying, wounded, and pissed, cops. How understanding would they be if the lot of us just showed up?"
"But we can't just let him die. Canti, isn't there something you can do?" Were we really just going to write George off just as readily as the state trooper a few minutes ago? I didn't think there was anything Canti could do, but I was grasping at straws.
"I'm afraid not. My function is of a technician, not a surgeon. I might do more harm than good."
"Wait a minute!" Shigekuni had a moment of epiphany, then pointed at me. "Where do you take your dogs for checkups?"
"Doctor Heyward's Clinic, this side of Stumptown…why?"
"Would he be open this early on a Saturday, or would he come in for an emergency?"
"Mister Nandaba, you're a goddamn genius." Josh made the call. The office was open, and Doctor Heyward would be making his way in at any moment. We made up a quick story about Piddles: The Wonder Dog having 'an accident at the shop' since he was the largest of the dogs. While Josh phoned, we loaded George onto the stretcher stashed in the office, then across his truck's backseat with Rita, Shigekuni, and Mike. They took off as fast as Mike dared, headed over the smoothest of backroads. With George on his way, I calmed down some and found several new tasks at hand.
"What? I don't get to go to the vet's office too? I've got problems just's much; my foot could get infected!" The whining was coming from the second state trooper. Aside from watching George be moved, his eyes never strayed from my AK's muzzle. It was becoming apparent to me police were unused to having weapons trained on them, rather than on someone they had stopped, and they found it as every bit terrifying, humiliating, and infuriating, as the rest of us. Something about shoes on other feet.
"No, you have another, more important job." Tommy gave up trying to hail Mr. King on the video chat.
"Then what about him?"
"Oh, we'll take care of him." Tommy had a plan in mind. He bade us to carry over a four foot, by four foot, by half inch thick slab of steel that weighed easily a few hundred pounds, and slide it into the shears; just so the blade would only snip the first few inches. "Move his chair next to the shears."
"OW! Hey, watch it!" The trooper's foot seemed to catch on everything as Johnny and Kamon dragged his chair over. Tommy had me roll over one of the welders while he rummaged in the scrap bins; producing two thick metal semi-circle bands. "What the fuck is this shit?! You can't keep me here. You're imprisoning an Officer of The Law!"
"Put out your left arm, straight out, on the plate, with your palm facing the ceiling. Please." It seemed we had an unconscious agreement to just ignore whatever the man said. Tommy made his request politely and waited.
"Or what?" Broken foot and all, this guy was textbook uncooperative. While I disagreed strongly with his politics, it was impossible to deny his defiance.
"Canti, if you would?" Canti grasped the officer's arm in a wriggle-free grip and forced his arm into position. The man struggled, huffed and puffed, turning beet red trying to push back against overwhelming robotic strength. "Palm up, hand flat." Tommy placed the half-rings over the trooper's arm; one just above the elbow joint so he couldn't even bend his arm, and the other at his wrist. The rings didn't fit as tightly as Tommy liked, so he took them to the bandsaw for a quick adjustment. Back, he put on a welding mask and checked that the wire was feeding.
"W-what're you gonna do with that?!"
"Everyone: EYES." We shielded our eyes from the small sun at the welder's arc. Tommy first tacked, adjusted, and then welded the trooper's arm into place so tightly he couldn't even make a fist.
"Yeowchh! That fuckin' burns! Are your trying to light me on fire?!"
"Okay Stormtrooper, here's the skinny." Tommy flipped the shear's breaker on, locked it into place, and gave the shears full power. It started up with its usual ominous moaning and groaning as the hydraulics pressurized. "We've got some errands to run, and can't be bothered dragging your ass with us. But, we can't spare anyone to sit here and babysit either. So, you're gonna veg' out right here with the shears 'till we get back. We'll even roll over the TV for yah. Now, you are free to leave whenever you want. Just push this big green button right here, and you'll be free as a True Nature's Child." Tommy pressed the "Automatic Cycle" button and the shears ker-lunked off a section of the half inch thick plate; just shy of the trooper's fingertips. Tommy, Johnny, and I pushed the trooper and his steel plate further into the shears so now the blade would come down between the metal bands; right onto the middle of the trooper's forearm.
"Wha…I…oh Go…what the fuck?" Wide-eyed, the trooper now focused his attention on the shear's blade.
