by Bowie Ibarra
In the distance, small groups of people from various cultural backgrounds were gathered, both on the ground and on balconies around one of the buildings.
“That’s the H building,” Mike said.
“Someone’s definitely going to get their ass whipped,” Derek said, lacing the comment with a sprinkle of bigotry. Mike wasn’t sure which situation would be the hardest to handle: the domestic disturbance or his own high-strung partner.
He was currently most concerned at the potential riot in front of the H building. It was easy to see and even easier to hear that the group was riled up. It was a veritable Texas potpourri of people: some white, some black, some Hispanic, even a couple of Asians. Some were dressed very casually while others had on their best urban clothes, complete with baseball caps and sports jerseys with complementary colors. Several people were already eyeballing Mike and Derek as they approached, and an audible “five-oh” could be heard, warning everyone of the approaching policemen.
Realizing the potential that things could get out of hand very quickly, and with the numbers obviously in favor of the potential rioters, Mike erred on the side of safety and wisdom. He reached for his CB and called back to command: “864 to dispatch. Large gathering of people at address of disturbance. Request assistance.”
As Mike and Derek edged closer, screams became audible. At first they thought it came from the gathering, but when the muffled scream sounded again, they determined it was coming from within the building.
Derek dashed forward. For a moment Mike feared he was going to bash his way through the crowd and set them off, but Derek remained professional, at least for the moment, sternly asking the crowd to get out of the way. A civilian grumbled, “Get this out of your way,” and Mike was sure Derek was going to pepper spray the crowd.
But as Derek edged closer, the crowd contemptuously cleared a path.
Dispatch held Mike back a moment. “Dispatch to 864. What’s your 20? Over.”
Mike stopped in his tracks and replied to dispatch, skipping protocol. “1700 Willow Lake Drive. Building H. Over.” He immediately ran to join Derek. The path that had cleared for Derek was now shut, and Mike found himself having to nudge two large men out of the way. It was done with enough authority for them to move, but not enough to be a challenge. It didn’t stop the guys from cussing at Mike when he passed.
“Bitch better watch who he’s fuckin’ pushin’, motherfucker.”
Stay calm, Mike thought. Even as he passed through the wall of people, he still could not see Derek.
People began to scatter like frightened pigeons; curious enough to want to know what was going on, but smart enough to move back. Most were street smart enough to know that cops in the apartments meant trouble, and no one wanted to be accused or questioned for anything. The general philosophy was: the further away from the men in blue, the better.
Those that stuck around, however, had no problem being loud and voicing their opinions, though some tried to share information with the officers in their own informal manner.
“Shoot her!”
“She’s a bitch.”
“Deb was sick last night, sir.”
Mike heard the comments, but was concentrating so much on finding Derek (who he still could not see through the now dispersing crowd) that the comments were not entirely discernable. The concentration and uncertainty had given him tunnel vision, and everything was peripheral to the apartment and the front door which was now coming into view.
Much to Mike’s relief, Derek was at the door and already knocking.
The screams were most certainly emanating from right behind the door. Adrenaline coursed even faster through Mike’s veins, charging him with energy.
The cry for help was loud and clear.
“I need you to open the door, ma’am!” Derek yelled.
“I can’t,” came the fearful reply. Within, an obvious struggle could be heard. Things were banging against the wall. Several bumps and the sound of something crashing to the floor indicated furniture, perhaps a lamp considering the splashing sound of breaking ceramics. Yet the hollow thuds sometimes sounded like bodies knocking against the wall.
“Let that door have it,” Mike said as both he and Derek armed themselves with their police issue pistols.
With a measured and experienced boot to the door, Derek kicked it open. The door splintered at the lock and the two entered quickly.
Neither expected what they saw.
A young girl, no more than fifteen years old and no more than a hundred pounds, was holding off a snarling and bloody young boy. The girl was hysterical, but focused enough on her survival to hold off the boy with shoves and primitive front kicks. Her back was against the wall in the far corner of the room. Whimpering in fear, she continued her defense, but she was definitely losing steam. The desperation was so intense she seemed moments from giving up.
“Help me!” she wailed.
“Down on the ground, now!” Derek yelled. “Get on the ground, now!”
The boy turned around and faced the two officers, having ignored the door being kicked open. The policemen’s eyes widened. The boy’s face was sunken. Blood dripped from his mouth onto his white Kenny Chesney T-shirt.
“On the ground, now!” Derek and Mike both yelled, in unison. Though the boy looked crazed and the men were in physical danger, they were gun shy. It had nothing to do with the desire to fire. Derek was certainly ready for that. But Austin P.D. had something of a publicity problem after four shooting deaths at the hands of A.P.D. officers. Two of the victims were shot in the back in what was described as a “struggle.” And though all four officers were acquitted and the deaths were declared justifiable shootings, it left a black mark on the department that locals would not allow the cops to live down.
But Derek had a alternative he was more than prepared to use as the boy advanced toward them. He holstered his gun and grabbed the tazer.
“I need you to stop, now!”
The boy advanced.
