ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.

IN THE AFTERMATH OF HELL

CHAPTER SIX

"You wanna stop by Leroy's and grab a beer?" I ask Reed as we toss our gear bags into the backseat of my blue '68 Mustang, the car I'd traded the piece of crap Matador in for earlier this year, after the Matador spent more time in the shop than on the road.

"No," Reed says, shaking his head as he rests his arms on the roof of the car for a moment. "I'd better not. I told Jean I'd be home as soon as I could. She's really upset right now." He opens the car door and climbs into the passenger side. "Which means yet another one of our 'discussions', I fear," he grumbles as he slams the car door shut.

"You sure?" I ask as I climb in on the driver's side. "I'll buy."

"I'm sure," he says, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "I just want to go home, Pete, even though it means hearing the same old argument from Jean, about how my job is dangerous and one of these days I'm gonna get seriously injured or even killed, thus leaving her and our two children without a husband and a father." He sighs a bit. "Our arguments are such reruns now, that I can nearly fight with her in my sleep."

"Yeah, but she shouldn't be upset with you for what happened today," I tell him. "It's all just part of the job, ya know. And she should be glad that you did a lot of good out there, rescuing those people that were trapped by Burnside's gunfire and ultimately bringing him down in the end in a pretty heroic effort on your part."

"Yeah, well, my job has quit having the heroic air about it for her, I'm afraid," he says dryly. He holds his hand up. "And now, if you don't mind, I really don't want to talk about any of this anymore, okay? Not about Burnside, not about my marriage." He sets his mouth into a thin line of disapproval, furrowing his brows as he slouches his lanky frame in the bucket seat, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes shift restlessly about the cream interior of my car, skimming sightlessly across the dashboard's instrument panel, his nervous energy fairly palpable within the confines of the car.

I study him for a moment, his hunched posture and deeply creased frown indicating how today's incident seems to have aged him a hundred years, going from a young man in his late twenties when we first started our shift, to a stooped old gentleman with world-weary eyes, just in the space of a single afternoon. I catch sight of my own similar gaze in the rearview mirror, feeling much like Jim looks right now, weary and wizened beyond my 38 years, the toll of today sitting heavily on my shoulders. "Suit yourself," I say, shrugging, then I turn the key in the ignition, the Mustang's powerful V-8 engine rumbling to life. Wordlessly, I put the car into gear and back up, pulling out of the driveway at the far end of the parking lot so as to avoid the news media camped around the front of the police station. That's a gauntlet that neither of us needs to run now. As I head the car in the direction of Reed's house, the only sound is of the tires gently humming on the white ribbon of road, while the passing streetlights flash past outside, casting shadows into the car. A heavy pall of silence sits upon us and I clear my throat, feeling the need to say at least SOMETHING to break the tension. "You okay?" I ask softly, glancing over at him as we pull up to a red light.

"Am I supposed to be?" he replies acidly. He looks over at me once, his eyes narrowed, daring me to answer, then he turns his gaze to the scenery outside his window as he drums his fingers on the ledge of the door frame. "And what part of 'I don't want to talk about it' don't you understand, Pete?" he asks rather snidely.

"Well, excuuuse me for asking," I tell him tersely. "I'll shut the hell up and not bother you, pal."

"Sounds peachy," he replies sourly. Drawing in a deep breath, he lets it out with a hiss between his clenched teeth, the muscle in his jaw twitching from tension, his sour discontent rolling off of him in a wave of barely suppressed energy. Suddenly he leans forward, flicking on the radio with a sharp twist of his fingers. Static hisses through the speakers as he fiddles with the tuner, and blurts of music and words babble by as he mindlessly spins the dial from one end of the radio to the other, the tuner sweeping past the stations.

The intrusion of the noise into the quiet of the car irritates me, the sound grating on my already-raw nerves. "Look, pick a damned station and stay on it," I tell him grumpily. "That noise is giving me a headache."

