Siege of Station 19

by Raegan Butcher

  “There sure are a lot of goddamned windows in this place,” the skinny convict muttered, glancing nervously through the dust-covered glass. Smith poked the barrel of the shotgun into each of the stalls at Butch’s silent, hand-waving insistence.

  When he was sure the stalls were empty, Butch chose the stall close to the entryway and furthest from the window. He unzipped his jumpsuit, pulled the rough orange fabric down to his knees, and squatted on the cold porcelain rim. Directly across from his line of vision, “Dyslexics Untie!” was scribbled on the door of the stall, and below that, “My job is secure—nobody wants it.” Cop Humor.

  Smith wrinkled his nose and retreated to the hall when he heard the convict grunt out the first plopping turd.

  “Hey!” called Butch. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m right here,” Smith chided him. “You need me to baby-powder your balls and wipe your butt for you too?”

  Butch opened his mouth to say something sarcastic—

  The restroom window exploded inward and an evil green shape landed on the tiles, claws clicking like castanets, long tail following it down like an anaconda.

  From inside the stall, Butch wailed in helpless dread and crapped about six pounds of pure terror into the toilet bowl.

  Smith braced his legs, tucked the walnut stock into his shoulder, and aimed the barrel of his shotgun at the animal’s torso. He couldn’t miss at this distance, no more than twelve feet.

  The creature pounced on him, crossing the space between them in a single springing leap, moving faster than the young deputy thought possible. Before he could squeeze the trigger, the weapon was wrenched from his hands and talons curved like scimitars tore out his throat with a sweeping motion. He collapsed, gurgling on his own blood.

  Love appeared at the end of the hallway, shotgun booming. The first blast knocked the creature into the bathroom. Love could hear Butch hysterically blowing through word-salad from inside the toilet stall, screaming, crying, and pleading to God.

  Love charged down the hall and arrived in the doorway in time to see the beast pick itself up from the bathroom floor. Its head whipped around and two shimmering eyes appraised him with savage regard. A red tongue forked out and the creature growled at him, low and throaty, like an angry leopard. The spines on its back pulsed, changing color from blue-green to orange-yellow.

  Love lifted the riot gun to his shoulder and fired. The discharge caught the monster full in the chest and flung it back against the wall next to the old steam radiator. Instantly, the beast sat up, rolled smoothly to the side, and sprang up onto its feet.

  Love pumped the slide action and fired again, the roar of the gun deafening him. The creature groaned like a hog at the slaughter and collapsed in a pile with its tail quivering.

  Butch jabbered incoherently from the toilet, sounds of despair, fear, insensate terror. Love stood in the door, wreathed in gun smoke and called to him, “You can come out now.”

  “Are—are you sure that thing is dead?” Butch stuttered after he finally found his tongue.

  “Three loads of twelve gauge buckshot will stop anything. Especially at this range.”

  The stall door slowly squeaked open and Butch’s thin, weasel face poked out. “Are you sure?” The death of Sergeant Hammerstrom was still fresh in his mind.

  Love gestured to the slumped creature. Butch glanced at it, and then smiled nervously. “Okay,” he said. He took a hesitant step out. The crumpled figure remained still. Butch heaved a sigh of relief and turned to the lieutenant. “I think you should shoot it again, just to make sure.”

  Love shook his head ruefully. “I can’t. I am getting low on ammo. Can’t waste a single shell.”

  Even as the words left his mouth he saw the creature twitch and sit up abruptly. That can’t be! his mind roared. That can’t be! I shot it three times!

  The barbed tail struck like a flashing snake head, drilling Butch between his shoulder blades. The startled armed robber let out a sharp, agonized cry and pitched over onto the tiles with an ugly splat.

  Love hefted his riot gun and gave the beast another discharge directly in its face and had the satisfaction of watching its head split apart like a watermelon at a Gallagher show, spackling the room with blood and cartilage.