“Stop, or you will be tazed!” There was glee in Derek’s voice. Whether the boy backed down or not, he was going to get zapped.
As predicted, the boy continued his advance. Derek did not hesitate to fire the tazer. He twittered with sick satisfaction, a testosterone-fueled feeling of superiority and dominance. “I told him to stop, and he didn’t,” he mumbled, almost as an afterthought. He began to briefly drift, thinking about the power in his hand. Then he began to debate in his mind whether the power was in his hand or in his finger. The device was held in his hand, but the power of the device was unleashed by his finger tugging at the trigger, embracing the switch like Medea embraced Jason, enraptured by the ruthless display of power.
The metal hooks of the tazer pierced the boy’s stomach, filling his belly with an intense and steady stream of voltage set loose by the sinister device and its malevolent master. The boy wiggled in pain and growled, saliva and blood dripping from his mouth. He fell to the floor and was not released from the electric bonds for several more seconds.
Derek gazed at the quivering boy in an ecstatic daze.
Mike used this time to run to the girl, who was now crouched and crying in the corner of the living room. Her hands, caked in blood, were covering her face. Mike saw a large section of her forearm had been removed by what appeared to be a bite. For a brief moment he pictured a big beef burrito supreme from Taco Bell with a bite missing as it lay on its tacky aqua blue tray, dripping soupy beans and red sauce onto the paper liner. He gagged at the random thought, but pulled himself together to call to command.
“864 to dispatch. At least one severely injured white female. Possible bite—”
(Big Beef Burrito Supreme.)
“—Need an ambulance. Over.” Mike unclicked the CB and reached for his safety gloves. “Miss, everything’s going to be all right.” He looked at her arm again.
(Big Beef Burrito Supreme.)
Chaos was blessing the house with its discordant song.
; Derek yelled at the subdued boy on the floor, “Put your hands behind your head, now!”
Mike spoke to the girl. “Is there anyone else in the house?”
Behind her hands, she nodded in the affirmative.
Dispatch buzzed near his ear as Derek was yelling his command again. “Dispatch to 864. Ambulance en route. Over.”
Derek was still trying to control his suspect, who was starting to recover from the punishing electric onslaught.
“Put your hands behind your head!” Derek yelled once more. The boy instead began to rise again. “On your back, son!” Derek zapped the boy again. With a sadistic smile, he stated, “I can do this all day, boy.”
Mike tried to get more information from the girl over the crackling tazer and groaning boy. “There’s someone else in the house? Where?”
The girl did not remove her hands, but whimpered, “Down the hall.”
Mike wanted to salve her wounds, soothe her in this time of traumatic horror, stop her tears. She couldn’t be more than fifteen, and was in intense shock. But he had to check the other rooms.
Before he could get to the rooms, however, another distraction was presented by the mischievous spirit of chaos.
“That’s fuckin’ bullshit, you asshole motherfuckers!” yelled a random apartment tenant who had gathered with others at the open front door. They were watching with a combination of contempt and fascination.
Derek let up on the tazer long enough to give the man an earful. “Get the fuck out of here, asshole, or I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice!”
“Fuck you, bitch!” came the defiant and angry response. “I ain’t afraid of a pussy that tazers a twelve year old kid!”
“Get away, now!” Derek was tempted to pull his gun, and wished he had another tazer. He would have hooked the guy at that very moment. He imagined wielding both weapons and subduing both men like a fictional justice machine.
“Fuck you, bitch! You can’t even keep the kid down! Pussy-ass bitch motherfucker!” The guy was a master of stringing colorful metaphors together, that was for sure. He was also unintentionally informative, as he pointed toward Derek, indicating something behind the officer.
Derek turned to see the boy had risen yet again and was reaching out to grab him. Another simple pull of the tazer trigger, the embrace of two doomed lovers, sent the boy to the floor again, convulsing and breaking wind before soiling his pants with excrement.
Mike took the moment to run to the hallway.
Every other door was open except for the one at the end of the hallway. The white door was closed and stained with bloody handprints, as if someone had tried to claw their way in. Small puddles of blood were setting in the hallway carpet. This was clearly the room the girl had indicated.
Before Mike entered the room, he informally secured the remaining rooms before advancing on the door. It was then, standing in front of the red-streaked door, that fear nudged his heart. It appeared to make him realize his mortality. It was reminding him that blood equaled death, and his own demise might be waiting just beyond the door. The bloody handprints seemed to form a kind of face, a face that was mocking him, tainting him with fear.
Taking a deep gulp, Mike walked to the door and called out, “Who’s in this room?!”
A moment passed before he heard a soft cry above the harsh words Derek and the tenant were still sharing. “Help.”
Was it a trap? Was someone waiting with a gun? Was it a madman waiting to slice him up when he opened the door?
Mike recalled the slasher films from the eighties. Opening a door after hearing a suspicious noise often meant that a cat was going to jump on you—or that nothing would be behind the door at all. But just after you expelled a sigh of relief, a masked killer would jump from one of the side rooms or a dead body would fall from the ceiling. Fear was dictating to Mike that nothing good would come of opening the door, that he should just turn around and leave, determined to make a coward out of him.
