IV. Blood, Honor, and Broken Glass
At 3:50PM, Findhorn's watch alarm went off. Briggs had been right about the grocery; as off a chance as it was, Findhorn was determined to follow the new advice. Besides, the worst case scenario was that he would recieve some minor chastisement for breaking too early.
Findhorn leafed through the Hosanna of Bethany file while he sat at the break room table, absent-mindedly sipping his coffee. There'd been a time in his life when he didn't need a caffeine boost to make it through the afternoon, but he was within a few months his fifty-second birthday, and had long ago come to terms with the fact that his body was not what it used to be. He was in reasonable shape for a man of his age, but there was no denying that he'd slowed down since those early days on the force.
Things were different then--he'd worked for the State of Ohio, not Lawrence Rehnquist's worldwide regime. He'd joined the force at the age of twenty-three, spent a few years as a beat cop. Then it all got shot to hell.
It was the fall of 2231. He and his wife, Margaret, were celebrating their anniversary with dinner at a five-star restaurant followed by a night at the opera house. The evening had gone well, but on the way home the rear left tire of the car went flat. Findhorn got out to fix it.
While he was behind the car, he heard shattering glass and Margaret's voice. Looking up, a man had broken open Margaret's window and was reached for her. Without thinking, Findhorn ran at the assailant and beat him with the tire iron.
Findhorn later found out that the man had a .38 revolver tucked under his coat. The would-be rapist never got to use it. Findhorn gave in to his rage, beating past arms that tried to protect a face he would eventually smash beyond recognition. He had stopped the attack, protected his wife, but at what cost? A man was not only dead but defiled at his hands.
The other cops never looked at him the same after that. It had been ruled that his actions had been in self-defense, but the lengths he had gone to were considered extreme by many and dangerous by most. It seemed that his superior's were afraid that he might release this violence again. Findhorn had been assigned to one desk job after another, kept off the streets.
Four months later, the United States of America faced demands to surrender it sovereignty to the regime of Lawrence Rehnquist. After they refused, synthetic plagues ravaged the country's major cities, destroying the economic infrastructure and sending the country's leadership into disarray. Washington DC and New York City had been wiped off the map during World War III, seventy years before, but the three largest remaining cities--Los Angeles, Chicago, and the new capital of Seattle, Washington--were so devastated that they became ghost towns. This time, the US surrendered--the greatest country the world had ever known fell without a shot fired.
Once his new superiors were installed, no one much cared about what Findhorn had done to some scumbag in a back alley one night.
Findhorn was knocked from his reverie by the building shaking. Alarm bells rang and the radio came alive as dozens of voices shouted over one another.
"Detonation confirmed--"
"Identified as a remote projectile--"
"Stay calm--"
"Paramedics inbound--"
"Repeat, impact and detonation, Sector 4, level 3--"
"Office of Lieutenant Ramirez totally destroyed--"
Cold sweat appeared on Findhorn's brow. His office was on the third floor of Sector 4, right across the compound from Ramirez's office. He walked past the place everyday.
As he approached his office, debris and dust filled the air. A chot barred his path, but when he explained his office was near the blast, he was allowed to pass.
Findhorn unlocked the door and stepped into his office. The blast hadn't touched his wall of the building, but the force from the blast had shattered his window and sent shards of glass flying into the room. Dozens of them had pierced his desk chair, some of them as large as six inches long. They were exactly where he would have been sitting, had he not gone on break.
Just then, his watch beeped for the hour--his usual cue to go on break.
Findhorn leafed through the Hosanna of Bethany file while he sat at the break room table, absent-mindedly sipping his coffee. There'd been a time in his life when he didn't need a caffeine boost to make it through the afternoon, but he was within a few months his fifty-second birthday, and had long ago come to terms with the fact that his body was not what it used to be. He was in reasonable shape for a man of his age, but there was no denying that he'd slowed down since those early days on the force.
Things were different then--he'd worked for the State of Ohio, not Lawrence Rehnquist's worldwide regime. He'd joined the force at the age of twenty-three, spent a few years as a beat cop. Then it all got shot to hell.
It was the fall of 2231. He and his wife, Margaret, were celebrating their anniversary with dinner at a five-star restaurant followed by a night at the opera house. The evening had gone well, but on the way home the rear left tire of the car went flat. Findhorn got out to fix it.
While he was behind the car, he heard shattering glass and Margaret's voice. Looking up, a man had broken open Margaret's window and was reached for her. Without thinking, Findhorn ran at the assailant and beat him with the tire iron.
Findhorn later found out that the man had a .38 revolver tucked under his coat. The would-be rapist never got to use it. Findhorn gave in to his rage, beating past arms that tried to protect a face he would eventually smash beyond recognition. He had stopped the attack, protected his wife, but at what cost? A man was not only dead but defiled at his hands.
The other cops never looked at him the same after that. It had been ruled that his actions had been in self-defense, but the lengths he had gone to were considered extreme by many and dangerous by most. It seemed that his superior's were afraid that he might release this violence again. Findhorn had been assigned to one desk job after another, kept off the streets.
Four months later, the United States of America faced demands to surrender it sovereignty to the regime of Lawrence Rehnquist. After they refused, synthetic plagues ravaged the country's major cities, destroying the economic infrastructure and sending the country's leadership into disarray. Washington DC and New York City had been wiped off the map during World War III, seventy years before, but the three largest remaining cities--Los Angeles, Chicago, and the new capital of Seattle, Washington--were so devastated that they became ghost towns. This time, the US surrendered--the greatest country the world had ever known fell without a shot fired.
Once his new superiors were installed, no one much cared about what Findhorn had done to some scumbag in a back alley one night.
Findhorn was knocked from his reverie by the building shaking. Alarm bells rang and the radio came alive as dozens of voices shouted over one another.
"Detonation confirmed--"
"Identified as a remote projectile--"
"Stay calm--"
"Paramedics inbound--"
"Repeat, impact and detonation, Sector 4, level 3--"
"Office of Lieutenant Ramirez totally destroyed--"
Cold sweat appeared on Findhorn's brow. His office was on the third floor of Sector 4, right across the compound from Ramirez's office. He walked past the place everyday.
As he approached his office, debris and dust filled the air. A chot barred his path, but when he explained his office was near the blast, he was allowed to pass.
Findhorn unlocked the door and stepped into his office. The blast hadn't touched his wall of the building, but the force from the blast had shattered his window and sent shards of glass flying into the room. Dozens of them had pierced his desk chair, some of them as large as six inches long. They were exactly where he would have been sitting, had he not gone on break.
Just then, his watch beeped for the hour--his usual cue to go on break.
posted by Andrew Michael at 4:08 PM
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