  “The son of a bitch is dead now!” Love muttered savagely. From the other end of the hall came the sound of Tiffany blubbering, as well as anxious murmurings from the others.

  He knelt and checked to see if Butch was alive. He wasn’t. His face was frozen in a look of accusation. This was your fault, the look said.

  Love moved to the body of the young deputy marshal. Smith’s throat was a ragged hole trailing exposed veins like red spaghetti, his torso stained dark crimson. The human body holds four quarts of blood. Most of Smith’s had splashed down his chest. Love took Smith’s automatic pistol from the holster on his hip, a Glock 19, and his extra ammo. The shotgun was ruined, the barrel bent like a piece of licorice. Love ejected the remaining shells and put them in his pocket.

  When Love left the restroom he paused momentarily in the doorway, knowing it was another weak point in their pitiful defenses. All those windows upstairs, this bathroom window here, and the windows in the back near the evidence lockers and the holding cells. Not to mention the windows in the front door. But those weren’t big enough for the creatures to fit through, right?

  His mind turned it over as he made his way to the vestibule where the others waited anxiously. Power and communication were cut off. There were too many entry points. He didn’t have enough men to cover them all. And they were running low on ammunition. This place really is turning into the Alamo, he noted with irony.

  “What happened?” wailed Tiffany.

  “Two more men have died,” Love announced grimly. He placed Smith’s sidearm on the counter. “Anyone else want to use the bathroom?”

  No one answered.

  Station Nineteen

  11:15 P.M.

  Love had Torres away from the others.

  “This place is indefensible,” he said in a low voice.

  Torres nodded in silent agreement. “Nice trick with the kill-zone in the stairwell,” he commented. “Were you in the service?”

  Love nodded. “Navy.”

  Torres snorted but said nothing.

  Love went on. “It looks to me like these things are going for us, one by one, on purpose. They could take this place in a rush if they wanted to.”

  “Yeah,” Torres grunted. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “You were?” Love asked, surprised that Torres agreed with him. Somehow, that made it worse.

  “Yeah.” Torres nodded. “It looks like they’re probing us. They send a few scouts ahead, like sappers. Testing our weak points and checking our defense capabilities. Just like Victor Charlie crawling through the wire.” He nodded sagely. “They’ll make an attack later tonight in full force.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Any houses with phones nearby?”

  Love shook his head. “All boarded up and condemned.”

  “Is that Nova in any shape to run?”

  “No.”

  “How about your patrol car?”

  “No.”

  Torres looked around. “Hell, there are other people here with cars in that lot.”

  “No.” Love shook his head regretfully. “Juanita and Tiffany rode the bus. I asked them earlier.”

  “What about the sergeant’s car?”

  “He took a taxi because his wife needed their car for the holiday.”

  Torres moved to the window. There was a beat-up red Chrysler sitting a few spaces from the wrecked cars. “Whose beater is that?” he asked.

  “No one knows,” Love replied. “I think it’s abandoned.”

  “Who the hell abandons their car in front of the police station?” Torres wanted to know. Love mumbled something noncommittal and turned away. Martell was watching them. He looked extremely unhappy to see them tal
king together.

  Love turned back to Torres. “Do you think we can rely on the marshal when crunch time comes?” he asked under his breath.

  “No,” Torres whispered “He’s all mouth. Too much time pushing helpless prisoners around has made him soft. I put more faith in the broad.”

  “Tiffany?” Love asked incredulously.

  Torres made a face like the man had farted. “Of course not. That blonde girl is as weak as three day old coffee.” He pointed with his chin to Juanita. She was sitting at Tiffany’s desk across from her regular reception desk, where Vega slumped dejectedly with his injured legs up on a chair.

  “The little mamacita there,” Torres purred. “She has fire.”

  Love squinted at her. “She hasn’t said ten words since this whole thing started.”

  “Exactly,” said Torres. “And everyone else has been running around yapping like they’ve caught their tits in the wringer.” He kept his dark eyes upon her until she felt the heat of his gaze and looked up. He averted his eyes. He didn’t want to frighten her. “She is the one we can depend upon.”

