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Outrun Stories #50

PALE BLOOD - Part 1 of 10

“One of you motherfuckers better get that light out of my eyes,” I say with my usual grimace.

“We’re not here for your comfort, Cutty,” the fat interviewer the other side of the interrogation room says back.

“Sunglasses it is then.” I pick up my Rayban Clubmasters and slide them onto my face.

The interviewer picks up the tablet off the table, takes a look at it, takes a look at me with a furrowed brow, looks back down.

I break the silence. “Look, what the hell do you guys want to know?”

“Everything, Cutty. Everything, everyone, the whole story, you’re going to give it all up.”

“You sure you assholes got enough time? I hear you keep yourselves busy with, you know, official government work?” I laugh and light a cigarette as a speaker in the room crackles and a voice comes through, this one with a little more authority to its tone.

“Look, Cutty. You’re in deep shit, you’ve lost your badge, you cooperate or you might just lose your freedom too.”

Freedom? In this place? Fuck, I know what division these assholes are from, but I didn’t think they were that stupid. They want to know the whole story? Alright. “Jack Cutty, Lieutenant First Class at the Santa Rio Police Department. I’m five years deep in this pit. Five years of trying to hold it together, trying to make a difference, trying to do some good, but you assholes wouldn’t know much about that now would you?” I crack my knuckles. “Look, you know how hard is it to stay clean in an incident zone for five years? You know how hard it is to try and actually be a cop here? I’ve not had a paycheque in 10 months, I’ve got a list of murder cases longer than your wife’s lovers and I keep showing up for some reason. Keep trying to do something about this fucking mess.”

“Jack, we need to know about the girl,” the fat interviewer looks up from the tablet. “What happened with the girl.”

“Say her name,” I growl.

The speaker crackles. “Let’s just get on with things, Cutty,” the voice demands.

Fuck this noise. “Carla Burrows, sixteen years old, five feet six inches tall, 122lbs, formerly of Rayson Dale, educated at—” I pause as the memory washes over me. “Look, this city, the whole god damn Incident Zone, it’s fucking coming apart at the seams. I know we’re not the only one, but we’ve been left, you get that right? The Union broke up, it left us and the other IZ’s behind and we’ve been trying to make this work but it’s fucked. Everything’s fucked. Those things, the mutants, they creep in the darkness and decay and prey on the weak and strong alike, all the same to them. We’re fighting a war here, you know that much at least. We’re fighting for our lives against these things and you couldn’t care a fuck. Well, I do, I did, even if the rest of this god forsaken joke of a police department has given up.

“Fuck, that’s not fair, there’s a few good men left, but not enough. Not enough to give a shit when another young girl goes missing at least. They prey on the young girls, human ones, they need them so when one goes missing, when another kid disappears, everyone gets paid off, everyone turns a blind eye, and no one gives a shit. Sixteen long years since the Incidents, and the mutants have got good at what they do. How many do you think we’ve lost over the years? In this IZ alone? Hundreds? Thousands? You don’t give a shit. No one seems to give a shit, they’ve all given up. Well, not me, I fought and fought for a little hope in this hell and when Carla went missing, that was it. I couldn’t take it anymore, I just couldn’t.” I pause for a while, the heavy breathing of the fat interviewer filling the small interrogation room. “When the report on Carla came in, I just fucking snapped, justice wasn’t enough this time. Punishment was due.”

Musical inspiration – Molasar - Following

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