by Frank Zafiro
When they rolled up on the two men, they were standing at the curb, clutching at each other like a pair of heavyweights in the eleventh round. A small crowd stood around, half-heartedly watching the event. Marcus man-handled the two men apart and each officer cuffed up one side. It took fifteen minutes of translating drunk-speak before they could confirm that it was a mutual fight, that no one was seriously hurt, and neither one wanted to press charges against the other. By that time, the crowd had vanished. Ryan figured that was good. All they needed was some witnesses to complicate things.
He gave each of them stern warnings to go in separate directions and to go straight home. Then he and Marcus leaned on the hood of the police car and watched the two stagger off, arm in arm.
“Thank God they weren’t brothers or cousins or something,” Marcus grumbled. “We’d be going back to jail on DV charges.”
“What were they even fighting about?” Ryan asked. “Did you get that from your guy?”
“Something political. Or some woman. I couldn’t quite tell what the dude was saying half the time.”
“We should have called them a cab.”
“They should know when to stop drinking.” Marcus shook his head. “This is St. Louis, baby, not St. Day Care.”
After the two fighters were out of sight, both officers climbed inside the car. Ryan immediately accessed the announcement page. A link reading Detective Promotional List sat at the very top of the queue.
Ryan glanced over at Marcus.
“Yeah?” the big man said. “Well, then go ahead and click on it. You got to know or you’ll be crazy the whole rest of the night.”
Ryan selected the link and the screen instantly filled with a list of names. He knew that at least three hundred had taken the exam, but only the top fifty were ever posted on the promotional list.
He started at the top and scanned downward.
And stopped.
“No way,” he breathed.
“What?”
“I’m still at nine.”
“Nine?!”
“Nine.” He didn’t believe it, either. The sheer mathematics of it stunned him. Without party points and the extra bump from the commander, he didn’t figure to make the top twenty-five. He knew his other scores were high, but he must have been in the number one or two spot with a healthy margin before these figures were factored in.
“Are you sure it’s not nineteen?” Marcus asked. “Because even that would be...”
“Amazing,” Ryan finished. “But no, I’m sure. I’m number nine.”
Marcus stared at him. He stared back. After a few moments, they both broke out in laughter.
“You might just make it,” Marcus said. “Nine might just be high enough.”
“There’s a chance, at least,” Ryan agreed. He reached for his phone. “I gotta call Nathalie and tell her.”
“Hell with that. Call Pot Belly.”
Ryan laughed, remembering the sergeant’s words from earlier in the night. “He made it sound like I was going to be lucky to even make the list.”
“Maybe he didn’t know.”
Ryan shrugged. “Maybe.” It was also possible that Potulny knew where Ryan had started on the list and figured the drop was extreme enough to warrant what he said. He shook his head. “Who cares? Within a year, I’ll be working case files instead of working for him.”
“Unless he transfers to Investigation,” Marcus said.
“Always a ray of sunshine, that’s you.”
“Sorry, brother. Forget I said that. Congratulations. Seriously. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, my man.”
Marcus feigned a scowl, but before he could say anything, an alert tone sounded.
“Burglary in progress,” she said, her tone clear and emotionless as she listed the address.
“That’s eight blocks away,” Ryan said, but Marcus was already dropping the accelerator.
“Complainant has hidden in the bathroom. At least two suspects were seen. She believes they are in the bedroom now.”
Marcus covered the distance in no time flat. As they drew close, he cut off all of the lights, and piloted the car to the curb a half block from the victim’s address. Ryan was out of the car and loping down the sidewalk before the engine even died. He knew Marcus would catch up. For a big man, he moved fast.
The house was a small brick box, a vestige of the post-war boom in the time of his great-grandfather. The entire block was full of similar houses, and only the white numbers above the door told him for sure that he had the right place.
Ryan slowed his pace, drawing his pistol and pressing close to the side of the house. A moment later, Marcus lumbered up beside him. Peeking around the corner, he saw the front door standing a few inches open.
