FINALS: Blood Division

[Sensar]

INTRODUCTION

Michael sucked his lip. Cigarette smoke curled in grey wisps through stale air. The microwave clock blinked 12:00. 12:00. 12:00.

The linoleum tile floor was scuffed. Dust and dander around the edges, in the corners, crumbs and pet hair. The lace lampshade on the table in the corner filtered dim, yellow light of an ancient bulb. The refrigerator buzzed. The table legs were chipped and worn, some unsteady and uneven. The ceiling fan exhaled rhythmic bellows. The headlights from the road outside danced shadows across the countertop, casting caricatures of knick-knacks, disproportionate salt shaker silhouettes. Crickets lamented in the backyard. A dog barking. A siren. Car alarms.

There was blood everywhere.

It was dripping from the ceiling fan blades. It stained the lampshade. It was speckled across the microwave's screen and clockface. It pooled on the uneven floor, forming coastal geometries of bays and inlets.

The firm filter between his lips. A long, warm drag. Dense, heavy smoke. Tingle and burn of the throat. Taste on the tongue, woody and bitter Marlboro, the lightheaded wave, the heat and circulation. Nicotine swimming through the neck and spine, down the arms, through the mouth.

Michael closed his eyes and indulged this feeling, savoring it, cherishing it.

How much longer could this last? How much longer until something had to give?

"Michael?"

[Sensar]

ENTRY #1

The Aftermath

Michael sucked his lip. Cigarette smoke curled in grey wisps through stale air. The microwave clock blinked 12:00. 12:00. 12:00.

The linoleum tile floor was scuffed. Dust and dander around the edges, in the corners, crumbs and pet hair. The lace lampshade on the table in the corner filtered dim, yellow light of an ancient bulb. The refrigerator buzzed. The table legs were chipped and worn, some unsteady and uneven. The ceiling fan exhaled rhythmic bellows. The headlights from the road outside danced shadows across the countertop, casting caricatures of knick-knacks, disproportionate salt shaker silhouettes. Crickets lamented in the backyard. A dog barking. A siren. Car alarms.

There was blood everywhere.

It was dripping from the ceiling fan blades. It stained the lampshade. It was speckled across the microwave's screen and clockface. It pooled on the uneven floor, forming coastal geometries of bays and inlets.

The firm filter between his lips. A long, warm drag. Dense, heavy smoke. Tingle and burn of the throat. Taste on the tongue, woody and bitter Marlboro, the lightheaded wave, the heat and circulation. Nicotine swimming through the neck and spine, down the arms, through the mouth.

Michael closed his eyes and indulged this feeling, savoring it, cherishing it.

How much longer could this last? How much longer until something had to give?

"Michael?" The voice came to him from a distance. The voice was low and tentaive. It hinted at femininity. It echoed through a cacophonic tunnel, at the end of which a form danced in his vision. Tall and lean, it approached cautiously. His hand tightened on the blade. Michael took a deep drag on his cigarette and cast it to the floor. It sizzled on contact with the blood at his feet. “Michael, snap out of it.”

“Leah?” Her languid silhouette shifted into and out of focus in time with his heartbeat. Thump. Closer. Thump. Closer. Thump. Closer still, until she was touching his face. His body stiffened, then relaxed. He allowed her face to come into focus. He looked downward, where deep crimson blood poured in thin rivulets from a trivial wound above her left breast. It trickled over her cocoa dark skin, down into her cleavage, causing the thin fabric of her unnecessarily low cut tank top to cling to her sultry curves. How much longer, he wondered, could he resist her? Those succulent lips spoke again.

“Eyes up here, guy.” Her voice mocked him while her tender touch raised his chin. He was immediately lost in her eyes. His arm instinctively slung itself around her waist, pulling her in, pushing his mouth onto hers.

He felt her body against his own, writhing, her hands on his chest finger clenching, pushing, pounding, wrestling herself free of his clutch. He released her, confused. “Leah, I, what’s the matter?”

She stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the corpse on the floor, “Michael, get your shit together. You have to go.”

Michael looked upon the carcass as though it was the first time he’d seen it. A man lay motionless in a vermillion pool. Broken sunglasses lay on the floor nearby. He was vaguely Latino, possibly of Middle Eastern descent, but there very well could have been some African-American blood in there. It was hard to tell. Scenes slowly came back to him. Memories of a fight. The Ravens Gang. The drugs. The bomb. The hostages!

“Leah, I have to get to the hostages.”

“No. Michael, they’re fine. Look.” She pointed over his shoulder to a line of disheveled civilians filing out the front door of the rundown house. “They were in the basement. I untied them while you did…” She gestured to the room as a whole. The clock. The buzzing refrigerator. The dripping ceiling fan slinging blood onto the walls. “…all of this.”

“What about the Ravens Gang?” Michael asked, getting down on all fours to retrieve his pistol from under the fridge where it had been kicked in the scuffle.

“That’s the last of them, I think.” Leah indicated the racially ambiguous man on the ground. “Right there. I’m pretty sure you killed everyone.”

“Really? Everyone?” Michael looked around. Walking from room to room, touring the home. The rotten floorboards, soaked with blood squished under the pressure of his boots. There were four other bodies in the dining room, another three in the living room, one of which still clung to a Playstation controller. He slipped ascending the stairs an only narrowly caught himself. Another Raven sat upon the toilet in the upstairs bathroom, two more in the chemistry lab in the rear bedroom. He returned to the kitchen. “You’re saying I killed all these people alone? Just me?”

“Yes, and the ones outside.” Leah said.

“Jesus, there’s more?” Michael peered through the front window. It was night outside and the streetlights in the neighborhood had long since broken, but he could still make out the forms of a pair of local ruffians taking pictures of a corpse with their mobile phones. “No. No, this is all wrong.” Michael was saying, “This wasn’t the plan at all. How did all this happen?”

“You tell me!” Leah shouted. “This morning—“

“This morning?” Michael came away from the window, whirling on Leah, “I’ve been at this all day?”