"Fine," he huffs, shooting me a glare. He finally tunes into a station and turns up the volume to spite me, settling back into his seat with a slight smirk as the radio blares a commercial for a local used car lot. And in a strange twist of irony, the commercial happens to be for the same car lot that is across the street from Granite Park, the one that the owner didn't wish to leave when we began evacuating the area because of Charlie Burnside.

"Come on down to the AutoZip car lot on the corner of Adamson Avenue and Palmtree Drive, and see what kind of great deals we have on premium used vehicles!" the announcer in the commercial cheerily chirps. "Tug it, tow it, or tell us where your old vehicle is and we'll go get it, automatically giving you two hundred dollars trade-in on it, no matter WHAT kind of shape it's in! Hurry, offer ends September 30th so act now! Tell them Big Eddie sent you!" The commercial ends with a silly little jingle, then the radio announcer starts speaking, apparently picking up where he left off prior to the commercial break.

"This is your KQIC nighttime DJ, Dandy Don Gonzales, and if you've just tuned in to catch Midnight Music Mania, it has been pre-empted in order so that we may take your calls in the studios right now, concerning the violent tragedy that has struck the city of Los Angeles today. We'd like to hear your thoughts and comments on what has happened, so please, call us at 555-4343 and let us know what you're thinking," he intones dramatically, a sharp departure from Dandy Don's usual goofy on-air personality. "I see we already have a listener on the line. Go ahead caller, you're on the air."

"Yes," a woman's voice says tentatively. "Dandy Don, I'd just like to say how sad I feel for the victims of today's awful attack. I can't imagine the terrible heartbreak the survivors and the loved ones of the deceased are dealing with right now. It's like Austin and Atlanta all over again. And do you know what probably sent that sniper over the edge, Dandy Don?"

"I don't know, ma'am, what do you think sent the sniper over the edge?" Dandy Don asks with bored curiosity. "Was it personal stress, a vendetta against the city, or what?"

"He probably wasn't hugged enough," she says firmly, earning a derisive snort from both Jim and I. "I think everyone should be hugged at least once or twice a day, and told that they are very special. I mean, really…if that happened more often, we probably wouldn't have as much violence and crime in the world today, would we? And he probably also didn't have a very healthy diet, either, and that might have led to his decision to begin a killing spree. He most likely ate a lot of junk food and had lots of meals at fast food places like McDonalds, and everyone knows that those types of foods are not nutritious at all. Too many processed sugars and fats, and not enough fresh vegetables and yogurt."

"So…" Dandy Don sounds like he's trying hard to keep from laughing. "Basically what you're saying is that not being hugged enough and eating too many Twinkies and Big Macs had something to do with this man's desire to go up on the roof of a building and start shooting people?"

"Of course!" she replies indignantly. "I'm just sure of it! And if we want to avoid similar attacks in the future, we need to start outlawing such food products like Ho-Ho's and DingDongs, and putting a limit on how often someone can eat at places like McDonald's and In-N-Out Burger. I mean, that's the perfect solution to violence all over the world, Don. Start hugging people every day and get rid of the evil sugars and fats in the food industry, and promote healthy eating for everyone."

"Well, good luck with that, fair listener," Dandy Don chuckles. "I mean, not everyone wants to be hugged by total strangers, and I think you'll have a pretty hard time outlawing Hostess products and McDonald's restaurants, but I sincerely wish you the best in your endeavors to do so." He switches to another caller. "Go ahead, caller, you're on the air. Share with the other listeners what your thoughts are concerning this tragedy."

"Yeah, man," a man's voice drawls in slow stoner fashion. "I agree with that chick just now, she sounds pretty foxy and I wouldn't mind havin' her come hug me a few times. And in addition to going around hugging people, man, she should also start trying to heal the world with some medicinal herbal remedies." He waits a beat. "Like…you know what I mean, man…everyone needs to turn on, tune in, and drop out, 'cuz that's the righteous thing to do. But don't make the Twinkies and the Big Macs illegal, man, 'cuz what else are we gonna eat when we get the munchies?" He begins giggling uncontrollably, evidently having been a victim of his own bad advice.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with these people!" Reed spits angrily, leaning forward and pounding savagely on my dashboard with a clenched fist as he wrenches the knob on the radio, turning it off with a violent click. "I can't even turn on the radio without hearing a buncha idiots yammering on about Burnside's attack!"

