Brian O'Grady - Hybrid

Peter Bilsky watched the snowfall from the window of a city bus. Pueblo was getting dumped on. It was not as bad as Colorado Springs to the north, but bad enough that the bus was running late. He braced himself as the driver slowed for another stop. Damn, he had a headache. It had started over a week ago, and it was only getting worse. He felt every bump in the road, and even the driver’s gentle braking was enough to send bolts of pain through his head and down his spine. His aunt was sick as well, but she’d had the good sense to call in sick. Peter really didn’t have that option. If he missed work, he wasn’t paid.

Two people got on the bus and swayed down the aisle looking for a seat while the driver took off, trying to make up for the delay. Both women eyed the seat next to Peter, but chose to keep walking.

“Bitches,” he said, not too quietly. “Never seen a black man before?” He hated white people. He hated Colorado. He hated being cold. He hated having to take this fucking bus to his fucking job. In L.A., he hadn’t had to work or take the bus. And it never fucking snowed there either. Damn, his head hurt.

“Why the hell did you ever come to this place, Ten Spots?”

Peter looked over and found his friend Eddie sitting in the seat the white women didn’t want.

“And why did you drag my ass here?” Eddie asked.

“I didn’t drag your ass anywhere, motherfucker. You followed me.” Talking hurt his head. “What are you looking at?” Peter got tired of people staring at him, and if the asshole in the seat opposite them didn’t look away, he was going to get his ass kicked.

“Wow, man,” said Eddie. “You got to keep it down. Low profile, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Peter looked over his cousin. “Does that hurt?” he asked, motioning to the gunshot wound in Eddie’s chest.

“No. Isn’t that a fucking trip? Nothing hurts. Maybe it’s the cold.” They both laughed, but Peter grabbed his painfilled head. “Man, you got to get that checked out,” Eddie said. “Maybe you got a tumor or something.”

“It’s not a fucking tumor; it’s this fucking place, and all these fucking WHITE PEOPLE!” His screaming only produced another explosion of pain.

“Man, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m gonna leave your ass here.” Eddie got up, but Peter motioned him to sit down.

“Okay, okay. I can’t think with this headache. Why are you going with me, anyways? You can’t work like that.” Peter flicked Eddie’s blood-splattered shirt.

“I’m not gonna do any fucking work. I’m keepin’ an eye on you, Mr. Peter Bilsky.” Eddie flicked the nametag on his cousin’s coverall. “Who in the hell is Peter Bilsky, anyway?”

“My aunt’s neighbor’s son. He’s dead or something. It was her idea. It’s a stupid fucking name.” He wanted to scream again, but his head hurt too much. “Whose blood is that, yours or the other guy’s?” They both looked at Eddie’s shirt.

“I think most of it’s mine,” said Eddie, playing with the bloody tatters while Peter rubbed his throbbing forehead. They rode in silence through three more stops.

“This next one,” Eddie said. The bus was slowing again, and several people got up. Peter let them get off first and then followed Eddie out into the cold. A gust of wind and sleet hit Peter as the bus drove away. “I hate this fucking place,” he said while tucking his chin as low as it would go. He had two blocks to walk in this shit. The Veterans Administration hospital loomed above him, but he had to walk around to the back. “Not good enough for the front door,” he told Eddie, who also was shivering from the cold.

“Fuck, this place SUCKS,” Eddie called out, his voice echoing off the dirty building as he trudged up the hill in front of his cousin.

Peter rounded the side of the building and pulled up when he saw a number of police cars parked around the loading dock. “Fuck, man, do you think this is for us?” he said as Eddie ducked into the shadows.

“Why don’t you fucking go ask them?” Eddie said from the cover.

Peter realized that he was standing on the path in plain view of probably twenty cops, but before he could turn away, one of them called out.

“Excuse me!” the cop yelled, and several more turned his way. They were all white. “Do you work here?”

“Yes, I fucking work here!” Peter yelled back. The pain in his head had taken over, and if he was going to hurt this bad, then goddamn it, other people were going to hurt just as bad. Peter stomped over towards the collection of cops. “You got a problem with that, you white motherfucker? Any of you assholes have a problem with that?” He was half running at them.

“Slow down there, big guy.” The officer had one hand out, and the other was reaching around for his nightstick. “We had to close this entrance because of the governor’s visit. You can go around to the front and enter the building there.”

Peter’s head was bursting, and he didn’t hear a word the cop said. He just kept charging. Peter Bilsky, aka Ten Spots, aka Lamarr Bost, had ceased to exist. The twenty-year-old refugee from the mean streets of Watts, who two years ago showed up at his aunt’s house in Pueblo, Colorado, after a failed armed robbery that had resulted in the deaths of the liquor storeowner and his cousin Eddie, was no more. All the progress he had made in two years — the schooling, the clean work record, the mentoring of troubled teens — was washed away in an ocean of pain and rage. He barreled into the nearest cop and started pummeling him, only slightly aware that the other officers were giving him the same treatment. It didn’t matter. As Eddie had said, it didn’t hurt because of the cold.

They struggled for several minutes, and Peter took out two cops before they brought him down. They knocked him on his back, bending him over the first cop he had knocked out. The rest piled on top of him or hit his legs with their nightsticks. He had long since been consumed by the pain in his head and was nothing more than a rabid animal, bent on destroying everything and everyone around him. They forced his arms down and tried to turn him on his stomach, but Peter found a gun instead. It was still holstered in the unconscious cop’s belt, but through the cloud of pain, Peter recognized release when he felt it. He twisted the weapon free and found that it had a familiar feel. A Glock , he thought, then clicked off the safety and began firing.

He had to have hit some of them, because he was suddenly on his feet and running. The pain in his head hadn’t eased an iota, and it drove him forward. A crowd had gathered at the loading dock, and he turned towards them. He saw Eddie behind several more cops and some other white people. Realization struck him with a force greater than the bullets that slammed into his chest and back: they were the cause of his pain, and it would continue until he destroyed them all. He opened fire and saw the blood fly from their bodies; he saw their pain, and it eased his. He kept pulling the trigger long after the gun was empty and only stopped when his pain had stopped.

Phil slammed the transmission into drive and powered over the snow. He felt the eyes of the investigative team drilling holes in his Power Wagon as he drove away, but that was unimportant. They had a job to do, just as he had a job to do, and they would do theirs, just as he would do his.

Despite the fact that the road crews had cleared most of the main roads, traffic was almost nonexistent, and Phil made good time. Even with the delay caused by the death of his neighbor, Phil was only an hour late; he was surprised to see that most of his staff had made it in to work as well. He greeted his secretary with his usual stilted “Good morning” and quickly escaped into his office. A moment later, she called his phone and ran down the day’s activities. He took notes, as she detailed not only his responsibilities for the day but the department’s as well. The notes really weren’t necessary, since he immediately organized the information in his head, but notes were a part of The Routine, and that made them necessary.