by Mike Arsuaga
“Very impressive, have you fired the damn thing yet?” That question would engage him for a while.
Twenty minutes later and halfway through a dissertation on the grain count of the Magnum’s ammunition, a light went on in the storefront of a unit. A door opened. A person exited, talking on a cell phone.
Mike started to go.
“Wait,” Lorna said. “Let’s see what’s up.”
A set of headlights belonging to an eighteen-wheeler flashed at the intersection behind them. The tractor-trailer rounded the corner. Morning rush hour, what there was in these lean times, didn’t crank up for another hour, making the large vehicle stand out in the sparse traffic. It turned into the storage facility, stopping in front of the illuminated unit. From inside, someone raised a jointed metal door, flooding the paved area in front with light. Six or eight people swarmed around. One of them opened the back door of the trailer.
“That’s a refrigerated unit,” Mike said.
After forming a single line, the group passed white Styrofoam boxes from one to the other and into the open rear.
“Time to call in the Marines.”
“Slow as that asshole Gregg is, by the time they get here, the truck will be gone. We need to stall them.” Mike itched to try out the new 44 Magnum.
Lorna assessed the situation. “No, we wait. I’ll make the call for SWAT. Get your Kevlar on.”
Another twenty minutes found them still waiting.
The crew sealed the truck. In minutes, they’d be barreling toward the expressway. No matter, since she’d called in the license number.
“If that truck leavers, we’re giving up a big collar,” Mike said.
“Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of credit to go around.” She hoped the Highway Patrol was waiting at the on ramp.
The large vehicle turned out of the entrance and moved away, shrinking to an arrangement of faded garnet lights hanging in the half-lit misty dawn. Then, from the other direction, a pair of headlights grew into a black panel van that pulled alongside Lorna and Mike. A side door whooshed open. An officer in dark body armor poked his head out.
“We have another unit going to block off the entrance on the other side,” he said. “We’ll cover this one. Is there any other way out?”
“Not according to the city plans,” Lorna said.
A distant whooping siren sound told Lorna the Highway Patrol had moved in on the truck. She cinched up a final strap on her vest.
“Here, let me,” she said to Mike, who had trouble with his. After a few quick pulls, the nylon covered vest snugged against his chest and back with the protective panels meeting at each side.
“Just like old times, eh, Princess?” he muttered to her under his breath. There was no mistaking the smell of adrenaline coursing through him. His hand caressed the grip of the .44.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Ready?” The Officer in Charge of the S.W.A.T. detail asked, and then tilted his head to one side, muttering orders into a microphone clipped to a collar. Almost immediately, a police car whipped around the corner and skidded to a stop, blocking the entrance of the storage units.
“Are you aware there are lycans and possibly vampires involved?” Lorna asked as they jogged over. For her, the pace hardly raised her heartbeat, but the others showed reddened faces.
The S.W.A.T. leader nodded yes between labored breaths.
They arrived at the entrance. In the quiet, ten sets of lungs exchanged air. Teams of three peeled off to cover escape routes within the facility. Lorna and Mike, with the Team Leader in tow, headed for the illuminated unit. The crew, who’d loaded the truck, scattered when the police cruiser arrived at the entrance. Lorna heard the rapid beating of their feet on the pavement abruptly stopping when they ran into police teams coming from the other entrance. She warmed with satisfaction at the sound of felons hitting the ground. The barked directions of the boys in blue filled the air. Then, someone inside the unit killed the lights.
“There are at least four inside,” the Team Leader whispered, pointing at the darkened storage unit. “We have the entrance and back exit covered.”
Lorna sniffed the air. “Two are lycans. I’m going to try to talk them out.”
“With all due respect, lieutenant, those woofers aren’t going to listen to anything humans have to say. If they can’t escape, they’ll go down, and take as many of us as they can.”
Mike cringed in anticipation of Lorna’s reaction to the “W” word, but she only smiled. “Sergeant, I have some experience with woofers.” She unstrapped her fire arm.