“Yes. Like I was saying, this morning you came into my office saying ‘They shot my dog, they shot my dog!’” Leah was waving her arms frantically, “and the next thing I know there’s people shooting, then we’re in a taxi, and there’s a car chase and things are exploding…”

“That’s right! The bomb!” Michael’s eye lit up frantically, “Leah, we have to stop the bomb. There’s only thirty seconds left.” Scenes of destruction and death flashed before Michael’s eyes. He could see it all so clearly. He, and Leah, and the remaining hostages, blown to smithereens. Blood and gore and rubble. He had to do something.

“How long do you think thirty seconds is?” She slapped him across the face, “That was five minutes ago, at least. Are you delusional? Clearly it either didn’t work, or Spike stopped it.”

“Yep,” a chipper voice called out from the stairwell. An Asian man with a baseball cap stumbled up from the basement, the last in the train of hostages, “One second left on the timer. I knew that semester at ITT would come in handy.”

“I know you,” Michael was pointing at the man with his gun held loosely in his right hand, “Right?”

“Watch it with that thing, man,” Spike quipped, holding his side and limping, “Last thing I need is another hole.”

“He drove the taxi, remember.” Leah interjected, stepping over a corpse to tend to Spike’s wound, “You kept calling him ‘Chang.’”

Spike winced at Leah’s touch, “That’s not even my name, man.” Leah helped him to a seat at the table, “Besides, shouldn’t you be getting out of here? Those sirens are getting pretty close.”

Chang was right. The sirens were getting closer, he could barely here the crickets, or the dripping of the faucet. The car alarms had ceased all together and the dogs were only barking louder. The cops would be here any minute to walk the three of them out. The Chief of Police would almost certainly be there to award them medals.

“Michael!” Leah shouted again, “Why are you just standing there? You. Have. To. Leave!”

“Why?” Michael asked.

“Because you killed all these people,” Spike answered.

“But they were bad guys. They had hostages, and a bomb… and, and drugs!” Michael argued. “They shot my dog. They shot me!” Michael looked down at his bicep. A bullet wound there, hastily sewn shut with a length of twenty-four gauge stranded copper wire, yellow and green, bore the resemblance of some mad science experiment. “Thanks for the patch up, by the way.” He said to Leah.

“Yeah, sure, and when… if you get clear of the cops,” Leah said, “you need to have a medical professional look at that. It’s going to get infected, and you’ll lose that arm.”

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Holy shit!” Spike sighed, “You’re a psycho!”

“Okay, I get it,” Michael started, “I’m going. Leah, c’mon, my bike is out back.”

“What?” Leah scoffed,” Why would I go with you?”

“Because I saved you. And, you know, the murderer thing, we killed people.” Michael shrugged, “Now we ride off into the sunset.”

Leah turned to Spike, placing a wadded up flannel shirt in his hands, “Hold this on the wound.” She stood, picking up an errant gun in the process she turned on Michael, “First! It’s after midnight, there is no sunset.” She stepped over a corpse, a fire burned in her eyes. “Second, I appreciate that you showed up and saved me, I’ll send you a Christmas card every year. But I am not in love with you.” She raised the gun, “And third; we are victims. Spike and I didn’t kill anyone, that was all you. We’re in with the hostages, we have lives to go back to, I have a an—“

The body of the gang leader shifted on the floor. He sat up abruptly, pointing his firearm at Michael’s back. A shot fired.

Leah looked on, horrified. Michael stood before her, mouth agape, opening and closing a few times like a goldfish gasping for air. The look of shock slowly morphed into a smile as he turned on a heel to see the leader of the Raven’s lying on the kitchen floor. One clean bullet hole, right between the eyes. He turned back to Leah, “Haha!” He shouted, triumphantly.

“Oh god,” the gun clattered from her hand to floor.

“Your prints are on it, baby. You’re a killer, just like me.” Michael was way too happy with this turn of events. “Say goodbye to your normal life, welcome to being an action hero. Let’s ride.” Michael crossed the room with a confident stride. The sounds of police cruisers pulling up into the driveway as he kicked open the back door.

Leah took one more look at the body on the floor, then back to Spike, still bleeding. “I’m sorry, Chang, I have to go.”

[Sensar]

ENTRY #2

Michael sucked his lip. Cigarette smoke curled in grey wisps through stale air. The microwave clock blinked 12:00. 12:00. 12:00.

The linoleum tile floor was scuffed. Dust and dander around the edges, in the corners, crumbs and pet hair. The lace lampshade on the table in the corner filtered dim, yellow light of an ancient bulb. The refrigerator buzzed. The table legs were chipped and worn, some unsteady and uneven. The ceiling fan exhaled rhythmic bellows. The headlights from the road outside danced shadows across the countertop, casting caricatures of knick-knacks, disproportionate salt shaker silhouettes. Crickets lamented in the backyard. A dog barking. A siren. Car alarms.

There was blood everywhere.

It was dripping from the ceiling fan blades. It stained the lampshade. It was speckled across the microwave's screen and clockface. It pooled on the uneven floor, forming coastal geometries of bays and inlets.

The firm filter between his lips. A long, warm drag. Dense, heavy smoke. Tingle and burn of the throat. Taste on the tongue, woody and bitter Marlboro, the lightheaded wave, the heat and circulation. Nicotine swimming through the neck and spine, down the arms, through the mouth.

Michael closed his eyes and indulged this feeling, savoring it, cherishing it.

How much longer could this last? How much longer until something had to give?

"Michael?"

The card between his tar-stained fingers dropped into his pocket. He didn't need to read it. The words never changed. Turning to his co-worker, he saw Carla standing in the corner of the room, blood slowly inching closer to her like a rising tide. Her eyes never quite moved to the most disfigured corpse. The one with no face. Greenhorns always found their first murder scene a step too far.

“Problem, Stewart?” Three months had passed since she was assigned to him and Michael still refused to use her first name. Familiarity bred like maggots.

“It's just, you,” Carla said, her eyes staring up at the ceiling fan. “You could look a little less blasé about this.”

“Big word. That Spanish or something?”

“French.”

Michael grunted and took another drag from the smoldering cigarette between his fingers. The nicotine washed over him and for a glorious second he was alone, within a bubble. He resisted the urge to finger the pocket with the card. It had been waiting for them on the chipped table. It was one of the few things not covered in blood.

“Forensics will be here soon,” Carla said. “They won't appreciate the smoke.”