Marcus tapped him on the shoulder and motioned to the far side of the door. Ryan nodded. As one, they approached the front door, splitting up at the last moment to take up position on opposite sides. Ryan squatting low on his haunches while Marcus remained standing. They exchanged another look, and Marcus shrugged, motioning his head toward Ryan.
His call.
Ryan considered briefly, then decided to maintain their advantage of stealth. He shifted his stance, reached out with his right hand and slowly swung the door open. The hinges remained silent, and the only response to his action was the dim light from the street spilling across the small living room.
He listened, straining his ears for the sound of a voice, or the scuffle of movement, but there was nothing. He glanced at Marcus, who shook his head. He wasn’t hearing anything, either.
No choice but to go in, he decided. He met Marcus’ eyes and slowly bobbed his head in a three count. On three, he slipped through the threshold, buttonhooking to the right with his gun leveled at the room
A moment later, Marcus came behind him, his large frame filling the doorway.
Gunfire erupted from the kitchen, filling the small house with flashes of light and explosive sound. Ryan saw two figures in the quick, strobe-like clips of light as they fired their rifles at them. Instinctively, he returned fire, squeezing the trigger at the dancing figures. He heard his own voice crying out in surprise and anger, melding with the crash of shots fired, and the screams of the men shooting at him.
“...fascists!”
“...occupiers...”
“...mother-fuckers!”
Ryan kept squeezing until his slide locked to the rear. Without thinking, he dropped the used magazine and slapped in a full one. His whole world was focused on that one simple action, and it seemed to take an hour. The sound of the slide going forward and chambering a round clanged in his ears like a jail cell door.
“Marcus,” he gasped, surprised that he could hear his own voice.
That was when he realized that the room had become still. He realized the attackers had used up their ammunition, too. Impulsively, he took the opportunity to take the fight to them. They wouldn’t expect it, and this was the only chance he’d get.
Ryan lunged forward to charge, but his legs had no strength. Instead, he collapsed to the ground. He struggled to breathe, lifting his eyes towards the darkened kitchen, raising his gun to shoot.
Moonlight shone through the open back door.
Ryan blinked at the sight, trying to process it.
His eyelids were heavy. A warmth enveloped him, and with it came blackness.
Chapter 3
While Party membership never became an official requirement in most government agencies, by the late 2020s, it was in reality an unspoken, de facto policy. Operating in much the same fashion as the reputed ‘good old boy’ networks of the previous century, membership in the New American Party opened the door to significant benefits and opportunities. Not being a member closed those doors, and in some cases, invited ill treatment with little or no redress.
— From An Unlikely Phoenix by Reed Ambrose
ALL OF THE SOUNDS HE heard were muffled, and all seemed to come from far away. He tried to move toward
the sounds, but he was tired, more tired than he could ever remember being. Still, he’d make some progress, but then was just too weary to continue, so he’d drift away for a while longer.
Later, the sounds became more distinct. Beeps. The hiss of air. An occasional voice. He tried to hold onto those sounds, to grasp them firmly and let them buoy him back to the surface, but he couldn’t. For what seemed like the longest of times, he was only able to hear small snatches of sound and try to attach some kind of confused meaning to it. But there was no meaning where he was.
Only darkness.
WHEN HE WOKE UP, HE wasn’t sure at first whether or not it was still a dream. The room seemed unnaturally bright, and every object had an indistinct fuzziness around the edges. But then the nurse was talking to him, explaining something to him that he couldn’t quite grasp. He nodded slightly in response, unsure of why he did so, other than out of habit. The nurse asked him something, and when he nodded again, the nurse smiled slightly. He patted Ryan on the forearm and promised to bring the doctor soon.
“Marcus?” Ryan tried to say, but his throat was dry and he could only manage a raspy wheeze.
The nurse didn’t answer, only adjusted the flow on a tube leading to Ryan’s arm. Soon after he left, Ryan fell back into soft darkness again.