Stepping to the entrance with hands raised, she shouted into the dark, “It doesn’t have to end like this! No one has to die today!”
From inside, the sounds of tense breathing, accompanied by nervous scurries dribbled out. Their fear built toward terror. By now, enough daylight entered the storage unit to outline the shapes of five or six steel dissecting tables. Blood lay in thickening pools on the floor around each one. Cutting tools were arranged on the tables or hung in neat rows on pegboard. Slowly, from the aggregate of metal, a form raised upright.
“You’re lycan,” a voice said from inside.
“So are you,” Lorna answered the female crouched ahead in the semi-light of the storage unit. “Lay down your weapons. Let’s end this peacefully.”
Lorna alerted at the sound of ripping metal. The team at the back battered down the service door of the fire exit. The first officer through met the business end of a shot gun blast at point blank range that flung him into the next one.
“Let ‘em have it!” the Team Leader shouted through the microphone. To escape the line of fire, Lorna dropped to the ground. The hammering cacophony of automatic weapons’ fire eclipsed every other sound, even the buzz inside of everyone’s head that doesn’t stop until you die. Bullets ripped through the steel tables, pushing them around in jerking movements. The male lycan bounded over the disintegrating furniture, returning to human form when he landed on Lorna.
Turning her over to face him, he snarled. “Traitorous bitch!”
In human form, she nowhere matched his strength, and she couldn’t morph while wearing the damned protective vest. Staring up at the powder-white, square-jawed face, more peril faced her than any time in a decade or more. The glaring blue eyes opened as widely as could be. The black line around each, whether natural or eyeliner, presented an image of enraged insanity. A gold ring, anchored to the sliver of skin separating his nostrils, dangled inches above.
In another instant, he’d morph and rip out her throat. Pulse racing, she prepared to meet death when from the right, a single gunshot thundered out above the rest. Her superior eyesight separated the sequence that happened next. A whistling object struck the lycan’s temple with a thud, erupting out the other side of his head in a splash of blood and brains. The impact knocked him off Lorna, flinging the corpse across the pavement through the splatter.
Lorna stood up, dusting off. Seconds after the lifesaving shot, the firefight ended. Later, she learned that the cop out back would live, but lose an eye. Everyone in the storage unit was dead.
Looking around, trying to figure who’d rescued her, she lingered on a crowd gathered around someone located about where the shot would have originated. Sticking out from the circle of people, lying flat on the pavement, a familiar pair of blousy pants legs ended in worn brown shoes.
Her heart leapt into her throat. “Oh, no.”
In an instant, she shouldered her way to his side. Mike lay flat, a pool of blood growing out around him. “He took one in the side,” muttered the Team Leader in her ear. “I think it got a lung. Help’s on the way.”
Lorna squatted next to Mike. His eyelids fluttered in recognition. “You saved my ass.” She choked back tears.
Mike grimaced. “I guess just goes to prove lycans can’t take lead in their diet any better than we can.” A dribble of blood materialized at the corner of his mouth when he coughed.
�
�How’d you let your side be exposed?” she asked. The side of the torso presented the most vulnerable part of the type vest OPD wore. Techniques to minimize exposure were a prominent part of required training. Following correct procedure minimized chances of an accident.
His answer came back. “Just wasn’t paying attention. I probably saw a chance to get a peek at your crotch and paid the price.” The wise assed answer caused shock all around.
Ignoring the awkwardness Mike’s remark caused, Lorna surveyed the scene from where the lycan pinned her, then back to him. In a second, she understood what had happened. Mike did what policy recommended against. Upon turning to get off the shot to nail Lorna’s assailant, he exposed his side to the path of fire from both directions. A shot coming from inside got him.
His hand seemed frailer than she remembered it being from their time together, and a lot colder. “You damn, loveable fool,” she said. “You didn’t have to risk your life. I would’ve been okay.”
