I saw my career, my retirement, all of it, crashing before my eyes, because some rookie decides to claim I'm a cordy. A full investigation and the media attention that follows would ruin me and bring unnecessary pain to my family. It didn't take much to imagine this, as that had been what happened to Bill. He had been a good man, but had been unable to take the stress and the scrutiny, and now was in some distant town getting therapy. All this flashed through my mind as I brought my gun up and fired. I smiled briefly. Even in panic I'm still a good shot. I had shot the walkie talkie cleanly out of his hand.
Of course, he doesn't see it that way, and immediately trembles and yells. I see him tighten his hand on his own gun and know I need to do something before this gets out of hand. I rush him and plant a solid knee to his chest as I rip the gun from his hand. He's doubled over still, and I, still unsure what he might do, handcuff him.
I probably cracked a rib or something, because he's struggling more than I expected, wheezing still when he should have caught his breath. I should get him somewhere to get taken care of.
But first there's this issue of the Cordy. I walk towards the vents. There are three of them in a row. I check the first one. Nothing. The second one was the same. I sighed, pulled my gun out, and approached the third one.
I hesitate. It's not that I'm nervous that Dave was right. It's just not been a relatively good day and I'm looking forward to the end of it. I close my eyes for a moment.
I picture the clean metal rooms that the scientists house the Cordys in, where they interrogate them, study them, test them. I've always been haunted by the recordings of the interviews, like they were voices from beyond the grave.
"Tell me about what you are feeling right now." The researcher always asked this question first. The answers are never the same, and always strike you as plausible in another environment. Some saw friends, others were running from something. One claimed floods were coming. No one ever just said they needed to get up to the top. They all had an excuse.
I open my eyes. The sun is in the same place, the city oddly quiet from this height, and the vent looms in front of me. I take another step and peer in. Nothing. I curse. Nervous laughter.
"No one there, Mike?" His voice comes between shallow breaths. "Come on, let's go home. We can call in the possibility for the night shift, can't we?" He lies there, smiling, a little blood trickling from the side of mouth. I should really get him to a hospital. I walk back towards him without saying a word, only looking back, feeling stupid. I unceremoniously help him to his feet.
Of course, he doesn't see it that way, and immediately trembles and yells. I see him tighten his hand on his own gun and know I need to do something before this gets out of hand. I rush him and plant a solid knee to his chest as I rip the gun from his hand. He's doubled over still, and I, still unsure what he might do, handcuff him.
I probably cracked a rib or something, because he's struggling more than I expected, wheezing still when he should have caught his breath. I should get him somewhere to get taken care of.
But first there's this issue of the Cordy. I walk towards the vents. There are three of them in a row. I check the first one. Nothing. The second one was the same. I sighed, pulled my gun out, and approached the third one.
I hesitate. It's not that I'm nervous that Dave was right. It's just not been a relatively good day and I'm looking forward to the end of it. I close my eyes for a moment.
I picture the clean metal rooms that the scientists house the Cordys in, where they interrogate them, study them, test them. I've always been haunted by the recordings of the interviews, like they were voices from beyond the grave.
"Tell me about what you are feeling right now." The researcher always asked this question first. The answers are never the same, and always strike you as plausible in another environment. Some saw friends, others were running from something. One claimed floods were coming. No one ever just said they needed to get up to the top. They all had an excuse.
I open my eyes. The sun is in the same place, the city oddly quiet from this height, and the vent looms in front of me. I take another step and peer in. Nothing. I curse. Nervous laughter.
"No one there, Mike?" His voice comes between shallow breaths. "Come on, let's go home. We can call in the possibility for the night shift, can't we?" He lies there, smiling, a little blood trickling from the side of mouth. I should really get him to a hospital. I walk back towards him without saying a word, only looking back, feeling stupid. I unceremoniously help him to his feet.