He squelched his way across the room. His footwear nothing more than the Police equivalent of two plastic bags wrapped around his feet. “They're gonna have their work cut out, for sure. Don't know how they'll possibly figure out that this boy got friendly with a knife while this guy took three high calibre bullets to the chest. Hell, they might even struggle to decide on which cartel's handiwork this is until tomorrow.” Michael opened the door to the bathroom. For a motel, it was pristine. Walls a dirty beige. Tiles only caked with grime. The water trickled over the side of the bath. “Oh, that's gonna be aggravatin' to people.”

To his surprise, he heard Carla chart a course over the sea of blood toward him. His insides cringed at the way the scarlet would sink into her leather boots. A real waste. It was hard to get the good leather now. Most of it went overseas before any local boot-makers caught so much of a glimpse at it. Together, they stared at the bath. Half a ton of cocaine had been poured into the porcelain tub. The individual grains clung to each other, holding tight and the bath had all the consistency of cake mixture.

“Now why would they do that?” Michael said aloud, knowing it would be better if Carla came to the conclusion instead of him. It would provide a little more cover when it turned out to be wrong.

“Maybe a message?” Carla said and Michael pulled a face. That was a little too close to the truth. “Perhaps it's just good economics? Less blow on the streets, a better premium for their own product?”

“That'll probably be it. Twenty years ago, not even the Treasury believed in this free market shit and now the scummy underbelly are doing business according to 'economics'. When do they bust?”

“Michael?” a voice called from the front door of the motel room. “Forensics are here. You wanna get out.”

The bedroom seemed even redder than before, the inlets of untouched wall slowly being reclaimed by the bloody seas. “Yeah, yeah. I tell ya what, Sully. I hope they brought those blacklight things this time. Don't know how they'll cope without them.”

Outside, the street was bathed in red and blue. Women in dressing gowns and balding, old men in slippers peered from behind the cordon formed by the county's finest. Within hours all of them would have stories to tell. They would have seen something. It was going to be important to the police case. Saw a man in a hood. Caught sight of a black girl running down the street. A Mexican was hanging around all day. Michael made sure to plot a route far away from any neighbors. All of their evidence would be pointless, desperate pleas to enjoy the attention of someone other than their neglectful partners or disdainful cat. Plucking his fading boots from the front step of the motel, he walked across the car park to their squad card. The loose stones tore away at his plastic slippers like a pack of hyenas.

“I don't know why you bother with those things,” Clara said, behind him.

Perching himself on the bonnet of their car, Michael pulled the bloody footwear from his feet. He paused just long enough for the wind to whip the plastic away before he could bend down. A flash of crimson flew through the air, a flag of mayhem spiralling through the sky until the night claimed it for its own. His boots were immaculate and each foot slid back into their home with well-practised ease.

“These are older than my boy. Never taken them into a murder scene,” Michael said, his yellowing fingers leading the frayed laces into a complicated dance of twisted knots. His eyes couldn't help but trace the specks of red up Clara's boots. “Not all of us can afford to keep buyin' spares.”

Before his partner could reply, Sully strode across the car park. He had the walk of a man who thought he meant something to the world. A purpose in his stride that wasn't warranted by the universe. It was weird to meet your antithesis but Michael never saw Sully as anything but. The man was tall and thin, compared to Michael’s slow sagging, like a bridge taking too much weight. While he had embraced his grey as a badge of honour, everyone in the office knew that Sully's hair was topped up as regularly as one of the whores that loitered in the streets. The man was on every health fad women's magazines invented weekly. Cleanses. Juices. Yoga. An urge to stick another Marlboro between his teeth struck Michael hard in the stomach. He had no trouble believing the rumours about Sully and his roommate.

“The captain wants to see you two,” he said, coming to stand in front of Michael. The cat had its cream.

“Now?” Michael said. Sully nodded. Michael knew the moment was coming, from the second he made the call to delay he knew Captain Jenson would hound him. Still, demanding his presence past midnight was cruel. “Fine, but give Stewart a lift back home. Jenson want to put my balls in a vice, not hers.”

“I'm fine. I can go.” Clara said.

“It's her first murder scene. Send her back with some of the squaddies.”

The protests rung out behind him but Michael had no intention of letting his new partner witness his undressing. Anyway, the girl probably needed to get home. She looked pale. Climbing into the squad car, making sure the door locked straight after him, he flicked the headlights on and a wave of hands went up to cover vulnerable faces. As he pulled away, Michael caught himself staring at the reflection in the rear view mirror. The bags under his eyes were trying to emigrate to below his nose.

***

The station had all the makings of a spider's web. Michael stepped inside and it was empty, yet he knew that as soon as the door swung shut, something would trigger and Jenson would appear from out of sight to descend upon her prey. Not even the outer desk had been manned and he considered the thought that the entire building may have been cleared out. It was going to go nuclear. The itch in his throat started to scratch. Michael reached down to the packet in his pocket, freeing a smoke from its brothers.

“Don't.” The word echoed in the dark. Jenson's office door swung open then shut and a small, compact woman was marching toward him. Frowning. Fists clenched. “Conference room, now.”

In the cover of shadows, Michael allowed his eyes to roll. The conference room. Before Jenson took over, back when they still had a sheriff, it was the break room, the smoke room, the catch a few winks and enjoy a dirty magazine room. Now, it was the conference room. They never used to have conferences before. Empty except for a long table and stacks of uncomfortable plastic chairs, it was as inviting as the dirty motel room he had just left. The door slammed shut and the chairs wobbled. It wasn't a take-a-seat type conference then.

“Do you care to fucking explain yourself, Stonis?” Jenson had moved straight to surnames and Michael looked up at the clock on the wall. 12:37pm. He'd be lucky if he was home by three.

“Have I got somethin' to explain? Don't think I do.”

“Your call, Stonis. Your fucking call.” Looking at Jenson, Michael had the feeling that this is what his ancestors must have felt like when sabre-tooth tigers still stalked the plains. “We were ready to hit that address and we waited on your call. Six halcones. Enough to give this town a good news story. Enough for one of them to buckle under just the right pressure and give us something more important.”

Halcones. Michael's fingers curled toward his palms. The last he knew they were in America. The land of the free. Where everyone spoke English. Yet now they used the language of the criminals they spent their days hunting. He laid a hand flat against the table to resist the urge to punch it.