Coughing again, more weakly this time, he sucked air in through the hole in his side. Fighting for breath, his eyes widened. In the distance, a whooping siren announced the approach of the emergency vehicle. An alert uniform covered the bullet hole, allowing Mike to breathe normally. Catching his breath, Mike focused on Lorna. “At your funeral, how would I explain to your new boyfriend what happened to you?”
“Boyfriend? You know better than that. A weekend of pounding headboards does not a relationship make.” She did her best to sound cheerful and witty, even as tears made a straight trickle down each cheek.
“Listen to me.” Mike mustered as much passion in his tone as a collapsed lung allowed. “Don’t give up on the guy too quick. I’ve known you for almost twenty-five years, and I never saw you as happy as you were when you came back from being with him. Not any time. Even when we were together. Not ever.”
The EMTs arrived and took over.
With reluctance, Lorna stepped away.
* * * *
At the hospital, the surgery staff operated the same night. Every day, she visited him. By the third day, he sat up in bed, cracking jokes with the nurses. On the fourth day, while she worked a case file at her desk, a shadow fell across the green blotter. Above, the face of a deliveryman hovered.
“Lorna Winters?”
“You’re speaking to her.”
Without ceremony, he presented a small, oblong gift-wrapped package. The paper and bow were white, interlaced with silver and gold, all high quality. An engraved card accompanied the small box.
The card bore her name written in a small, precise handwriting. Slitting the envelope open with a fingernail, she pulled out a scented note and read:
Dear Lieutenant Winters,
Please accept the enclosed expression of our thanks for your help in retrieving documents so precious to us. Although we have never met, I feel we know each other well.
Sincerely,
Samantha White
All the way from Mars! Well, not exactly. A trip to Mars took up to two months, but the Internet traveled at the speed of light. Correspondence between the planets was a lot cheaper than personal appearances, taking minutes, even with facsimile signatures.
Lorna took off the wrapping paper. Rather than tear into it, she undid the tape holding the folds together in order not to cause damage. Eventually, the rich paper lay in a single sheet on the desk top, spread out underneath a small, blue, felt box. The Tiffany logo first caught her eye, generating an expectant flutter in her chest. Threatening to snap shut and pinch her fingers at any time, the strongly-hinged lid opened with difficulty. Resting in padding overlaid by stretched pale-blue silk, a diamond tennis bracelet shimmered and sparkled. Inside, she found another note, recognizing Ed’s handwriting the second she opened it. Her heart skipped another beat as she read:
There are no diamonds on Mars. These are the best we could find. I hope you enjoy wearing them, but remember that they are nothing compared to you. With your help, I promise to have more fun.
Ed.
Closing the box, she got warm and mushy inside. A wide smile lit up her face while she eased back in her chair to enjoy the moment. At about the same time, Captain Gregg showed up in her doorway. From his expression, the purpose of the visit boded nothing good.
“It’s Mike,” he said.
Lorna snapped out of her reverie. “What’s the matter?” she asked, dreading the answer. Her stare locked him in crosshairs.
“He’s taken a turn for the worse. I don’t have any more details. Perhaps one of us should go see.” Gregg avoided her eyes. “You’re his old partner.”
Pretty much what she expected from the good captain. Lorna stuffed the small blue box and its contents into a side pocket. With coat and bag in hand, she headed on her way.
Mike had contracted Hospital Crud, or just Crud, a staph infection to make MRSA seem like a cold. In the century-and-a-half since antibiotics had come into general use, their over-application had created families of resistant bacteria. Crud was the worst. Any lapse in cleanliness or disinfectant protocols provided the conditions for it to sweep through patients whose immune systems were already weak. A worldwide scourge, the contagion showed no sign of abating. Lorna recalled reading an article about how in medieval times, people viewed hospitals as places to go to die. Over the last fifty years, the perception had made a hardy comeback.