"Hey, take it easy on my car, pal!" I yelp, jumping a bit in startlement from his sudden attack on my dashboard. "Don't damage it for me!"

"Damn it, those stupid fucking fools have NO fucking clue what really happened out there today!" he growls, turning on me in a heated fury. "They have no goddamned idea what kind of hellish nightmare we endured at Burnside's hands! And this crap about his attack being caused by not enough hugs or a bad diet, or because he needed to get high…it's just bullshit, pure and utter bullshit, Pete. The ONLY reason Burnside did what he did today was because he was a mean and malicious little fuck, evil pure through to the bone." He doesn't allow me to respond; instead, he continues to rage, gesturing his hands about to punctuate his remarks. "I mean, the world out here doesn't KNOW what the world was like back there on Granite Court. These people will wake up and read about that miserable little prick Burnside in tomorrow's headlines, while they go on about their lives, just the same as they would any other day. While they may be shocked and horrified by his actions, they don't really care what Burnside did, just as long it has no direct impact on them and won't impede or hamper their lifestyles in any way." He folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head. "It's just fucking unreal, and these bozos don't get it."

"Which is why we need to do the news conference tomorrow morning," I tell him. "So that the bozos DO get it, so that they DO understand what we went through today."

"Nuh-uh," he says firmly, still shaking his head. "We quit, remember? So now we don't hafta go through the press conference tomorrow, thank God."

I cast a glance over at him. "We haven't officially quit, Jim, until we tender our written resignations to Val and he approves them. Which I have a feeling he's not gonna do."

"Why?" Reed asks. "Val can't stop us from quitting, can he?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "But he can sure as hell make it difficult for us to do so, Jim. I mean, he's not about to let two of his best officers just walk off the force without putting up some kind of a fight."

"Well, he can fight as much as he damned well wants," Reed says sullenly, settling into the seat with a pout. "I'm quitting the job. And I'm NOT changing my mind, either."

"Whatever happened to that gung-ho kid that damned near got himself killed on his first night out on the job?" I ask, giving him a curious look.

"That gung-ho kid…he's gone, Pete," he says softly, after a moment. "And he's been gone for quite a while now, too, in case you haven't noticed." He looks over at me then, his blue eyes deeply haunted and full of bitter despair. "What in the hell happened to us, Pete?" he asks sadly. "I mean, when I first came on the job, I really loved it and couldn't wait to get to work and see what surprises every shift held, but now…" His voice trails off and he bites his lip as he stares at his hands in his lap. "But now, it's hard for me to even want to put on the uniform anymore, ya know? I just get so sick and tired of seeing the same stupid people, pulling the same fucking shit, over and over again, without ever learning a goddamned thing. It's like we're guppies swimming around in the tidal wave of the cesspool of life. We go nowhere, absolutely nowhere, and what we do never makes a damned bit of difference, it seems." He shrugs, holding his hands out in supplication. "I mean, I'm beginning to wonder why we even bother anymore, Pete. Nothing ever changes, and I don't think it will, either. Stupidity breeds stupidity and apathy breeds apathy." He sighs wearily, shaking his head. "So, to paraphrase the words of the great Simon and Garfunkel, 'where have we gone, Pete Malloy'?"

I am silent, unable to really frame a suitable answer for him, for Reed's comments hit sharply home for me. What he speaks is the unvarnished truth…anymore it seems that we keep dealing with the same stupid people, that keep pulling the same stupid crimes, and they're right back out on the streets within a few hours of their arrests, ready to commit the same crime again, in a never-ending cycle. And the apathetic world could really care less, for ambivalence is easy to come by in today's self-insular society. Why worry about the plight of fellow man, when the emphasis anymore is on the individual? "I dunno, Jim," I tell him quietly, after trying to put my thoughts into words and failing. "I just don't know."