“We've got six thugs gutted in some scummy motel room. I call that a pretty fuckin’ good news story, Jenson.”

Her nostrils flared. The disrespect of being rank-less. They both knew it was intentional. She took a step closer. “Why did you tell us to wait? Why did we back down? Because it's pretty suspect from where I'm standing.”

“You suggestin’ somethin’? Just come right out and say it. Captain.”

“You don't see it as convenient?” Jenson said. Another step closer. He could smell her perfume now, some distant flower that didn't belong in a police station. “The only reason they're dead is because you made sure we weren't there. And you don't seem fucking aggrieved about the whole situation.”

“Am I upset that a couple of murdering gangbangers are dead? No, I can't say I am. But I'm not appreciatin' the allegations you're layin’ at my feet. I gave the order to stand down because we had six thugs and a ton of coke in a motel room. I thought there was a chance we'd get someone higher up arrivin’. A worthwhile arrest. I was wrong. My call and I was wrong, but don't lay the cartel war at my door, Jenson.”

They stood facing each other, chests heaving. Michael felt something tug at his stomach, an urge to take a step back. It would look weak, give away his lie. He kept his ground and after what felt like an hour, Jenson turned away. Her hips gun barrel straight as she walked away. “Next time, you're not leading operations. Tradition or not. Fuck this place needs clearing out.”

Michael surprised himself at how negative he could make 'Yes, Captain' sound. The door slammed shut behind Jenson and he was left in the conference room. Swinging through the air, his boot made contact with the table leg, the entire thing threatening to tumble over.

***

1:25 stared back at him from his wrist. He could hardly see the arms of his watch, the meagre light from the porch just fighting off the dark for long enough. It could have been worse. Crossing the distance from his car to the front door, Michael caught sight of the stray cat leaping from the porch and disappearing into the bushes. One day he'd get around to taking the damn thing to the vet so that they could look after it instead.

The bowl of mints had been replenished during the day. A reminder from Susan. He pushed one free of its wrapper, leaving the plastic to crinkle next to the bowl as he popped the mint into his mouth. It didn't mask the cigarettes. Nothing could. The tobacco coated the inside of his throat like lichen in a cave. It allowed a measure of comfort, though. If Susan could smell the mint on his breath, it showed that at least he cared enough to try and hide the cigarettes. For Michael, it was the first step of packing everything away into the right box within his head. The urge to smoke. The bloodied bodies he had witnessed. The boiling anger at Jenson. Everything was hidden away as he chewed on the mint. That was the outside world. He was inside now.

Heading to the dresser in the dining room, he dropped the packet of Marlboro's into the first drawer. The dying refrigerator hummed just out of sight. Smelling leftover chicken in the air, Michael lingered by the dresser, his fingers dipping into his other pocket. The card from the murder scene waited for his touch. Pulling it free, Michael ran his eyes over it, secure in the fact that this time no one would walk in on him. It was nothing more than a business card. A strip of laminated paper conveying a service. 2 Samuel 13. Nothing else jumped out at him. Opening the second drawer, Michael dropped the card with the rest. He'd lost count of how many sat in his dresser, how many gangbangers had been disposed of by the unknown vigilante.

His boots creaked on the stairs and the sound followed him down the hall. By the time Michael had reached their bedroom, the bedside lamp was already on. Susan propped against a tower of pillows. Beside her, the covers hugged the tiny form of his daughter. A tuft of blonde hair peaked out from the top. Looking at his two girls, Michael could hardly remember the bodies he had left behind. They'd been fully packed away within the darkest corners of his brain. He swallowed the tiny speck the mint had become.

“God,” Susan said, “will you please take those boots off inside?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Michael said, parking himself on the end of their bed. His fingers teased his shoelaces free, sliding his boots off and placing them to one side of the bed. “Katie couldn't sleep?”

The bed covers shifted and a pale, pinkish face emerged from the top. “I had a nightmare, Daddy.”

“A nightmare?”

Katie nodded, pulling her knees up to her chin. “About dinosaurs.”

Neither Michael nor Susan could quite stifle their laughter, but Michael did his best solemn look and nodded. “I'm home now, honey, so you don't need to worry about those dinosaurs now.”

“Did you catch the bad guys?”

Did you catch the bad guys? It was the question that followed Michael everywhere since his daughter learned about his job. “Yeah,” he grinned, and the compartments of his brain threatened to fall down. “We caught them.”

“But will they stay caught? Don't the bad guys who get caught sometime get to go out?”

The bedding crinkled between Michael's fingers. All of his doubts expressed from the mouth of a babe. Jenson had already given the game away when she ranted at him. Someone would be induced with a lesser sentence. If they told the Police something that could be used, evidence against the higher-ups, then their time in prison would look more like a weekend getaway than a lifetime behind bars. That was why Michael made the call to hang back. No one escaped their punishments this time.

“Don't worry, honey, they're stayin’ caught this time. We won't be seein’ them again,” Michael said, leaning forward to kiss Katie on her forehead. “Who told you that the bad guys get to leave?”

“Tommy.”

Nodding, Michael climbed off the bed. The carpet scratched against his bare feet. Susan looked up at him, her lips parting; no doubt ready to talk him down. A single glance and she fell silent, reaching for the lamp. Disappearing into the darkness, Michael worked his way down the hall, cursing as his toenail jammed into a toy fire engine. It just wasn't on. Tom was always sticking his beak in, riling his sister up. Telling her that thugs got out of jail for good behaviour was the final straw. The bedroom door swung open, bouncing off the wall as he reached for the light switch.

“Huh, what,” Tommy stammered. The Transformer poster on his wall was peeling free again, the machines matching those on Tommy's chest. Michael felt a moment of relief that the powerful bulb meant he didn't have to see his boy in those ridiculous glow in the dark pajamas.

“Why you got to aggravate your sister like that?”

Tommy rubbed at his eyes. “Huh. Dad? What?”

“I'm tired of all your shit,” Michael said, closing the door behind him. Wiggling free the strap of his watch, he placed it on the desk laden with books and paper. “Don't you dare go tellin’ Katie shit like that.”

“Dad... I don't know,” Tommy said, looking up. Michael rolled up his sleeves and Tommy jumped backwards, pressing himself into the corner of the room as if the walls might swallow him whole. “Daddy! I didn't do anything Daddy!”