When Lorna arrived, they issued her a mask. A lycan’s physical constitution provides immunity, but to prove it required filling out complicated liability releases. They led her to a room sealed off from the others. After passing through an airlock, she arrived. Mike lay in a small, wheeled bed, hooked to I.V. s and monitors.
“We’re trying our best,” the harried nurse in attendance told Lorna. There were eight other patients, including a newborn.
Lorna wondered how short-sighted humans were to get themselves into such a mess.
“Hello, Princess.” Mike made a weak attempt to rise, but she waved him back. The monitors beeped, made occasional grinding noises, at times displaying numbers. His vital signs seemed pretty good for a mid-fifties human who never learned the meaning of the words “healthy lifestyle”. When they were together, everyone had called him a cradle robber, especially the last year or so. It had happened so often, she had to remind herself how few years separated them.
“Hello, yourself,” she answered, forcing a smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Still with my hands.” He chuckled weakly at the joke he’d made.
Lorna pulled a chair to his bedside and sat, cradling his fingers. A needle that struck Lorna being more at home on a commercial quilting machine, punched into a vein on the back of his hand. Clear tape held the IV in place. “I got more holes in me than Swiss cheese,” he commented. “What’s up at work? How’s the investigation on the evidence room break-in going?”
“A complete dead end. The afternoon clerk disappeared. Cleaned out her apartment, bank account—everything. Circumstantial evidence points to her, but there’s no clue as to who she works for.” Then her face brightened as she continued, “Our little raid opened up a huge can of worms full of bad guys. They’ve been making arrests all over the state, as far away as New Orleans. They uncovered a region wide network, selling organs overseas, especially in China.”
Mike snickered. “That’s rich, lycans carving up humans without eating them.”
“Watch Commander Bell says we made the department’s biggest bust in twenty years. He’s talking about awards in addition to spot promotions for everyone involved.”
“Yeah, if I live long enough. Hospital Crud’s got me by the balls.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re fine,” she said with more optimism than she felt. The infection was a treacherous foe. No one who had it counted themselves safe until blood tests declared them bacteria free.
With a feeble grasp, he drew her close. “I know I’m done.” When she tried to argue, he shushed her and resumed. “This stuff never lets old farts like me ge
t out of jail free.”
“Your signs look good.”
Grinning without enthusiasm, he said, “Don’t believe all you see. The drugs I’m getting aren’t curing fast enough. They’ve arrested the Crud, but that’s all. The treatment is as bad as the disease and if they run short, being the oldest in here puts me sucking hind tit on the priority.” He nodded toward the baby. “He rates it more than me anyway.”
“They can’t just cut you off.”
“They can and they will. Come hell or high water, my treatment ends in twenty-four hours.”
“It’s not going to happen.” Lorna took out her cell phone. “I’m calling someone who might help.”
“Edward White,” a voice answered.
“Ed, it’s Lorna. I need your help.”
After explaining Mike’s situation, as well as his involvement with saving the documents, Lorna asked, “Can you transfer him to a corporation facility? They’re going to let him die here.”
“I’ll have someone there in two hours.”
After the call finished, Mike relaxed in anticipation of corporation, instead of government, medical care. Lorna hoped Ed’s help had arrived in time. A few minutes of silence passed between them. Then Mike said, “If things don’t work out, and I take the old dirt nap, promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Reconcile with your parents.”
“What do you mean? They’ve been dead for thirty years.”
“No, they still live here.” Raising a trembling hand, he pointed to her heart. “They’re still in there. Because of that, unresolved resentments are eating away at you every day. What I’m saying is to reach in and forgive them. Forgive them because when you do, you also forgive yourself. Then you’ll find peace. Trust me, I know.”
The effort of holding his hand aloft proved too much. Slowly, it sank back onto the bed.
An hour later, corporation personnel transferred him to a facility outside of Tampa. Holding his hand all the way to the ambulance, she discovered there was no room for her. “Catch me tomorrow, Princess,” he said, just before they applied the oxygen mask.