HE SLIPPED IN AND OUT of awareness for some time after that. Sometimes the room would be empty except for the machines monitoring him. Other times, the same nurse or a different one would be present. Once he thought he caught sight of the doctor, conversing with the nurse at the foot of his bed. When they realized he was looking at them, the doctor tried to talk to him but after a few short exchanges, he seemed to realize Ryan wasn’t up for it.
Nathalie was there once, holding his hand and watching him. Their eyes met, hers that deep dark brown hue that had bowled him over the first moment they met. Those eyes filled with tears and her lips moved. He couldn’t tell if she was speaking or only mouthing the words, but there was no mistaking what she conveyed.
I love you.
He tried to say it back, but could only nod before falling back into the dark sleep that held him. He fought it, unlike the other times, struggled to stay with her just a little longer, but he was too weak.
HE KNEW HE WAS FINALLY going to stay awake when opening his eyes was accompanied by noticeable pain. It didn’t overwhelm him, only nibbled at the edges of his awareness. Even so, he could feel how ravenous those bites were, how large the actual pain must be, and despite the darkness that whatever drugs he was on had imposed, he was grateful for them.
“Back amongst the waking, I see?” The doctor was older than Ryan by at least twenty years, but fit and tan. His blond hair had the slightest touch of gray, which along with his square jaw, only reinforced his force of personality. The small American flag pin on his lapel was a foregone conclusion. Ryan stared at it, letting his mind clear before answering.
Of course you’re a Party member, he thought. You’re perfect.
“Water?” the doctor said.
Ryan nodded.
He thought the doctor might bring it, but he motioned to the nurse, who hustled out of the room.
“Don’t try to talk just yet,” the doctor said. “You were intubated for a while, so your throat is going to be sore, and I know you’re dry. The water the nurse is bringing will help with that. We’ve been keeping you on a fair amount of medication for the pain, but the time has come to start tapering off on that. It’s always a delicate balance with narcotics, weighing the pain management issues versus potential addiction and other side effects.” He smiled. “But I imagine you know about the issues with drugs, Officer.”
Ryan nodded again.
“Do you feel up to talking about your medical status right now? Or at least listening to me talk about it?”
Ryan dipped his chin repeatedly. Information. He needed information.
“All right. I’ll fill you in, and after you’ve had some water and a little time to process what I’ve said, you can ask me any questions you might have.”
Ryan only had two questions burning in his mind, and neither one had to do with himself. But he forced himself to wait for the water, and to hear the doctor out. He’d dealt with enough medical professionals to know that they went about things in a certain way, and there wasn’t much you could do about it even if you had the illusion of power.
The doctor glanced down at Ryan’s chart, then said, “You may not feel very fortunate at the moment, Officer Derrick, but in some ways, you are. Your attackers fired on you with AK-47 assault rifles, and you were struck with several bullets. Five, actually, which is pretty amazing. Just the kinetic energy alone that your body absorbed was potentially fatal. Your fitness level and your ballistic vest mitigated this somewhat, but you truly are lucky to still be drawing breath.”
The nurse arrived with ice water and slipped the straw between Ryan’s lips. “Slowly,” she said in a quiet, firm tone.
He sucked in the cold water and felt it slide down his throat. The sensation was wonderful, and for a moment, that became his entire world. He soaked it in, and felt marginally more alive.
“Good?” the doctor asked.
Ryan nodded, sipping again.
“Go slow, and don’t try to talk just yet,” the doctor said. Then he continued, “One of the shots barely struck you, creasing your left triceps.” He touched his own left triceps with the tip of his pen to demonstrate. “Two others were through and throughs on your right quadriceps.” He pointed to two separate places on his right, outer thigh.
Ryan listened without emotion. The fuzzy edges of his reality were more distinct and clear than before, but he still felt strangely detached, as if he and the doctor were discussing someone else, not him.