“That's what they all say,” Michael said, freeing his belt from his waist. The leather cracked through the air.

***

The station the next day had all the atmosphere of a wake. Stony faces and silence filled the building, recognition that yesterday they had failed. It was all a performance. By the water cooler, people fistbumped. Michael and one of the older boys, semi-retired and working part-time, shared a wink. They had six less criminals to deal with. Everyone knew it would have been inappropriate to look happy about it, though.

“You holdin’ up okay there, Stewart,” Michael said, walking by his partner's desk. She stared intently at the screen. Her cheeks pinkened. Her eyes didn't move from her computer. “You ignorin’ me, huh?” Nothing. A click of the mouse. “Well, when you feel like sharin', you let me know.”

Michael was halfway to his own desk when Carla's voice rung out behind him. “I don't need your help. I don't need you to 'look after me'. I was fucking fine last night. Now, everyone is saying I'm as green as my face. That I couldn't handle it. Fuck you.”

Shrugging, Michael walked off. He'd talk to her when she was a little less emotional. The bodies must have upset her more than she thought. Sitting down at his desk, Michael tapped away at his keyboard. Desk work. Punishment from Jenson for his decision. Reports to be written and filed. It was slow going and after only half an hour, the urge to light up had increased tenfold. Looking up at the clock on the wall, he told himself to wait another hour. The itching in his throat grew larger.

Michael's phone cut through the background noise of an office, through the chatter and gentle hum of ageing computers. He stared at it. Whenever it rang, he always made sure to give the caller enough time to decide they didn't want to actually ring him. The phone didn't die away. With a sigh, Michael answered the call.

“Deputy Stonis?” A voice coated in gravel.

“No more deputies I'm afraid,” Michael said. It came out sharper than he meant. It wasn't the public's fault that Jenson and the State decided to gut the old structures. “Just Lieutenant Michael Stonis now. What can I do for you?”

“I want you to stay very quiet and not to do anything stupid. Can you do that for me, Deputy?”

Michael's eyebrows began their long ascent up to his receding hairline. “I'm makin’ no promises. Let's see if you don't do anythin' stupid as well and work from there.”

“You can’t put a voice to a face then? Or is the department that underfunded that you really don’t have me bugged.” Silence. Michael’s eyes scanned the room. He half expected to see some grinning face staring back at him. An office prank laugh. There was no one. Reaching for the pen and pad by his desk, Michael readied himself to scribble down whatever could be gleamed from the caller.

“Why don’t you just tell me your name,” he said.

“You can just call me Mr. Clayton.”

Terrence Clayton. Michael just resisted the urge to say the name aloud. The words lodged at the top of his throat, threatening to tumble free of his mouth. Every head would turn in his direction. No one was really sure who was losing the Cartel War, but everyone could agree that Clayton was winning. In some way. Michael scribbled at the paper, lines running off at random. He could tell someone. Make a gesture. Mouth the word ‘Clayton’ at a colleague. Fetch Jenson. The pen scribbled over the lines Michael had already drawn.

“And what can I do for you?” he said, and he told himself it sounded exactly how it would have if he was talking to a concerned citizen.

“We need to talk. You’ve got yourself a vigilante. A real John Smith, a true American hero.”

Within his boots, Michael’s toes curled. It was the only sign of outward expression he allowed himself. He was a bottle ready to explode. For months now he had known about the vigilante, collected his little cards, keeping his existence a secret. If no one knew about the vigilante, then no one could stop him clearing the city of gangbangers and cartel lieutenants. Now someone else knew. They were talking about it. The cork had been freed and everything threatened to burst. Staring unseeing at the paper, Michael considered hanging up. The implications weaved through his head. It would look suspicious. He hadn’t killed the line when Clayton mentioned his name; Michael was already committed to having a conversation with the man. To run away now would suggest that a vigilante was a rawer wound than potentially fraternising with the enemy.

“Why are you ringin’ me? Surely Captain Jenson would be a better fit,” Michael said. A diversion, drawing Clayton into a dark alley. Away from talk of vigilantes.

“Some out of state, varsity educated woman? Why would I do that, when I can talk to an actual deputy? Come on, Stonis. We may be on opposite sides of the law, but we’re on the same side of the war that counts. She’ll ignore me. Or set up some task force. Push some pencils around. Do fuck all but drink tea. But we can handle this the old way; back how Sheriff Glendale would have. We can take action. Take poor Johnny out. Neither of us wants a murderous madman running around. At least, not one not controlled and restrained by myself.”

Turning in his chair, Michael looked at the smoke rook, catching himself halfway through. It was the conference room now. “Why are you callin’ him John?”

“I’m sure as hell not calling him Batman.”

The spiralling lines upon the paper were growing wilder and Michael was sure the entire pad was being carved. He let go of the pen and instantly regretted it. His fingers felt cold and a burn spread out across his chest. All the heat seemed to surge up to his head and he wanted to bury his fingers into his scalp and dig violently. Clayton’s breathing was a constant presence next to his ear.

“I don’t know,” Michael felt like every word was stilted, too obviously fake. He thought Clayton might have made a noise. Disbelief. Disapproval. “It’s not like you don’t get enough of your own type of people tryin’ to kill you. Why d’you even think this is any different?”

“Falcons are not known to leave cryptic Biblical messages at the scene of their handiwork. There are, naturally, certain crimes that the police are never privy too. We've been finding messages at the site of them. 2 Samuel 13. Are you a religious man, Deputy?”

“’course I am. Though I can’t say I know all the scripture off by heart.” Michael knew exactly what 2 Samuel 13 said. The first time he saw the card, placed lovingly on a gangbanger’s decimated face, he had headed to his bookshelf at home and read the verse.

“Amnon rapes his half-sister and yet their father, the King, does not punish his son because he loves him. It took Absalom to restore the rightful order of things. He took it upon himself to kill Amnon for his sins. What could anyone mean by leaving a card to this verse?”

“Do you have sons?” Michael said. Fingers shaking as they inched down to the pack of Marlboro in his desk. Health and Safety be damned, he needed to feel the warm embrace of that nicotine cocoon. “Maybe you’ve upset one.”

