Max Collins: Skin Game

“Yeah?” The older man’s voice sounded resigned and maybe a little pissed off.

“I’ve got footprints on the second floor. They’re wet and they’re fresh.”

Any skepticism or irritation disappeared from Hankins’ voice: “What’s the imager say?”

Thompson returned his automatic to its holster and pulled out the imager. Watching the imager drawing blanks as its invisible beam moved up the hallway, he suddenly felt naked without the pistol in his hand, and when a red flare blipped up on the imager’s tiny monitor screen, he damn near threw the thing down the hall in his anxiety to reach for his weapon.

“You still with me, kid?” Hankins asked.

In spite of himself, Thompson jumped a little when Hankins’ voice made its appearance in his ear.

“Got a hot body,” Thompson said, “but its temp is below a hundred.”

“Probably not a transgenic.”

“Probably not.”

“Shit, though — I’m on my way. Hang loose till I get there.”

Thompson felt his nerve returning a little as he realized that whatever was in the room ahead probably wasn’t a transgenic.

“It’s all right, man,” he said into the headset. “I’m all over it.”

“You sure, kiddo?”

Slipping the imager back into his pocket, Thompson pulled out his Glock; his stomach was still fluttery, but — goddamnit — this was his job, and he would do it. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Hankins’ voice came back clearly, all business now. “You let me know what you find. You need me, I’m there in a heartbeat.”

“Right,” he said, almost feeling affection for the older man — and wasn’t that a rarity...

Thompson remained cautious, shining his light into each room as he moved down the hall. He wasn’t checking them carefully — somebody or something was on this floor, and he was moving it right along, accordingly — but the imager had shown nothing, and the quick playing of the beam around the rooms assured him the new gizmo wasn’t on the fritz.

Outside the third door on the left, he stopped, calmed his breathing, and once he was steady, he swung through the open door, his arms extended in front of him, the flashlight moving from right to left.

His flashlight sweep was halfway around the room when he heard the whoosh in the blackness to his left. In the grim darkness, he saw a length of two-by-four arcing through the air!

Before he could react, though, the board crashed down across his arms and the flashlight and pistol went flying in opposite directions, clattering, clanking. The flashlight went out when it hit the floor, the room going completely black. His Glock flew to the floor somewhere as well — didn’t go off, thankfully — winding up vaguely to the left, where it skittered along until it smacked into a wall.

Thompson’s vision went white, then black, as pain exploded through his being. He heard the whoosh of the board making a second swing, and tried to move out of the way, but then he heard the snap of his left arm breaking, and grunted once before collapsing to the floor. He felt more than saw his attacker, raising the board for a third strike, this one sure to split his head like a melon and leave Melanie a widow and his child fatherless...

Instinctively rolling toward his attacker, Thompson managed to narrow the distance between them enough so that this time when his opponent swung the board, it whizzed over Thompson’s head as he crashed into the attacker’s legs and sent the man tumbling across the room. Scrabbling to his left, Thompson used his good hand to feel along the floor for his pistol.

Behind him he could hear his attacker cursing under his breath as he struggled to regain his feet in the near darkness. Thompson fumbled along, seeking his gun, dust rising, and he repressed a sneeze as he crawled forward.

Hankins’ voice erupted in his headset. “Find anything yet, kid?”

Fine , Thompson thought, just swell , but he said nothing, not wanting to give his position away to his unwelcoming host. He continued forward, his good hand searching for the Glock, his bad arm throbbing so badly he wanted to pass out.

“Son of a bitch barge in my house,” the attacker muttered thickly behind him in the darkness.

There!

Something cool, something metallic — the Glock. His fingers wrapped around it and in one motion, still on his knees, Thompson pivoted, brought up the pistol and fired blindly three times, left, center, right, covering his options.

Thompson heard the soft thwack of at least one round entering the man’s body, heard too the man’s involuntary grunt, and finally he heard one more sound: the board dropping from his attacker’s hand with a thunk, raising dust. The attacker sagged to the floor, gurgled a couple of times, then was silent.

“Jesus, kid, I’m comin’!” Hankins’ voice shouted in the headset.

The pistol still in front of him, in his good hand, Thompson got to his feet, shuffled over, found the body in the dark and kicked it a couple of times.

It didn’t move.

Into the headset, Thompson calmly said, “It’s okay. Got a guy down — need a medic. My arm’s broken, but the attacker’s down.”

Hankins’ voice sounded like he was underwater. “I’m comin’, kid! I’ll be right there, I’m on the fifth floor and headed down.” The poor overweight bastard was probably running, which meant he might be about to have a heart attack.

“It’s all right, I said,” Thompson insisted. “I’ve got it covered.”

Using his foot, giving the darkness gentle kicks, he finally found the flashlight. He picked the thing up, shook it a couple of times, and was surprised when the beam came back on.

Struggling to juggle both the light and pistol in one hand — not put any more pressure on his aching arm than he had to — he made his way over and pointed the light down at his attacker’s face.

An old white man with wispy white hair, an open, mostly toothless mouth, and unblinking milky blue eyes stared up at him — no transgenic... just some poor homeless wretch. The old man had been doing nothing more than protecting his squatter’s rights in the tiny office... and for this, Thompson had killed him.

The young man’s stomach turned acidic again, but this time it wasn’t from fear. This time it was something far worse — shame... guilt.

He didn’t know how he’d ever get past this. Since joining White’s unit, he’d done some things that he knew he’d eventually regret; but, goddamnit, he’d never killed an innocent man — not until tonight.

Shaking his head, hot tears running down his face, mingling with sweat and rain, Thompson knew that tonight would be his last in this stinking job. Fuck Ames White. He and Hankins would finish here, drive back to the office, where they would make out their report, then he’d be done.

He would go home to his wife, take her and the baby in his arms, and tomorrow they would decide how far away they would move to try to put this night behind them. Somewhere, in the post-Pulse world, there had to be a life better than this one.

Then, in Thompson’s ear, Hankins screamed.

“Hankins!” Thompson shouted into his headset.

Nothing.

“Hankins, talk to me!”

Still no response.

Changing frequencies, Thompson sent out an emergency call to headquarters for reinforcements, and a general 911 call that would bring both the local cops and an ambulance. Then he switched back and called Hankins’ name again.

More silence.

Stripping off his tie, he made a makeshift splint with the flashlight, so the beam seemed to shoot out the end of his fingers; he tied it off, popped a new clip into the Glock, then took off up the stairs, fast as hell.

But not fast enough.