He gives me a thin ghost of a smile, one that has absolutely no humor in it at all. "What's the matter, did the Strawberry Fox's font of wisdom dry up?"

"No, my wisdom's just in short supply right now," I reply.

Reed falls moodily silent, staring with unseeing eyes out the window once more. "Maybe this…" he begins, then stops, clearing his throat. "Maybe by me quitting the force, it will save my marriage," he says, injecting a note of eager optimism into his voice. "I mean, that's been one of Jean's main contentions for a while, the fact that I'm a cop and the job gets in the way of our family life. She uses the knowledge that police work is dangerous and risky against me as a leverage to try to force me into another job that isn't as dangerous and has better pay. Our household budget is stretched pretty thin sometimes, and it's only going to get worse after the new baby is born." His fingers stray to the spot where his wedding band usually sits and he begins to rub his ring finger in a gesture of nervousness. "So now I'll get job doing something else, something that she approves of, and maybe she won't leave me, huh?" He gives me a hopeful look.

"Maybe," I tell him noncommittally, trying to keep the traces of doubt out of my voice so I don't tread on his thin thread of faith, something I am sorely lacking in at this point in time.

He reads my mind with a sour grimace. "You don't think it will, do you, Pete?" he asks with dismay. "You don't think my quitting the force will save my marriage, do you?"

I shrug. "I dunno," I tell him. "If Jean's already got the divorce papers drawn up, Jim, I think she's pretty serious about going through with it." I glance over at him in sympathy. "I mean, I just don't want you getting your hopes up, you know?"

"Hah," he barks humorlessly. "Don't you know, Pete? There IS no longer any hope in the world. It has no place anymore among the outright greed and cruel selfishness that runs rampant in today's society. Faith and hope have become plodding dinosaurs that will soon cease to exist in the modern world, being replaced by the hate and apathy that seems poised to take over."

"That's a pretty cynical outlook on life to take, Jim," I caution him, slightly surprised by his bitter take on life.

"You got any better one to offer me?" he challenges.

"No," I sigh. "Not really."

He watches me for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Besides, you're one to talk, Pete. You've got the same kind of outlook on life yourself, and you can't tell me any different. You're just as cynical and jaded as I am, if not more."

"Maybe so, but I'm older than you and therefore entitled to it," I tell him evenly.

"Age has nothing to do with it," he says dryly. "It's the life experiences, friend. And right now, this little experience today has definitely made me rethink my outlook on life. It seems any more there is more bad than there is good in the world, and everyone is just out for themselves, not giving a damn about their fellow human beings." He throws me a dark look. "Does the Strawberry Fox have any bits of wisdom about THAT?" he asks snarkily.

"This too shall pass," I tell him. "Something good will eventually come along and change your mind about the state of the world, you'll see. What happened today won't color your outlook forever, trust me. You won't always feel this way, my friend. You WILL see the good in the world again, if not through your eyes, then through the eyes of your children, and your children's children."

"THAT'S your great wisdom?" he barks with a derisive snort. "That this too shall pass? That I won't always feel this shitty forever? I never thought I'd see the day when the Strawberry Fox has fallen back on homey little platitudes to soothe a troubled soul. Platitudes which, I might add, do absolutely NOTHING for me right now." He shakes his head as he regards me with a bitter smile. "Christ, pull back the curtains and expose the great Oz for the sad little fraud he truly is."

"What the hell do you want me to say?" I snap in needled frustration. "It's been a long fucking day and I'm tired, damn it. I mean, if you wanna take that kind of pissy outlook for the rest of your life, then fine, go ahead and take it. See if I give a damn."

"Why not?" he asks. "You have a pissy outlook on life yourself, so where do you get off chastising me about having the same kind of attitude as you? Didja ever think that maybe your sour viewpoint of the world has rubbed off on me and made me this way?"