Total silence. The fiery lump in Michael’s chest flickered. Perhaps he had pushed just far enough and the gang lord had thrown his phone, shattered it into a thousand pieces. Then Clayton’s voice crackled through the line. “I don’t appreciate my time being wasted. You’ve must have seen the cards too. There’s been plenty. The boys who died last night? Check that motel room again. It’ll be there.”

“We'll look into it,” Michael said. “But if you want to report an actual crime, go through the proper channels.”

The call was over. Michael slammed the phone down before he could even think about what he was doing. Flinging open a draw, he blindly groped for the pack of cigarettes, pulled them free and bustled out of the station. He sighed as the cold air nipped at his exposed skin. Drawing him away from the crazy world. Dragging him back to reality. A place where crime lords didn't ring the police for help and vigilantes didn't run through cartels. Lighting up, Michael stared out at the gas station across from them. People went about their day. Perhaps one of them was the vigilante. Maybe Clayton was watching him. Anyone could have pulled a gun and started to fire. If the man in the overcoat did, the two toddlers in the back seat of the saloon would be shredded before anyone could react. The smoke lodged in Michael's throat.

Dropping the cigarette to the floor, he rubbed at his eyes, pressing his fingers in until it began to hurt. He wasn't sure what had come over him. Clayton was a criminal with a god complex, a thug with illusions of grandeur. There was no point in letting such a man get to him. It didn't matter if he knew about the vigilante. Michael wasn't going to help him. He also wasn't going to tell Jenson about Clayton's theory of John. Before anyone else would be able to get a word in, she would have a committee set up and no more gangbangers would get their just deserts. Sucking in a mouthful of clean, cold air, Michael felt his stomach settling. The train just had to keep rumbling on.

Heading back to his desk, the hours slipped away as he tried to concentrate on numbers and addresses. Jenson walked past and said nothing to him. A few minutes later, Stewart followed and she glared. Michael didn’t care. He found himself thinking again and again about ‘Johnny’ the vigilante. He was doing the right thing. Too many innocent people had died because everyone was too concerned with the cartel’s rights.

When the end of his shift came, Michael eagerly grabbed at the opportunity to go drinking with several other officers. It had been exactly the type of a day that warranted several cold ones.

***

The concrete swayed like a sailing ship and Michael reached out for his fence, steadying himself. His legs felt as if they had been replaced with bags of air. Somewhere behind him there was triumphant yelling and laughter and Michael turned and hissed into the wind. The shushing sound echoed down the street. His drinking partners, though, had vanished and now his front door seemed so very far away. The driveway kept shifting, moving around. He'd take a step forward only to find his foot somewhere he hadn't planned to be at all. By the time he got to the front step, Michael wasn’t quite sure where the street was.

A giggle escaped his lips. He was going to remember this time. The boots. In his drunken haze, he imagined Susan being so pleased with his bare-footed arrival that she’d lead him straight to the bedroom. Pulling both shoes off his feet, Michael propped them against the front step and stood up. It was only then he noticed the card tucked into the crevice between door and frame. Michael’s heart skipped a beat. In the glow of the porch light he could read the writing. 2 Stephen 13. A thousand different thoughts all pushed at once in his head and he stumbled against the door.

It was unlocked and every drop of alcohol evaporated from Michael’s bloodstream. He staggered into the porch, ignoring the mints waiting for him, heading straight to the kitchen. The walls no longer spun, but rather pushed together. The house shrinking, closing in around him. Something was doing the same thing to his chest. Socks padding against the cold, hard floors, Michael stepped into the dining room.

There was blood everywhere.

It covered the walls and stained the smooth surface of the kitchen floor. The bookshelves were coated in the scarlet paint. Left gathered around the table were things that only a few hours ago had been his family. They were not anymore. Michael froze. He couldn’t move. Even his heart refused to beat. The still damp, blood sodden carpet lapped at his socks. The wool of his socks turning dark red. He took a step forward. Toward Katie. His Katie. His little girl. He took a step back. He couldn’t look at her. Turning, hunting for some foothold of humanity, Michael realized the house was filled with screaming. It was his.

The phone rang.

It kept ringing. The sound mingled with Michael’s screams, echoing through the empty house until the screaming vanished and only the phone was left. It was persistent. The call would die only for the phone to ring again. The sound dug deep into Michael’s ears until he found himself crossing the blood-stained carpet and placing the phone to his ear.

There was heavy breathing and then a strangled voice crackled through the line. “Tell the other moles that a similar fate will be waiting.” Michael opened his mouth but nothing came out. The voice continued. “You hear me? Tell anyone else whoring themselves for the cartels that I’ll hurt them.”

“I’m not a mole.” Michael’s voice was flat. No anger. No rage. He spoke because something tugged at him, that this was the part he had to play in the conversation. He couldn’t be angry. There was nothing left inside him capable of feeling it.

“That’s what they all say,” the voice spat. “I know you were the one who called off the police raid. It’s why I had to act. You were protecting them! I know all about your little phone call to Terrence Clayton too. Taking new orders, are you? Well, spread the word to your low-life friends. Do your jobs or face the consequences.”

Michael didn’t argue. It didn’t seem important to. The hollowness inside him grew. Nothing he said was going to change anything. He kept his eyes forward, locked on the wall, looking anywhere else but at the things at the dining room table. The silence bubbled over and he heard the vigilante hang up.

Something had to give.

[Sensar]

REVIEWS

Reviews for:
ENTRY #1

Oh boy. This was an interesting ride, but not in a good way. Making fun of action movie cliches is one thing, but making them into an almost pathogenic condition was a weird way to go about it. Guy loses dog, cries to people he knows, suddenly becomes a gang-murdering badass that doesn't realize what he's done. Drags woman into criminal killing spree. Forces her to infect herself. "accidentally". Despite the nature of it, how it seems to love and hate the archetypes and stereotypes that crawl along with these sorts of situations, it can't help but be overly smug about it.

Despite these flaws, though, it did a lot of good things. It gave the characters personality, it had a good bounce, and the scene moved fluidly. I think, if given more time, this story might've been something better, but in the end it failed to really connect.