  “I don’t know why, Torres, but I trust your judgment.”

  “You trust it because I am a survivor.”

  Love raised his eyebrows. “And a stone cold killer.”

  “How do you think I became a survivor?”

  “And when this is all over?”

  “We will cross that bridge when the time comes,” Torres said simply. “Have you got a plan?”

  “Well, that car in the parking lot…”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “If it has gas and if the battery isn’t dead...”

  “Yes?”

  “Well…” Love trailed off. “Can’t you hotwire it?”

  Torres slowly shook his head, somewhat sheepishly, the first dent that Love had seen in his armor of unassailable cool.

  “Are you kidding me?” Love protested. “But you’re Rattlesnake Torres!”

  The assassin just shook his head. Everyone thought he was some sort of super-criminal but he was only a man, maybe tougher than most, certainly very stoic, but not invincible.

  Love paused, considering. Then he smiled. “Well, then it’s a good thing we happen to have an accomplished car thief in our midst.”

  “Not too accomplished,” Torres remarked dryly. “You’ve got him in custody.”

  “Under the circumstances,” Love said, turning to set his plan in motion, “he’s the perfect man for the job.”

  Station Nineteen

  11:30 P.M.

  “No,” the kid stated flatly. “No way.”

  They were in the booking area: Mootz, the kid, Love, and Torres, with Martell hovering nearby. Tiffany stayed glued to the window at the front door. Juanita sat across from Vega. The little Mexican hadn’t said a word since Torres had stopped questioning him.

  Love told the kid, “It has to be you. You’re the only one here who can hotwire a car.”

  “I don’t care.” The kid crossed his arms over his chest with an act of finality. “I ain’t setting one of my little toes outside this building. I am your prisoner. I am in your custody. That means you in charge of keeping my ass safe. It don’t work the other way around. Besides, it’s a red car. Red cars are bad luck.”

  “You don’t understand,” Torres growled, stepping close. “You don’t have a choice. Either you go out there willingly, or I’ll hamstring you and shove you out as bait.”

  “Who gonna hotwire the piece of shit then?”

  “I’ll come up with a different plan,” Torres purred. “But you won’t be part of it—except as chum in the water.”

  The kid wilted under the heat of the killer’s stare. “Okay, man, cool it,” he stammered, his bravado evaporating like spit on a hot stove. “What kind of suicide mission you got in mind for me?”

  When they explained to him what they wanted him to do, he merely told them, “I need a pair of pliers and a pocket knife or something.” All of the fight had drained out of him. His voice was dull.

  When they scrounged up the necessary tools, the kid tucked them into his baggy orange coveralls and waited by the front door, resigned to his fate. Martell shoved his way into their midst and asked, “Who goes with him?”

  “He goes out to the car alone,” Love explained. “I’ll cover him from the front with the shotgun.”

  Martell drew his sidearm, a Glock 19, the standard-issue weapon for the Marshal Service. “I’m goin’ with him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t want him getting lost.”

  “Man, where am I gonna go?” the kid complained. “You don’t trust me at all, do you?”

  Martell just snorted. Love tapped the kid on the shoulder to get his attention. “Listen now,” he said. “You get that car running and you bring it over here.” He pointed to the walkway leading up to the entrance to the station. “Drive that thing right up to the stairs and we will all pile in and then get the hell out of here. Okay?”

  The kid just stared at him unhappily. Men have accepted death sentences with more equanimity. From her vantage point at the window, Tiffany said, “I don’t see any of them out there.”

  “That don’t mean nothin’,” the kid snapped. “Just means they hidin’.”

  “You do this and you’re a hero,” Mootz told him.

  “I am a chump,” the kid grumbled.

  “Juanita,” Love called. “Come here.”

  “Yes?” she inquired as she stepped to him. He picked up Smith’s Glock, took off the safety, and handed it to her. She held it dubiously.