"If you should decide to leave, then halfway through change your mind…" Tommy hit "Automatic Cycle" and let the blade drop an inch before slapping "Emergency Stop" and resetting the machine. "Just hit the big red button. Is all of this perfectly, crystalline clear?"
"Go fuck yourselves, you buncha terrorist psychos."
"Peace be upon you too, Brother." Tommy patted the trooper on the shoulder and faced us. "Alright, time to get moving. Johnny, start the truck. Rig, grab Shifty and meet me in the office."
. . .
"Good morning Missus Carson, what's the problem with Piddles: The Wonder Dog this morning? I would have expected Jeff to…" Dr. Heyward was almost out of his last bit of sleep as he entered his examination room. What, or rather who, he saw on the table shocked him fully awake. "What in the HELL is the meaning of this?!"
"Doctor Heyward, he has a bad concussion; it's causing bleeding of and on the brain. His brain is beginning to swell. We need you to…" Rita skipped explaining the reason for George's condition, or his attire. He was still wearing his plate carrier with unused AK magazines in its pouches.
"Concussion, blood on brain…" Dr. Heyward moved to the table, beginning his preliminary examination by habit and decades of practice. "May I ask why you're all wearing body armor?"
"We'd rather you didn't." Mike evaded, handing Dr. Heyward printouts of Canti's x-rays. "You can probably guess why we didn't go to the hospital."
"With all the gunfire this morning, I'm assuming it's full to the rafters with police." Heyward put the x-rays on the view panel and swore. "Okay, I'll be honest with you. I make no guarantee I can save him. These are, what, ten minutes old? And they don't look good. That said, I will do my best. But it will be at double the usual rate, and in cash."
"Are you fuckin' nuts?" Mike was aghast. "This's George Carson, you two went to high school together! He's dying and you're worried about money?!"
"I have seven grandkids all living within fifteen minutes drive from here. Do you think the police would hesitate to retaliate against them if they found out I helped you? You forget I was an EMT once upon a time. I know what trauma from a stun grenade at close range looks like. At best, I am looking at losing my license and practice if found out."
"I can't believe you would…" Mike wound up.
"Mike!" Shigekuni broke in. "It's just money. Doctor. How much?"
"Mister Nandaba, don't…"
"G&R Fab's the reason I'm still alive. It's only right I return the favor. How much?"
"One hundred an hour, and two hundred up front."
"Very well." Shigekuni pulled out his wallet and started peeling off bills. "Here's eight hours. What?" Mike and Rita gave him a funny look as he held out a thousand dollars. "I didn't run my bakery as a charity. That, and do you know how much real estate goes for in Japan?"
"Fair enough."
"Thank you very much." Dr. Heyward had seen the bills and that was enough for him. He was looking in George's eyes with a flashlight. "Have Marsha out front put it in my desk. Mary-Jo! Nathan!" He called for his assistants. "We have a swelling brain to relieve. Let's get everything prepped, we need to start five minutes ago!" With a shorthanded staff, Dr. Heyward began operating. Before he made the first cut, he asked if anyone wanted to leave the room. There was no obligation to be present. All elected to stay.
. . .
The State Police station was so covered with headlights and spotlights it lacked any shadow. A ring of regular Patrolmen surrounded a smaller ring of M.C.C. personnel, who in turn, surrounded the building. None of them noticed The Man's arrival. He seemed to have apparated upon the spot straight out of nothing. He announced himself by tapping one of the Sergeants on the shoulder.
"Yeah, whaddyah wa…Sir!" The Sergeant, and everyone in earshot, snapped to rigid attention. "Thank goodness you're here. Maybe you can explain what's going on?"
"To be honest, I was hoping you would, Sergeant Simmons." The Man admitted. He examined the confused scene before him; noting the ten man guard at the front door. "What am I looking at? Please do not spare any details."
"Well Sir, we don't quite know. What we do know is everyone got a recall order to retreat back here; and the other departments the same to their headquarters. Once we arrived, the M.C.C. had already surrounded the place. They aren't letting anyone in or out. We've been hearing a lot of shots inside, but the M.C.C. is claiming they've got it covered."
"Has anyone tried to cross their lines by force?"
"No Sir, not yet anyway. I was the highest ranking when I got here, so I just organized us into this perimeter you're standing in, and have told everyone we are waiting and seeing. There's no sense charging our own guys; especially after this morning."
"You've done well Sergeant. Your patience and organizational skills are commendable."