“The other two, unfortunately, did more damage. One bullet struck your femur, breaking it.” He moved his pen to the center of his leg. “Now, I say break because shatter is probably too strong a description, Officer. But the break wasn’t clean and there were multiple fractures. Somehow, your femoral artery wasn’t damaged, or you likely would have bled to death before emergency medical responders arrived on scene.”
It’s just that close of a thing, Ryan thought absently. The veil between life and death is a sheer, wispy curtain. A moment later, he wondered where that thought had come from.
“The leg is secured. So is your hip. That’s where the final bullet hit you.” The doctor traced the pen to the opposite hip. “For that injury, I can safely use the word shatter. Now, my team and I have performed three separate operations on you since you were brought in the night of the shooting. One was to set and brace the femur. The other two have been on your hip. The first was to clean out bone shards that would eventually do more damage and cause significant pain if they remained. The second was to rebuild and repair as much of that area as we could.” He gave Ryan a matter of fact gaze. “The reality is that our actions were mostly a stop-gap effort. You will eventually need a full hip replacement. But we’ve repaired things to the point that you can live with functional, if modified, mobility until you’re eligible for that procedure.”
Ryan nodded slowly. He understood it all perfectly, but felt nothing about any of it. He thought that this should disturb him somehow, but all he heard were facts. Facts to be lived with, facts to be addressed and handled.
He sipped his water.
“Usually, these procedures are several years out, but you being law enforcement actually helps you out in that regard.” The doctor tapped the flag pin in his lapel. “We can usually make some accommodations for deserving public servants. I’m sure the Party will endorse moving your name up the list.”
Ryan didn’t bother to correct him. He let the straw slip from his lips, swallowed once more, and then let out a single, rasping word.
“Marcus?”
The doctor managed to keep a poker face, but even in his diminished state, Ryan could read the micro-expressions there. He felt a stab of pain in his chest.
�
��I think it’d be best if your commander briefed you on the law enforcement aspects of what happened, don’t you? Let’s just stick to your medical issues.”
“Please,” Ryan whispered, his throat feeling like he’d swallowed crushed glass.
The doctor considered for what seemed like a long time. He glanced over at the nurse and motioned with his head. She stepped forward and adjusted something next to Ryan’s bed. He knew what she was doing, knew the darkness was coming back, but he battled against it, his eyes boring into the doctor’s.
“Your partner died at the scene,” the doctor said quietly. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
Somehow, the pain doubled upon hearing the words. Ryan was glad for whatever the nurse did, and he welcomed the darkness.
Chapter 4
The slow whittling away of civil rights that began near the end of the 2010s and accelerated during the 2020s was largely accomplished under the guise of a pressing need for increased security. The specter of terrorism remained a convenient straw man, and the picture of what a terrorist looked like eventually went from a crazed Middle Eastern Muslim male armed with a suicide bomb to anyone who was not an American. As the crisis approached, even being an American did not immediately absolve one of potential suspicion. Near the end, party membership remained the only litmus test that truly mattered.
— From An Unlikely Phoenix by Reed Ambrose
THE NEXT TIME HE WOKE, Nathalie was there. She sat in a chair next to his bed, asleep, her slack hand holding his. He watched her for a long while. She was seemingly never at peace, his wife. Even in her sleep, she scrunched her brow repeatedly as if tackling an obstacle or perceived injustice. Even frowning, though, she was beautiful. Her cocoa skin was a perfect mixture of her Senegalese mother and her Greek father, and the lines of her face were elegant, resilient, haunting.
Much of Nathalie’s beauty came from her eyes, though. Her natural curiosity and compassion were buttressed with resolve, and all of these qualities were captured in a single glance. Very different from the perfect model of an American beauty, he mused, which these days seemed to require either a blonde bombshell or Latin lovely. Nathalie’s complexion was too dark, too indistinct in a time and a place where being ethnically ambiguous drew suspicion.