  “Watch the door,” Love advised. “If things go bad out there, I want to be able to get back inside in a hurry.” He motioned to Torres and Mootz. “Get over here and help her with this door.”

  The men moved to the front entrance and stood ready.

  Love took a deep breath, nodded to Martell and the kid. Martell reached down with one hand and flung open the door. The kid streaked past him like a bullet, feet flying. Martell, his belly bouncing, followed at a pace that no one thought him capable of.

  “That fat bastard is moving like Steve Prefontaine!” Mootz marveled. “Look at him go!”

  Love moved to the head of the stone walkway, his shotgun sweeping back and forth. The parking lot remained empty. His thoughts turned from “Where are the creatures?” to “What are they doing?” He began to cautiously consider the idea that the beasts had moved on. Perhaps it was over.

  The kid was almost to the car, with Martell close behind, huffing and wheezing like a busted accordion. The moon had arisen fat and orange like a decadent piece of rotten fruit, casting a burnished glow over the parking lot. Random fireworks popped many miles away, the sound passing on the dry wind rustling through the palm trees.

  At the window, Tiffany chewed her knuckles, praying under her breath, “Please let them make it. Please let them make it.”

  “They’re at the car!” cried Mootz.

  The kid yanked on the door handle. It was locked. Without hesitation, he whipped out the screwdriver and bashed the window to glittering pieces, scattering chunks of safety glass like diamonds, ignoring the cuts he received on his hand. He was inside the car and bent down under the dashboard near the steering column faster than a ferret on crack.

  Love watched from the front steps as Martell reached the Nova. A sound from the sky behind him made the lieutenant turn and look up. Love froze, his breath trapped in his throat.

  On the roof, looking more than ever like stone gargoyles come to gruesome life, dozens of the creatures sat perched on the lip of the building, with their heads cocked to the side, glowing eyes watching the activity in the parking lot with an air of curiosity.

  Martell, oblivious to the audience of creatures, frenetically rapped his knuckles on the passenger window, but the kid was still under the dashboard.

  Love’s mind raced like a nitro-injected funny car. What were those things doing up there? Why didn’t they attack? He was torn between
trying to get back inside as fast as possible or else trying to blast as many of them off the roof as he could to even the odds a little. Instead he just stood there, frozen, unwilling to break the strange Mexican stand-off, the weird unmoving tableau. If the creatures were content to remain still, then so was he, at least for the moment.

  The Chrysler’s engine roared to life and the creatures burst from the roof like a flock of startled crows. And then it seemed that everything was happening at once.

  Love whipped around with the riot gun raised to his shoulder and slam-fired it as fast as he could, trying to hit the flying fiends as they sprang from the parapet above him. It was like shooting skeet.

  Martell started banging off shots with his Glock, all the while kicking the locked door of the red car with his booted foot, yanking on the handle uselessly in a panic, and bellowing at the kid to open the damn door.

  The kid sat up, gripping the steering wheel tight. His eyes were two white saucers. He looked absolutely terrified, but high on adrenaline: speedy, sure, and lucky.

  “Open the door!” Martell screamed at him, thumping his fist on the glass. The kid smiled, his teeth showing like piano keys in his dark face.

  “Stop grinning at me, you little monkey, and open this fucking door!”

  The kid extended his middle finger at Martell, waved goodbye, and then stomped his foot down on the accelerator. The car squealed away, tires smoking, leaving Martell alone and totally exposed beneath a sky that was swarming with undulating green bodies. Unearthly shrieks and inhuman squawks filled the air. They were everywhere, dozens upon dozens of them, maybe even hundreds.

  Martell began running for the station, his feet crunching on the gravel. A creature emerged from behind a clump of yucca and curled its tail like a scorpion about to sting. The fat deputy pulled the trigger and the muzzle blast lit the night with a brilliant flash. The beast tumbled back, not dead, but stunned. Martell never slowed down.