It Sometimes Snows In May: A B.E.A.N. Police Novella

by Tope Oluwole

  “Look,” Zota interrupts. “Like all women, she’s got to flex her muscles to feel she’s got some sense of control over her man. So, I let her flex. She makes a fuss, then I give her something to take her mind off it.”

  “What happens when she gets tired of flexin’?” Ryles asks.

  Zota look at Ryles with a confused expression. The sports car roar on. Suddenly the rear tire explodes. Zota yells. Ryles reaches for her pistol. The car shudders, buckles, and then begins to spin out of control to the right side of the road. Zota attempts to steer into the skid, but overcompensates. The car flips violently off the side of the road and down the hill, next to a sign that reads, ISPARI 5 KM.

  The car continues tumbling down for about ten seconds before coming to a rest, upside down. The wheels are still spinning, and the once whining powerplant, now lay dead silent, bellowing smoke. Glass, liquids, and metal debris strewn the crash site.

  A sedan pulls up short of where the sports car tumbled off the road. A shadowed woman is driving. The moonlight reveals a man in the passenger seat, with a thick build dressed in a suit.

  Caben shakes his head as he studies the wreckage. “Check? Check what? They’ve had it. The car must have flipped over twenty-seven times. He makes a repeated looping gesture with his index finger.

  Bux replies, “Remember what happened to the last two agents that didn’t check if the targets were actually terminated?”

  Caben hisses. “Damn! Why do I have to be the one to check?” He rushes out of the sedan, slamming the passenger door behind him.

  “Because I rigged the explosive, and I will have the job of making this look like an accident...once you make sure the targets are terminated.”

  Caben pulls out a pistol with a silencer, and then a flashlight. Following the trail of debris, descends to the crash site.

  Bux calls out of the sedan, “Call me on the comm when you’ve cleared the site.” She grins to herself.

  “Okay,” Caben replies.

  Chunks of aluminum and fiberglass leads Caben down the slope littered with broken branches and upturned dirt. He swats away golf-ball-sized night insects with his flashlight, and uses the barrel of his pistol to push some thorn laced branches out of his view. Caben hears the his of the powerplant get louder as he approaches, before seeing the crumpled car. “Daaaam!” Caben says. His smooth face wrinkles into worry.

  “Are the targets dead?” Bux asks over her connection with Caben.

  “If they’re not, I’m going to start going to church,” Caben replies. Caben creeps to the left side of the car, where he sees a bloodied head belonging to a man dangling, but still buckled into the driver’s seat. He jabs the body hard a few times with his pistol.

  “One down...one to go,” Caben says. He tries to see past the driver, but his flashlight fades out. Caben shakes his head. He struggles his way to the other side of the car. It’s low enough that Caben takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and lays it on the ground, then places his knee on it, while peering through the branches partially obscuring his view.

  The passenger side is empty. Caben scrambles to his feet, and spins around, looking in all directions. Down on the ground he sees shoe prints leading away from the wreck. In the distance Caben hears rustling in the woods to his left. He runs towards the woods.

  “What’s going on?” Bux says. “You’re breathing heavily.”

  “We’ve got a live one,” Caben replies. “I’m tracking...now.” Through the broken path Caben chases through the trees and shrubbery until he passes through a cluster of trees into a clearing. Caben spies a stumbling figure about twenty meters in front of him. Beyond he can hear the rustling of a stream.

  “I’m glad I checked,” Caben whispers. He then takes a kneeling firing position, shuts an eye, and then fires three shots, his leading arm steady. After the third shot, A scream echoes back towards Caben. The body plunges into the stream.

  “Status?” Bux asks.

  Caben wipes the sweat off his brow, and then swats at the back of his neck, in response to the buzzing at his right ear. “It’s done.”

  A hover-shuttle races towards the gate on the Ispari side of the demilitarized zone, the sun beaming off its solar cell-lined hull. Black smoke puffs from the left of its twin drives as it burns. A frantic female pilot struggles with the hover-shuttle controls. Next to her is her dead, male co-pilot. Three passengers pull at her chair while screaming at her and each other.

  “M’aider! M’aider! This is hotel-sierra-one-six-six-tango, requesting emergency support! We are under attack! I repeat, we are under attack!” The pilot screams.

  On the ground below a band of five bandits, garbed in a patchwork of ripped beige clothing, fire heavy rifles up at the plummeting hover-shuttle. As the hover-shuttle continues to dive, the bandits mount all-terrain vehicles and pursue it.

  “M’aider! New Mass DMZ Tower! We’re losing altitude! Request clearance for emergency landing!” The pilot says.

  Two bandits race over a dune in their ATVs, followed by a larger vehicle with one driver, and three passengers. Two of the passengers aim surface-to-air weapons skyward. The bottom of the hover-shuttle comes into view, about thirty meters up. Racing and gaining, the larger ATV’s passengers fire magnetic grapple lines.

  Inside the hover-shuttle, the pilot flinches at the sound of two loud metallic thunks and the cabin floor shudders. “What was that? What was that?” a passengers yells.

  “I don’t want to die. Today is payday. Don’t want to die on pay day,” a second passenger says.

