âReally?â Kira asked, her voice full of wonder. âI canât wait to see what mine do. Take over driving for me, will you? I want to check out the menu too.â.
I was about to respond when my eyes caught something on the road ahead. An obstruction. Kira saw it too and slowed the cruiser to a stop a couple hundred meters away.
It was a blockade. A jagged barrier of abandoned vehicles, several of them still burning, sending thick black smoke spiraling into the clear sky. The acrid smell of burnt plastic, rubber, and something else, something metallic and sweet, drifted toward us. The chilling smell of burnt flesh.
At the very front of the pileup, its emergency lights still flashing in a silent, desperate rhythm, was an ambulance.
Close. The menu winked out of existence. I lifted my rifle, my knuckles white on the grip. I nodded to Kira. She put the car in gear and we crept forward, the crunch of broken glass under our tires the only sound.
The scene was a tableau of horror. Bodies were sprawled on the asphalt, some charred, others torn apart. We stopped a few feet behind the ambulance. Its rear door was swinging gently in the breeze, a metronome counting down to a nightmare.
Kira and I got out, rifles up, moving in sync. We exchanged a single, grim nod. As we got closer, I saw it.
A bright red stream of blood flowed from the back of the ambulance, pooling in a dark, sticky puddle on the pavement. My gut clenched. I gave Kira the nod. She planted her shotgun firmly to her cheek as I gripped the handle of the swaying door and pulled.
A look of horror washed over her face as she peered inside. I moved beside her, and the smell hit me first. Copper and shit. Six years on the force, and Iâd seen my share of death, but nothing could have prepared me for this.
A paramedic sat crumpled by the rear door, his chest a ruin of bullet holes. Martha Kent lay across her sonâs chest, two neat holes in her back, another in her head. Brain matter splattered across Michaelâs tear-stained face, his mouth open in a silent scream, a single bullet hole between his wide, terrified eyes.
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A movement near the side door drew my attention. Jonathan Kent was in a fetal position, blood seeping from a wound in his upper arm. He flinched at my approach.
âPlease,â he begged, his voice trembling. âPlease, no more.â.
âJonathan,â I said softly. âItâs me, Officer Stormson.â. His eyes met mine, a flicker of hope flashing across his face.
âOfficer Stormson! Thank god! You have to help Martha and Michael!â he stammered, trying to stand.
I positioned myself to block his view of the carnage. âIâm sorry, Jonathan. Thereâs nothing I can do for them, but I need to bandage your arm.â. I slung my rifle and grabbed some gauze from a case inside the ambulance.
âNo, no! Theyâll be okay!â he protested, grief twisting his tone. He remained frozen as I stuffed gauze into his wound, then bandaged it tightly.
âI need you to tell me what happened here,â I said, gently urging him out of the ambulance's side door.
âTwo people, a man and a woman,â he said, his eyes still darting back toward the ambulance. âThey demanded pills and⦠and then he just started firingâ¦â.
Before I could say anything else, a voice called out from the side of the ambulance. I turned, cursing myself for not checking my surroundings, my hand instinctively dropping to my holster.
A thin, scab-covered man pointed a handgun at us. It was the guy from the diner parking lot. His tattered clothes were now spattered with blood.
My fingers found the release on my pistol. Action is faster than reaction, I coached myself, watching the manâs pupils, tiny pinholes in his drug-addled eyes. I began my draw, but movement behind him froze me in my tracks.
Kira stumbled out from behind the ambulance, shoved forward by the woman from the diner, who was now wielding Kira's shotgun. My blood ran cold as my gaze flickered to the womanâs finger resting on the trigger.