"Thank you very much, Sir!" Sergeant Simmons beamed with pride. "But now that you're here, do you have any orders?"
"In fact, I do." The Man doffed his long coat, then his suit jacket. He folded both with crisp lines and packed both away into his briefcase. Now the officers in Sergeant Simmon's squad could see the thick leather harness securing a hefty pistol underneath The Man's left arm, a spare magazine pouch under his right arm, and across his back in a draw-down sheath, a large fighting knife.
"Is, is that an Applegate-Fairbairn knife?" Sergeant Simmons recognized the double-edged dagger. "That's illegal to carry, you know…" He reflexively began to inform.
"An Applegate-Fairbairn Combat II model, specifically. And yes, I do know. Are you going to arrest me?" The Man replied with a smirk. Sergeant Simmons stammered an apology that The Man waved away.
"Sergeant, I have orders. Three of them." The Man stared ahead at the front door. The guards there had spotted him in the perimeter line and shifted nervously. "First. Lock this case into one of the MRAP lockers and guard it upon pain of death until my return. Second. Do not fire upon anyone exiting the building, unless they fire on you. I won't be so unreasonable to not allow you self-defense. But I want these M.C.C. men alive. Am I being understood, Sergeant?"
"I will put ten guys on the MRAP, and we have plenty of less-lethal rounds. No more dead cops. What's the third order?" The Man strolled forward, drawing his knife with his left hand and pistol with his right. Sergeant Simmons identified the sidearm as a Coonan Classic 0.357 Magnum; the slab-sided stainless steel slide shone in the spotlights. The Man flipped down the gun's slide safety and rotated his knife's blade into a reversed grip.
"Third. Do not get in my way."
. . .
With authority transferred to him, witnessed by four Sergeants, Cole now sought to inform Chiefs Warburg and Strong of his version of events. Chojnacki had possibly ruined the Sheriff's department against him, but two out of three would be enough. He and the four Sergeants, now promoted on the spot to Lieutenant, were collaborating to 'get their story straight.' The idea was to keep it simple, with as few details as possible to pin them down. Emphasis was to be stressed on accepting the new paradigm, then moving onward with bigger, more important problems. And as long as everyone in the room stuck to their parts, self-limited by design, not even The Man himself would be any wiser.
"Are we all agreed then?" Cole asked his four new officers. Each nodded, committing themselves to Cole's leadership. "Remember, key to pulling this off is sticking to our parts, and moving on. Say what needs to be said and don't let anyone, try to bog you down. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly, Captain."
"Marvelous." Cole didn't feel his head swelling when addressed by his new rank; but it did all the same. Before he could fully adjust to the self-promotion, reality brought him from Cloud Nine smashing back to Earth. A thunderstorm of gunfire erupted at the front of the building, echoing back to him as dull thunks. He and his cohort exited Chojnacki's office, fearing the surrounding troopers had decided to storm the building. It was, as they found, infinitely worse.
"Kauffman! Kauffman! Jesus Christ, he's coming!" A trooper bathed in blood, some his own, most not, staggered into the hall. He dragged the remains of his right leg, the lower half hanging on by the skin of his kneecap. "We're all dead! We're fucked now, he's here!"
"Who, who's coming?!" Cole's soul ran cold. He already knew.
"We couldn't stop him Sir, too fast…too fast…"
"WHO?! Give me a name!"
"Who else?! It's that God-Dammned Devil himself: The Man in Black!"
. . .
I am such a tease, aren't I? We finally get to see The Man in Black show what he's made of...and...now yah gotta wait. Hey, I can't serve an entire seven course meal on one plate. You have to spread things out a little.
Many groups right now are learning valuable lessons; some a little too late. The GR crew is learning that you do not always get to pick the timing of events, and bad events usually happen at the worst of times; never when you are ready or have planned accordingly. The State Police are learning they bleed just like everyone else, and have some serious soul-searching ahead regarding loyalty. Cole is about to learn that Reality does not care one whit about your ambitions, and it will crash your party whenever it feels like it; and again at the worst possible time. How all these disparate groups deal with their challenges will determine if they live to see the end of this tale.
I am trying to avoid the massive 15,000+ word chapters I used to do, so hopefully this latest trio are in more manageable bites; rather than swallowing them whole like Scooby-Doo and a submarine sandwich. Please let me know if the smaller servings are better, what I can do to improve of course, and what you liked; or didn't. Thank you again for reading, it's good to be back!