  “Merde!” The pilot blurts out. “Calm down sir! We’re NOT going to die!”

  “But we’re still going to crash!” the first passenger responses.

  “We are about to be boarded!” the pilot says. “Everyone assume protective positions!” The pilot engages the autopilot, which then reads, “ENGAGED”. The pilot then unbuckles her harness, opens a compartment behind the cockpit, and pulls out a flare gun.

  A slim figure with jaggedly cut, wisps of hair limps through an underground bazaar of daiswright market sellers, bureau-de-changes, and excreta impoverished citizens.

  The figure weaves down a tunneled alley of concrete with dim, green overhead lighting. At the end of the corridor are twin large men of mixed ethnicity, armed with auto-rifles, and an assortment of exotic knives of various shapes and lengths

  Before reaching the end of the corridor, the figure slowly raises both her hands and stops before the men.

  “They’re waiting for me. I am..” Ryles began.

  “We will tell you who you are supposed to be, and if you are not, you will never find out if we were wrong,” The heavy man on Ryles left says.

  His twin on Ryles’ right comes across her face with a scanner beam coming from a lens in his left palm. “You look like refuse, but lack the inferiority complex of excretas, and most daiswrights for that matter. Although, you certainly smell like one,” he says. With a flip of his hand back-and-forth, Ryles image compresses into an icon of a lighting bolt on the display on the back of his palm. Seconds later, the heavy receives a sent confirmation on the display.

  “You should see the other guy?” Ryles responds.

  The second heavy frisks Ryles thoroughly, and pulls out three throwing knives in plain sight. “I figured I’d save you guys the trouble. The palm of the first heavy beeps. He reads the display on the front of his palm, and then a blue light flashes in his earlobe. Ryles forces a grin when they make eye contact.

  “Enter, Ryles.” The first heavy waves her forward. A thick, metal door slides open and a moving path begins to pull Ryles down a corridor of concrete, lined with scanners. At the end of the corridor, is yet another heavy, identical to the two outside. He waves her politely through another sliding door revealing an elevator.

  The third heavy enters behind Ryles and immediately the elevator glides downward. After about a minute, the door on the opposite side from the direction Ryles entered, slides open with hiss.

 
Ryles recoils as she is greeted by a grated path of flames, ahead of a foyer. “This is new,” Ryles says. The third heavy waves Ryles ahead. “You turn down the heat, and I’ll be happy to take the lead.” The third heavy shoves Ryles out of the elevator. Ryles, sees the flames recede into the grating as she stumbles over the first few grates. When she hears the elevator door hiss closed behind her, she turns around, then looks about her surroundings. “Thanks,” Ryles says.

  At the clearing ahead is a throne room of concrete. In the center of the room is a robust man in a hover-chair, wearing a peach tunic. He is backing Ryles and addressing three robed figures in stone and metal thrones on net-paper, while the woman directly in front of him concentrates her gazes intensely.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Ryles says.

  The man on the throne to the left of the woman raises his head from the man in the hover-chair. “Silence!” Third-Thirty booms.

  Ryles opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Second-Thirty, on the throne to the left turns his attention on Ryles. Thank you Third-Thirty. After all, a daiswright ought to know her place. Director of Protocol (DOP), please receive it at your leisure.

  After moments of scribbling, Director of Protocol swivels around and hovers in front of Ryles. He taps on his net-paper. “Permission to end this session, and begin to receive company, First-Thirty!” Director of Protocol hails.

  The woman in the center throne is garbed in a gold embroidered tunic, with matching headdress. She gazes down at Ryles, her eyes a vacant black abyss. Ryles still hasn’t gotten used to the sensation of wanting to vomit when making eyes contact with any of the Triad. “Permission...granted. Proceed with receiving new company,” the First Thirty replies.

  The Director of Protocol looks down at the net-paper. “First-Thirty, I..I show no guest on the schedule for today.”

  “I know. She’s tardy by exactly forty-eight hours, twenty-two minutes,” Third-Thirty replies. “What is that Ryles?” Ryles attempts to respond, but no sound comes out of her mouth. Third-Thirty rolls his eyes. “Speak!” He flicks his fingers.

  “I’m trying!” Ryles blurts out. Oh...better. I know I’m late, but I have what you asked for.”

  “You will address the excellencies from the circle.” Director of Protocol hovers back towards the front of the throne room, while pointing to a raised, metal circle embedded in the concrete where he just left. Ryles limps into the circle about a meter in diameter.

  “It seems, Ryles, that you have forgotten your place. Has it really been that long? The contract is clear, the seller must appear at the appointed time. No earlier, and no later. This would classify as later don’t you think?” First-Thirty says.

  “Yeah, I’m late,” Ryles continues. “The seller and I had some trouble on the way here, but I have the ware.”

  “Unfortunately, per the terms of the contract the seller automatically forfeits twenty percent. I am sure you’ll communicate that, in the event there is any dispute.”

