Now, just past three A.M., they were driving through empty streets. Dead streets, heading to a godforsaken place where—incredibly enough—people lived.
Rodriguez dug out a cigarette. The smoke soon filled the interior even with his window cracked. Sometimes Rodriguez would ask Jack if he minded. Tonight he didn’t.
Certain open spots were lit by massive tungsten lamps; other streets were islands of darkness, the high- intensity lamps never installed at all or smashed by the Can Heads.
They liked the dark.
From the outside, their squad car didn’t look all that different than one from a decade ago. Still almost like a normal patrol car, white with blue markings.
But if you looked closer, you could spot the differences.
All the windows were fitted with shatterproof triple-plate glass. And the exposed undercarriage was covered with a solid steel plate designed to protect the car from any explosions or attempts to sabotage it. A second layer of bullet-resistant metal covered the car’s exterior—though it wasn’t too often that bullets were the problem.
Its Achilles’ heel? Had to be the wheels. As puncture proof as they could be, the army-grade, hybrid steel- belted tires could still be rendered useless.
Trick was to keep the thing moving.
Being stopped, giving Can Heads time to figure a way in … that could be real bad.
“Damn quiet,” Rodriguez said.
Of course, nobody would be out, everyone trusting the locks on their doors more than the lamps or the police or the grid of fences to stand between them and the Can Heads.
If there was one thing everyone knew, the Can Heads—whatever made them like that, whatever goddamn switch had been thrown—never gave up.
Not when so nearby, so close, there was fresh meat.
“Always quiet, isn’t it?” Jack said.
“Yeah. Just don’t like it to be so damn quiet when we’ve been called.”
Jack didn’t say anything.
Instead, he looked at the backseat. A powerful arsenal accompanied them. Two M-16 machine guns, army- issue that had become the go-to automatic weapon for police. Beside it, a shotgun and an open case with a foam “egg carton” filled with a variety of explosives, flares and smoke bombs.
They both carried a Glock 22—a cop favorite—and a Smith & Wesson .40, small but accurate.
The rule on a call like this was, scope out the situation and then do what you could on your own. Backup might be available, but only if absolutely necessary.
Once they left the vehicle, they had to bring all the firepower they thought they’d need. Because if you travelled light, getting back to the car, to its portable armory, might be a moot point.
Rodriguez cut the car to the left, heading down a narrow street. No lights. Perfect for a trap, but it was the most direct way to the main entrance of the building.
Rodriguez turned on the squad car’s twin light bars on the roof. The narrow street became bathed in brilliant white light.
Jack saw a lone rat scramble away.
Even they were a rarity.
Then they left the narrow street, a turn to the right and the building entrance lay ahead.
“Okay. Looks quiet.”
“Yeah,” Jack answered. In addition to a Safe Zone’s own protective fence, this building—like most apartment buildings—had its own security fence, complete with a guard and video monitoring.
Except most of the guards weren’t worth much.
Terrified rummies, cowering in the shatterproof glass booths, peeing into a bottle, waiting until dawn when some other hapless guard relieved them.
Rodriguez pulled the car up to the gate. He flashed his ID. The guard rubbed his grizzled cheek at the same time as his handheld scanner recognized the ID as genuine.
The man inside the booth communicated with them via a speaker.
In some apartment complexes, there had been cases of finding these guys dead inside their booths. Somehow a Can Head would get in and enjoy feasting on something from the bottom end of the evolutionary spectrum.
And every security guard knew those stories.
“Where’s the problem?” Rodriguez asked.
The guard coughed, a crackle over the speaker.
“A tenant—fourth floor. Said he saw a new hole outside. Another breakthrough. H-he thought they might have gotten into the building. Sounded scared.”
Rodriguez: “Christ. In the fucking building? Motherfucker.”
Jack knew that it could simply be a case of someone who had too much home-brewed alcohol. The real stuff was hard to come by, and home brew could have weird side effects. A bottle or two and suddenly you start seeing Can Heads all over the fucking place.
“Where the hell is it?” Rodriguez asked.
“The opening? Ah … way in the back. And the … the … tenant’s name is Tomkins. Guy lives alone. Fourth floor. Four-G.”
Jack leaned forward.
“Can we get back there with the car?” Rodriguez said.
The guard looked as if he didn’t know the layout.
“Close. Over there. See those spaces over there? That’s about as close as you can get.”
Rodriguez turned to look at Jack, his expression saying,
Rodriguez’s eyes said it all.
Back to the guard. “Okay. Thanks. You hear anything more while we’re in there, you let us know. You got that, chief?”
The guard nodded.
Rodriguez pulled the car forward as the guard threw a switch. The gate opened, the wall of wire rolling away as they entered the apartment grounds.
Jack looked at his watch.
3:45.
Only about three hours away from finishing his shift.
For all the good that would do.
“What do you want?” he asked Rodriguez.
“The usual. Maybe a few incendiaries, in case there
Jack noticed that his partner had already discarded their new lower head/neck covering, an item that had given him the look of a medieval Asian warrior.
“You forgetting something?” Jack said.
“No. I prefer mobility, amigo.”
* * *
Out of the car.
Jack knelt down and scanned the opening in the fence while Rodriguez kept up a steady 360-degree scan of the surrounding area.
Jack pulled back on the opening.