I shoot him a dark scowl. "Oh no. You ain't layin' the blame for your poor outlook on life at MY feet, pal. You're a free man, Reed, and you're supposed to be able to form your own opinions without my input. If you've somehow adopted my viewpoint, then it isn't my fault. I didn't tell you that you had to think like I do, nor do I expect you to. And I can't say that I really appreciate you painting me as some sort of misguided misanthrope that doesn't believe there's any hope for the world. I may be cynical and jaded, but not I'm not THAT cynical and jaded."

He starts to open his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it, closing his mouth with a snap and falling silent in the seat, staring out the windshield of the car as he grits his teeth. After a moment, he speaks. "This press conference tomorrow," he says tonelessly. "I'm not doing it, Pete."

"Look," I sigh, preparing to sally forth into another battlefield. "I don't want to do it, either, but we almost have to. The brass expects us to, and so does the public. And like Val said, once the furor has died down, we can get back to our normal lives."

"Shit, Pete, there IS no more normal for us anymore, don't you realize that? From here on out, no matter what else we do in our lives, we'll always be known as the guys who got Charlie Burnside," he says acidly. He drums his fingers on the window ledge nervously. "No," he says in a flat voice, shaking his head and grimacing. "I'm just not going to show up for it. I'll call Val in the morning and plead sickness or something. He'll understand, I'm sure."

I look over at him with a frown. "That's kind of taking the coward's way out of a problem, isn't it, Jim? You're usually not one to shirk a responsibility, after all, no matter how odious it may be."

"Oh, and you think it's gonna be so goddamned great to get up in front of those news reporters tomorrow and shill for them, giving them the song and dance that the brass tells you to give them?" he asks, whipping to face me in the seat in sudden rage, his blue eyes flashing angrily. "I mean, this is great. It's just fan-fucking-tastic. My partner is willing to get up and milk the title of hero, just for his fifteen minutes of fame and glory. What a goddamned sellout you are, Pete. Next thing you know, you'll be signing book deals and weighing movie options to portray your heroic deeds."

Anger of my own rises quickly within me at his unfair and untruthful accusation. "Now wait just a goddamned minute here, Reed," I snap back defensively. "I'm not playing hero for the news conference tomorrow. I just think that in order for the citizens to fully grasp the horror of what has happened today, they need to hear it from those that experienced it firsthand. And besides, weren't YOU the one who just minutes ago was bemoaning the fact that the 'bozos' didn't GET the enormity of what happened this afternoon?"

"Yeah, but to trot out our gory war story, just for public consumption?" he asks in disbelief. "I could see someone like Ed Wells riding this for all it was worth, but not you, Pete. I never had you pegged as the type who'd enjoy being hailed as a hero."

"Look, our 'gory war story', as you so succinctly put it, is gonna come out in the press anyway, whether we want it to or not," I tell him sharply. "You know just as well as I do that the details and the information regarding the case will eventually be made public."

"Yeah, but that won't be until maybe a year or so down the road, after the investigation is complete," he says. "And by that time, the public will have forgotten and moved on."

"But is that what you want them to do?" I ask. "Just forget about what gruesome hell and horror happened out there on Granite Court and move on? I mean, that's like telling the victims' families and the survivors of the attack that what they experienced today is inconsequential, that nobody really gives a damn what happened to them, and everyone should just forget all about it and get on with their lives. You're downplaying the suffering and the heartache that's left in the wake of this situation, and that's not right. You're doing a severe injustice to the tragedy and the all horror that occurred out there today, and you're not allowing the survivors and the victims' families speak out in their own voices and relate their experiences and emotions. And without doing that, healing will never start to happen so that maybe people CAN move on with their lives, however shattered and heartbroken they may be right now."

"Damn it, that's not what I mean and you know it!" he decries, throwing his hands up in the air. "I…you…ah…I…" he sputters fitfully, clearly at a loss for words to describe what he means. He angrily punches the dashboard with a fist. "Damn it, stop the car, Pete!" he growls.

"Why, are you getting sick or something?" I ask warily, not wanting to clean Reed's puke from inside of my baby.