  Ryles lowers her eyes in annoyance, and pulls the band on her wrist off. It’s straighten out, and she passes it to Director of Protocol. He in turns inserts it into a slot in his hover chair. A screen materializes downward from the ceiling and icons and text begin to scroll by, first indicating a virus scan, and then a integrity scan. Ryles watches the duration icon fills in and the processing continues. About a two-thirds of the way through, “MEDIA ERROR” appears on the screen. Ryles swears under her breath.

  “We are displeased,” Thirty-Third says.

  “Probably just some dust on the reader,” Ryles says. “Just a..a...technical speed bump, I’m sure.”

  “I will attempt to correct the...technical speed bump, as you call it,” Director of Protocol responds.

  Director of Protocol clicks and drags on his net-paper, and a, “Repairing...” message pops up on the display. The processing duration icon increase to about 95 percent this time, before it freezes. “MEDIA FAILURE” appears on the display, followed by, “UNABLE TO REPAIR.”

  “Try it again,” Ryles says firmly.

  “The media is flawed. The files are inaccessible,” Director of Protocol says.

  “Do it anyway!” Ryles counters.

  Director of Protocol hovers to face Ryles, “It is...”

  First-Thirty raises her hand, cutting off Director of Protocol. “It seems you have failed to bring us the ware intact. This too is a violation of the contract, of which the remedies include...death.”

  “The ware is on there,” Ryles snaps. “I saw it myself!”

  “That may be factual, but is in dispute if we cannot view the ware, now,” Second-Thirty says.

  “Perhaps you would like to invoke the half-double-or-nothing clause. It appears to be your only remaining option,” Third-Thirty says.

  “Excuse me?” Ryles asks with a frown.

  Director of Protocol reads from his net-paper, “To preclude

  default, the seller or agent representing seller, may request an extension to deliver the ware for a fifty percent discount of the selling price, or dispute the finding of the Triad.”

  “Fifty percent!” Ryles yells

  The Director of Protocol continues, “If the dispute is successful, the Triad will pay double the selling price. If the dispute is unsuccessful, the contract and the seller or agent representing the seller shall be terminated.”

  “This ain’t right. It wasn’t...” Ryles begins.

  “Do you dare question the integrity of the TRIAD!” The First-Thirty balls her fist which begins to glow yellow. Ryles becomes engulfed by the same yellow glow, and is then dragged forward while she struggles, towards First-Thirty. She grimaces in pain the most she resists.

  “I would recommend you choose quickly, but wisely,” Director of Protocol advises.

  “Wh...Wh...what are my choices again?” Ryles stutters.

  “Request an extension, or request double or nothing,” Director of Protocol says.

  The Second-Thirty grins. “You are not a dulcet, Ryles, so I do not imagine you a gambler. Although, I would enjoy you attempting to disprove this.”

  The Third-Thirty smirks. “She may want to ask the seller first. Unless, of course, that isn’t an option because we are going to exercise our right in the contract not to allow it.”

  “Choose!” First-Thirty booms. His eyes glow yellow to orange, then Ryles grabs the sides of her head and screams.

  The afternoon sun brings a haze over Ispari gate at the DMZ. Emergency medical personnel race back and forth moving passengers, that aren’t already dead, from the carnage of a crashed hover-shuttle.

  Armored state police-guards hold back the throng of onlookers, including the media, enabling fire department personnel to work on opening the metal grave that is the shuttle, still holding half-a-dozen corpses prisoner.

  National guardsmen from New Mass assist in securing the DMZ bridge between Ispari and New Mass, and redirecting traffic.

  A tall, lean state police guard, Monavo Morefishco, walks through his subordinate guardsmen at the Ispari gate, and then through the armored riot guardsman closest to the wreckage. He is recognized by everyone he passes with either a nod, or a wave.

  “Tell me you caught all the bad guys, nobody died, and I just wasted my time coming here,” Morefishco says.

  A younger female guard, Practice, nods to Morefishco. “Sorry sir. All the assailants are dead, and so are fourteen of the twenty passengers.”

  “Oh well. I supposed I should earn my day’s pay. What do we got?” Morefishco asks.

  “The tower received a distress call this morning about surface-to-air attacks. According to witnesses, the hover-shuttle was shot down, crashed, or both,” Practice replied.

  “Any of the perps dead?” Morefishco asks.

  “We don’t have confirmation yet sir,” Practice says. “The surveillance video from the tower show two figures boarding the hover-shuttle, but we haven’t identified all the remains yet.” She shows Morefishco net-
paper with an image of the hover-shuttle. She then presses the play icon over the image.

  “Body bandits. It looks like they got in over their heads,” Morefishco says.

  “Sir?” Practice asks.

  “They weren’t after the hover-shuttle,” Morefishco says. “Any cargo missing?”

  “Yes sir. Please, follow me.” Practice steps through the debris into the belly of the hover-shuttle amidst the twisted metal, blood, and dust. Morefishco steps through a large tear in the port side of the hover-craft after Practice, and stares at the men, women, and children charred into their protective positions. Morefishco follows Practice, then walks to the rear of the hover-shuttle. She motions for two firemen to open the cargo door. Inside there are just burnt luggage, with the exception of one perfectly intact rectangular, metal box.