Jonathanâs body crumpled like a dropped puppet. The sound of his skull hitting the pavement wasn't loud, just a flat, wet thud that was sickeningly final. My own knees gave out a second later, hitting the asphalt with a jolt that shot up my spine. The sharp, sun-baked gravel bit into my palms.
Okay. Scene is⦠not secure. One GSW, self-inflicted. One GSW, homicide. Two perps down. One victim⦠five victimsâ¦
My brain tried to run the checklist, to put this horror into a neat little box with a case number, but the processor kept crashing. The rest of my mind was just screaming static. What the hell do you do when the world breaks?
The adrenaline vanished. It didn't fade; it was like someone unplugged me. One second, a fire in my veins. The next, a hollow, shaking void. A wave of cold washed over me, and my stomach churned, the coppery taste of blood and burnt coffee rising in my throat.
A hand landed on my shoulder. Kira. I hadn't even heard her move. She didn't say anything, just pulled me to my feet. My legs felt like they were made of wet cement, but she steered me toward the cruiser, and I let her. Each step was a negotiation.
Inside, the world narrowed to the smell of hot vinyl and the cheap pine tree air freshener dangling from the mirror. It was so normal it felt insane. Then her arms were around me, pulling me into a hug that was less about comfort and more about holding the pieces together. I was stiff for a second, my body wired to react to anything that wasn't a threat as a potential threat. Then I just⦠sagged against her, letting her take my weight, the smell of gunpowder and her sweat grounding me for a half-second.
After a moment that could have been a minute or an hour, we pulled apart. There was work to do. There was always, always work to do.
Someone had to clean up. Guess that was us.
My police vest didn't fit anymore, the new muscle from the system straining the straps. I unclipped it and chucked it in the trunk. It landed with a dull thud. Another piece of my old life, now obsolete.
I grabbed Royâs scrawny ankles. His skin was already cool. I dragged his corpse off the road, his worn-out sneakers leaving two parallel lines in the dust. He was surprisingly light for a deadweight scumbag. Monica was next. I put them side-by-side near the ditch, their vacant eyes staring up at the empty sky. End of the line for the meth-fueled Bonnie and Clyde. I didn't hope they found peace. I just hoped they stayed dead.
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Then came the worst part. The ambulance. I hauled one of the back doors open wider and the air that rolled out was a physical thing. A hot, wet blanket of copper, piss, and the sterile, metallic smell of medical supplies. My training screamed at me. Don't touch anything. Preserve the scene. What scene? The world was the crime scene now, and there was no one left to investigate but us.
The flashing lights from our cruiser painted the inside in strobing flashes of red and blue, a macabre disco over the dead. Michael was still strapped to the gurney, his eyes wide with a terror that the bullet hadn't erased. I reached out and closed them with my thumb. A small, pointless courtesy from one world to the next.
Martha was a dead weight across her son's chest. I had to shift them, to untangle them. My hands came away sticky. I tried to arrange them side-by-side, to give them some semblance of peace. A family, reunited. The thought was so fucking bleak it was almost funny.
I added Jonathan and the two paramedics to the collection. A full house. What the fuck is wrong with me.
I slammed the doors shut, the heavy clang echoing in the unnatural, dead quiet of the roadblock.
My stomach, which had been a tight, cold knot, gave a violent lurch. The smell, the sight, the sheer finality of it all came crashing down. I stumbled away from the ambulance, doubled over, and emptied what little I had onto the dusty asphalt. The harsh, acidic smell of bile mixed with the stench of death. I spat, the taste burning my throat.
Wiping my mouth with the back of a bloody hand, I looked back. The red and blue lights kept blinking, their stupid, cheerful rhythm painting the side of the metal box. A rolling tombstone.
It wasn't senseless. That was the most fucked up part. In this new, broken world, it made a horrifying kind of sense.