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For the first time, I just don't have much to say about a story in this competition. The writing is technically well done with just a few misses here and there. The entirety of it is short and succinct without having a lot of extra fluff that detracts from it. The dialogue is fantastically written, and if we ever have a discussion on dialogue and character voice I think this would be a good piece to offer for examination. Plot-wise, its kind of non-existent. Which doesn't hurt it, but it doesn't leave me much to say about it either. There's no character development, no conflict, nothing. Which is remarkable for how little that matters. I enjoyed it, but its like popcorn. Quick satisfaction with little overall substance and eventually I'm going to need something else to satiate me. I just don't care about anything in it. Overall, I'd say this feels like a good writing exercise.

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Okay. Well, first, this story is, minus the introduction is less than 1500 words. That’s short. The introduction makes up 13% of the words you’ve submitted. Now, that’s not necessarily a fault in and of itself, but it’s the first thing that strikes the reader about this entry. It’s hard to do much interesting storytelling in less than 1500 words. You’re dipping below ‘short story’ and into the high-end of what’s sometimes considered flash fiction. Every word here needs to count. Every sentence needs to serve a purpose. That’s my first impression when I see a story of that length. Make it economical.

You start off by carrying on the tone of the intro fairly well. I wrote the intro, and I wrote it in a very particular kind of way with the intention of challenging you to match it. And I think you largely accomplished that in those first few sentences. So points for that.

“He was vaguely Latino, possibly of Middle Eastern descent, but there very well could have been some African-American blood in there.” Here’s an example of a sentence which is not economical. What’s this got to do with anything? Does ethnicity play a role in this story at all? Does that become relevant at any point? You’ve got 1500 words here and you spent more than 20 of them when you could’ve spent 7 and we don’t get anything for it.

Leah’s interaction with Michael seems… odd. The way she’s explaining what has just happened to him is so casual. She’s handing out exposition like he’s an Alzheimer’s patient, like there’s no shock or discomfort or confusion for her that Michael doesn’t have any memory of the past, presumably, few minutes. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it? You’d think she’d be more alarmed by all of this. We need to have some context that allows that to make sense – otherwise, it reads like unrealistic dialogue. There’s also a bit of a contradiction with the intro. The buzzing refrigerator, crickets, dog barking – that implies we’re in a very quiet house. Yet we’ve got civilians filing out and several other people in there with him? You couldn’t hear crickets over that.

Michael going up the stairs and touring the house all flies past. The intro set a scene, really painted the picture of the kitchen – why don’t you paint the rest of the house? Why don’t we see it, feel it, smell it? “He returned to the kitchen.” That sentence could have been 5 long, interesting, visceral sentences. Again, Leah just casually explains what’s happened to Michael. No fear or shock or confusion that this guy doesn’t remember killing a dozen people. Give us insight into Michael’s thoughts. His face. Leah’s thoughts. Leah’s face. Show us the emotion or confusion or feelings going on here. This is a huge murder scene and we’ve just got two characters casually talking. She slaps him across the face – that’s it. Just those words. Nothing else to it. Just stated as a fact. Put us there. “Yep,” the guy casually says who stopped a bomb from blowing up with 1 second left on the timer. The hostages are just background noise – no words, no reactions, no feelings from them.

You say the Chief of Police would almost certainly be there to award them medal – the three of them. Are they police officers? Civilians aren’t just awarded medals because they killed people who happen to be associated with a gang. Michael needs to leave in spite of this? Why don’t the other two need to leave? Who are they going to say did all the killing? The scenario is bewildering and not in a good way.

“Showed up and saved me,” Leah says. What about him going to her office that morning? And the taxi? The first two times I read about the gang leader pointing his firearm and a shot firing at Michael’s back, followed by his gasping, I thought he’d been shot. You weren’t very clear about that at all. And… the way the two of them just leave… there’s no explanation for it. None of it makes any sense.

Did you outline this at all? Or plan it? Did you sit down and go, “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen in the story: ____”? Because I can’t believe that you did. Nothing is wrapped up. Nothing is explained. Nothing is even shown. Besides that first paragraph being kind of interesting and detailed and managing to carry on the intro’s tone, the whole thing just feels like it was written at the last minute without any forethought or planning.

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I don’t get this story. Well, I guess I do. The concept of just running with the aftermath and not properly explaining it is a cool idea. I think it could have been a really enjoyable story. But it just didn’t work for me here and it left me with a story that was just… meh. It makes it kind of hard to review because it might not necessarily be a bad story, I just didn’t like it.

You made a good crack at the start at trying to follow the distinctive style of the beginning. Which made it all the more jarring when you completely dropped it after about three paragraphs.

I just really don’t have much to say beyond that. I feel like a dick for not saying much, but I’d also feel like a dick for picking it to pieces. It’s just that type of story. It either worked or it didn’t, and unfortunately, it didn’t work for me.

On the flipside, I laughed hard at:

“Watch it with that thing, man,” Spike quipped, holding his side and limping, “Last thing I need is another hole.”

“He drove the taxi, remember.” Leah interjected, stepping over a corpse to tend to Spike’s wound, “You kept calling him ‘Chang.’”

Spike winced at Leah’s touch, “That’s not even my name, man.” Leah helped him to a seat at the table, “Besides, shouldn’t you be getting out of here? Those sirens are getting pretty close.”

Chang was right.

Except actually using the expression "Spike quipped". For that I want to kill you. Don't do that again.

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This story had potential to be a good commentary on action films/books but it failed to really deliver anything satisfying. It seemed too fast pace and considering how short it was, it meant nothing really had a chance to immerse me in to the story. What struck me while reading it, is that it seemed to lack was meant to be a sense of frantic panic. Like the slap felt out of place because Michael just didn't come across as being anything but apathetic.

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We have the narrative Male Power Fantasy going on here. And, well, there’s not a lot to it.

I didn’t really experience any thought or emotion, just read it. Just absorbed it, really. It’s really just a recollection of events that seemed a lot more fun to experience directly as they happened than to get a ‘Last Week on Michael Shits the Fan’ recall style story.

Something does happen at the end, and I don’t buy it. Leah suddenly horrified and condemned to this decision? No obvious self-defense argument here? It just feels like a hasty clean-up, an excuse to find some moral equivalency between our two leads (when there isn't), and a small knot of conflict in what is just a really odd sequence.