"JUST STOP THE GODDAMNED CAR!" he explodes in red-faced fury.

"FINE!" I yell back, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I'm clear of traffic in the other lane before I quickly yank the steering wheel to the right and jerk the Mustang to a screeching halt at the nearby curb. "There, the goddamned car is stopped!" I snarl. "Happy now?"

"I WILL be, once I get out and away from you, damn it!" he snaps, yanking the door open with a jerk and hopping out. Shoving the bucket seat forward with a violent thunk, he grabs his gear bag out of the backseat of the car.

"So whaddaya gonna do, walk the rest of the way home?" I ask snarkily. "You've still got a good six blocks to go, pal."

He doesn't answer me as he slings the gear bag over his shoulder and starts to shut the car door. Then he hesitates, leaning into the compartment to glower at me, his rage coloring his face a maroon hue in the street light overhead. "Let's get one thing straight, Malloy," he says in a menacing tone, jabbing a finger at me, his blue eyes snapping fire. "I'm not attending that news conference tomorrow and that's final. If you wanna go and spill your guts about the horrible experience just to satisfy the public's morbid curiosity, then go right ahead and play hero for them. But just make sure the cameras get your good side, and by that little comment, I mean your ass." He hesitates for a moment, his anger still blazing high. "And furthermore, as far as I'm concerned, you can fucking go to hell, Malloy, and take everyone else with you!" He steps back then, slamming the car door hard enough to make the Mustang rock on its wheels. Turning away, he begins to stride down the quiet neighborhood street, the nearby houses blank-faced and dark, the sidewalk stretching out before him like a pale ghostly ribbon as he marches resolutely towards his house with his head down, the gear bag slung over his shoulder.

For a moment, I sit there at the curb, watching him lope homeward, then I angrily shove the car into gear and pull away with a squeal of the tires. As I pass him, he doesn't look over at me, nor do I look over at him, my anger at him diminished only slightly by the fact that he's no longer in the car with me. I cast him a just cursory glance in the rearview mirror, my eyes flicking to the lone figure of my partner and friend that grows steadily smaller behind me, then I turn the corner, heading the Mustang in the direction of my apartment. I know in my heart that his anger at me is displaced, stemming from his shock of today's event and his unvented feelings of rage towards Charlie Burnside. But still, that doesn't make me want to be his whipping boy, even if that means I'm not being a very good friend to him right now. Shaking my head, I reach over and turn on the radio, twiddling aimlessly with the dial until I finally pull in a station that is playing music instead of discussing the sniper killings. 'The Wind Cries Mary', an old Jimi Hendrix song is playing, and I listen to it, letting the lyrics wash over me in a soothing balm to ease my troubled soul.

The song ends then, and several commercials follow before the DJ returns to the air. "This is your overnight groove channel KQRC102.9, with your DJ Rockin' Randy in the studio to take your song dedications for the victims of today's tragic shooting in Los Angeles. Our lines are open, so if you have a song you'd like to dedicate to those affected by today's tragedy, please, give us a call at 555-9000. Up next we have a rockin' block of Don McLean's 'American Pie', Led Zep's 'Stairway To Heaven', The Beatles' 'Yesterday', and Head East's 'Never Been Any Reason'. So stay tuned and…"

Sighing, I reach over and turn the radio back off, for I'm not in the mood to hear any songs dedicated to the victims of Charlie Burnside's massacre. My tired brain focusing only on one thing…home…I drive the rest of the way back to my apartment in silence, the thrumming of the tires on the pavement soothing me a bit, easing my troubled mind from the thoughts that swirl and eddy about in my brain like a twisting tornado.

For I know that while our hell out on Granite Court is now physically over for the two of us, the dark mental hell and torment we are facing is only just beginning, making me truly worry about the sanctity and the well-being of not only our minds, but our souls as well. I can only hope that both Jim Reed and I are strong enough of our hearts and our minds, the two of us possessing the ironclad courage and the unshakeable faith to get us through this ordeal, enduring the aftermath the only way we can…one day at a time, and with the support of each other.