Regardless, Mike stood back and kicked open the door.
No bodies.
No cat.
No masked slasher. Yet.
The lights were off and the shades were drawn, casting a dark pall across the room. A human form was crouched in the corner.
Shit! The masked slasher!
Mike wanted to go for his gun, but chose first to turn on the light. He flicked the light switch to no avail.
Still darkness.
Mike pointed his gun at the shadowy figure. “Identify yourself, please.” No response.
Keeping the gun trained on the shadow, he moved to the blinds and gently twisted the rod that allowed the soft sunlight to infiltrate the room. Long lines of dust floated in the soft rays of the solar magnificence.
The figure was revealed.
An older woman was holding a baby in her arms. Her arm was bloody—clearly from a bite wound.
“Help us,” she whispered. Her face was pale and her eyes were sunken. She was sweating profusely. She had been using a shirt to wipe the blood off of her arm, and now it sat near her on the floor like a white and red cat curled up and sleeping.
The tazer crackled and cackled again in the living room.
The baby, an angel unknowingly resting in a pit of hell, was sound asleep in the woman’s arms.
“Everything’s going to be all right,” Mike assured her. “Help is on the way.”
“Please, take my baby girl,” she whispered, nearly breathless and without energy.
In that moment, Mike’s eyes met with hers. He never felt so much sadness. The windows to her soul revealed a depth of grief he had never felt before. There were no tears on her face. They seemed to have dried up long ago, or had been wiped away. There was only utter sorrow. The fear that was once molesting his soul was now replaced by a cosmic love, a universal understanding of a mother’s eternal devotion to her child, and the angst of knowing she would be stepping away from her charge decades too early. Mike’s heartbeat was now not being pumped by the blood in his veins anymore, but by her own soul. Pounding on his heart with hammer fists like an angry teenager banging his fists against a wall, he could almost hear her asking why, begging for an answer she would never get. Not in this world anyway.
The woman gazed into Mike’s eyes. Mike returned the gaze, helpless. As her soul bathed his heart with tears, submitting to the truth, she let out a long, sustained breath, then closed her eyes.
“Ma’am?!” Mike blurted in a panic.
The shoulder CB shouted in Mike’s ear, “826 to 864. What apartment number? Over.”
The baby seemed comfortable in the arms of the now deceased mother, so Mike reached for the CB and tried to relax.
“864 to 826. Building H. You can’t miss it. Over.”
The body of the mother twitched. Mike grimaced in confusion. The perpetual shouting from the living room continued and the tazer was embraced to life once again.
Mike was reaching for the baby when 826 called back: “826 to 864.
Building Adam or building Henry. Over.”
The woman’s eyes slowly opened and Mike breathed a sigh of relief. But something was seriously wrong. The woman’s eyes were cloudy. Stricken. They were clearly like the eyes of the boy in the living room. The same boy that would not stay down after being tazed multiple times.
Her grip on the child changed as well. The baby began to fall from her arms before she took notice. The woman looked at the sleeping child, and she somehow instinctually gripped the child in her cradling arms again. But her gaze on the child was different, almost sinister. There was a different intent as the mother looked at her child. Something else was motivating her. Something cruel and malevolent.
Mike immediately made a confused connection between the boy and the bite in both the girl and the woman. The bite the boy clearly gave them. The bite the woman seemed ready to give to her child. It was as if the woman was taking in the warmth of the child’s flesh, or perhaps smelling its aroma.
(Big Beef Burrito
Supreme.)
Sensing imminent and fatal danger, Mike made a choice. He reached for the baby and snatched it from the arms of the rising woman. He stumbled backwards, cradling the child and cushioning the fall. The baby wiggled in annoyance, trying to regain the previous comfort and making a face as if saying, could you sit still already?
The CB buzzed to life again. “826 to 864. You there? Over?”
Mike panicked. “H as in Henry! Get over here now!”
The woman was now on her feet and stomping toward Mike. He lifted his right leg and chambered it before sending a front kick to her belly. She flew into the closet’s sliding door, knocking down the doors along with various children’s clothes hanging inside. Somewhere in the wreckage, a child’s music box sprang to life, chiming the familiar tune London Bridge.
Mike pulled out his tazer, but knew from the repeated on and off cycles of the tazer in the living room that something was extremely wrong.
As the dulcet tones of London Bridge sang from the closet, the woman rose again. Mike looked her in the eyes. They were cloudy. Vacant. Sad. Nothing was revealed through the windows anymore. Nothing was there to torment his heart. It was a dark vacuum, a cloudy void of soulless abomination reaching out not for Mike, but for the baby.
Mike could not let her get any closer. He pulled the trigger and released the barbs. In an instant, the hooks connected themselves to their prey, and Mike released the diabolical electric power of the tazer. The woman shook helplessly for a moment, stumbled, then fell to the floor. Mike felt the power in his hands, the power rattling the body on the floor, the body of the child in his arms.