Reviews for:
ENTRY #2

Whoa. This story had all of the emotional atmosphere I would come to expect from a detective story. Cops with secrets, addictions. The rookie's first day on the job. A serial killer. Working with criminals. An angry boss. A dysfunctional home life. It really pulled all of these elements together into a compelling narrative that I felt went extremely well with the opener. Everything fit.

Well, almost everything. While it did nail down the atmosphere of the setting, it seemed to thrive on overmetaphoring. Not only did some of the metaphors fall flat, and hard, at times the atmospheric elements took me out of the story. Cops fist-bumping in front of the water cooler? Accidentally saying 12:18 PM instead of AM? There were things here or there that took me out of the narrative, some of which didn't sit smoothly. At times, at least in the beginning, it didn't seem to solidly say who was who and explain what the hell was going on in a way that flowed. Too many metaphors and explanations, not enough solid narrative. However, the rest of the story moved nicely, although the ending did jar me a bit. How did the killer know that he talked to the crime lord? How did he know where he lived? Who are they? All of this won't be answered until the never printed sequel, but honestly?

I want to see more of this and see how it can get improved.

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So...OK. This story is in desperate, desperate need of editing. It suffers in several other areas that really impact my ability to engage with this piece. All the pieces are there for a good story, its just that the way its written is...bad. I can't tell if the story is supposed to be from Michael's POV or from an omniscient narrator as the author can't seem to make up their mind either. This ties into how the author falls into the trap of telling rather than showing. There's a whole lot of telling about what's going on without really showing. Several things just kind of happen and the scene building is nonexistent. Michael is awful, which I get is what I'm supposed to feel as the writer hits me upside the head with this so many times, but he's also awful just on a character building level. And the plot just stops making sense once he gets the phone call. Nothing is really tied well together and it seems like the author wants to tell a much larger story, or is failing to hint at a world building that just isn't very interesting. I don't really understand why his family is murdered unless its just because he had a cryptic phone call from some dude.

/sigh

Ok. So I don't really know how to get into a decent review of this piece without going line by line and just deleting and restructuring and rewriting. From a confused narrator/character POV voice to a jumbled mess of a plot, the author fails to get across an actual story and instead writes a brainstormed outline of an actual story they'd rather write.

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Michael’s dialogue is very interesting from the start. He’s not sure how forensics will understand… things he’s just explained. He says things aloud so that Carla can come to wrong conclusions. Michael needing to get out in spite of him seeming to be a cop or detective? Then there’s “Sully”. I was completely confused by this character initially. They’re mentioned, kind of, in a bit of dialogue in the house. But there’s no sense of them being with Michael and Carla as they’re walking, and then they’re back again? Super unclear about that. Then it’s made clear that they are, in fact, police. And yet… they needed go get out before forensics showed up? What’s going on here?

We’ve got Jenson, Michael + Stonis, Carla + Stewart, and Sully and Susan. That’s a lot of names going on and four of them start with ‘S’. It’s unnecessary and confusing. And it’s a very interesting call to make Michael the kind of guy who beats his kid without any real explanation. You’ve made us dislike the protagonist of your story. That’s a gamble and a half. And now another name, Terrence Clayton. Wonderful.

Michael’s on the phone with Clayton and, despite apparently wanting to keep the call on the down-low and in spite of the office being very quiet that day… he’s saying some pretty blatantly weird stuff. Anyone nearby would have heard him saying this and it all sounds suspicious. And the phone call, despite taking up a good chunk of words, doesn’t leave the reader feeling like they’ve learned anything. Doesn’t leave them caring more, or more interesting, or more curious. What’s the story, here? What is the reader meant to want? What are we looking for or caring about? We dislike the protagonist, we’re clueless as to his motives, we’re clueless as to Clayton, we’re not given enough of anything to care about what’s going on. There’s no drive.

And then… his family is murdered, Michael appears to be a mole for the Cartel, someone has gotten revenge over it, and it’s over. All the names, all the characters, all the arguments, all of it… useless. And we don’t even feel bad for the protagonist in the end because we were made to dislike him. The nicotine theme throughout didn’t amount to anything. We weren’t made to care for, or root for, or be curious about, anything, really, and so the conclusion doesn’t make us feel anything.

I’ll ask the same question I asked about entry 1: Did you plan this story? Did you sit and outline it and consider what was going to happen and why and what purpose it all served? Was there a goal in mind? I can’t help but feel that there wasn’t. This entry trumps the other one on nothing more than the fact that it was longer and more effort was put into it, but both, honestly, accomplished basically nothing.

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This story was great. More specifically I loved the descriptions of the thoughts that Michael had. They really helped to show us just how fucked up he is. You do a great job of building a character that is fun to hate and even give a very succinct ending for the character with his mistake coming back to bite him in the arse. There are some questions left unanswered like how did the vigilante know of the phone call. But the answer to that seems like it could be better answered in a novel.

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Your writing is good. Its got the Noir vibe, and the first half feels like your late night cop procedural, which I can dig, Hardboiled dialogue, too, some really good lines–I love a good mystery–the detective and captain confrontation could be ripped straight from an 80s script. The crime scene absorbs us. Tells the reader what they need to know, without being obnoxious about it. It’s fun, I’m enjoying myself–so far.

But…it just falls apart. The second half is just a mess, towards an uneventful conclusion hinging on a bunch of relationships that I don’t have time or any emotional investment to care about. There’s no mystery in your world that begs for one. No suspense. Because we don’t get to assume anything as the reader. Don’t get to double guess–aside from Michael being a mole. Two essential characters only come into play in the last two scenes. Michael comes off as a dick, and it’s okay to have dislikeable leads, but there’s nothing nuanced about it, and it really just makes the ending fall on a complete flat note. We don’t get into his psyche enough. He admires this vigilante, but I never really understand why. He brushes off others and beats his son (I assume to project his own vigilante fantasy). What’s his deal, though? He feels shallow. He’s just a bland asshole for me.

Exposition is just dolloped out as convenient. The vigilante should be introduced way earlierl. Michael plays it close to his chest from others, but should it be hidden from the reader? I don’t think so. I think the story needs to start with who Michael wants to be, which seems to be this guy who supports vigilante justice, potentially noble, and then slowly deconstruct him–strip him bare–show him who he really is, which is a dude that beats his son.