Brittle
By Steven M Nedeau
Mara looked down at the body, female, probably 37 to 45. Blonde hair, matted with blood and dirt, fell across the body’s slender shoulders onto the floor. Reaching down, Mara felt the neck for a pulse. She paused as her fingers inspected the hair, looking for signs of the disease, all while keeping a wary eye on the glass doors of the building in front of her. In Mara’s other hand, the gun smoked, filling the air with the acrid smell of gunpowder.
Most contract fulfillment crews used electric rail guns. She sneered at the thought. Those electric toys didn’t have the concussion impact of an old wheel gun. Mara liked to make a statement. She looked down at the woman she had dispatched. The blonde has been armed with an old pump action shotgun.
Now there’s a statement, she thought.
The hair was soft, silky, showing no signs of the brittle symptom of the disease. Most tracts came through the office, but contract fulfillment crews were bound to close out anyone showing signs of the disease. The disease spread too easily. She pulled her hand away from the blonde and muttered under her breath, “This one’s clean.” There would be no payment for this one. Crouching next to the lifeless form, Mara checked the communication screen on her wrist. The address is right.
Putting her attention back to the building, Mara tried to see through the glass.
Someone inside could have heard those shots.
The distance to the doors felt further than it looked. The glass door swung open smoothly, breaking the silence with a whine of the universal arm. Inside, the glow of the streetlights illuminated the lobby. There was a round desk sitting on a large oval carpet, potted plants, and benches, but no human sign.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior Mara tried to locate the stairwell door. The elevators wouldn't be functional with the building power out. A mental switch converted her visual spectrum to low light. She needed more than infrared. The stairwell could be pitch black.
Mara craned her head listening. Yes, there were more upstairs. She opened the door and began to climb.
Each step came rippling with pain. That shotgun had clipped her knee actuator.
Mara rose from the bed, crawling across the covers to the floor. She pushed up off the creaking pine floorboards and stood on her wobbling legs. The bathroom was on the other side of the apartment and the daylight filtered in through the slits in the blinds.
The path was strewn with empty liquor bottles, dirty laundry, and old pizza boxes. Grit from fifty missed cleanings stuck to the bottom of her feet as she crossed the wasteland that was her girlfriend’s apartment.
She lowered the toilet seat quietly and relieved herself, sighing as the pressure subsided.
In the kitchen, she washed her hands and searched the disorganized cubbies and cabinets for a coffee cup that wasn’t broken or dirty. Finding one, she reached into her shopping bag from the night before and smiled as she pulled out the ground coffee. It had been so expensive that she had almost not purchased it from the posh store two blocks away. Funny, she thought, the disparity and difference two blocks can make.
Breaking open the seal she breathed in the heady aroma. Where’s the coffee pot.? She doesn't have a coffee pot? Pulling out a pan she placed it next to a gun and pile of bullets on the counter. That won’t do, she thought. With a sweep of her hand she brushed the brass casings and bullets into a plastic bowl and set it on the table next to the window. Sunlight glanced across her hand as she placed it, driving a spark of pain up her arm.
Seated now with a cup of steaming coffee Mara inspected the gun. It belonged to Flynn, asleep. The sights reflected in the light, little dots absorbing lumens from the sun until they glowed a subdued green in the dark. Mara cocked the slide back, popping out a bullet from the chamber. It landed on the floor with a snap, rolling into the space under the table.
Flynn groaned from the next room and the sound of shuffling footsteps echoed out of the hall.
“How much did we have to drink last night?” Flynn asked, coming into the kitchen on her way to the bathroom. Her hair was unkempt and unruly, hanging over her shoulders. Even in the clutches of a morning hangover Flynn still looked more beautiful than most. Lost in a mixture of love and envy Mara wished she could have hair like that.
“You had a lot more to drink than me, I’m sure,” Mara said, spellbound until Flynn was past her.
“How many tracts did we complete last night?” Flynn asked from the other side of the door. Her voice echoed in the tiles, sounding hollow.
“We, or me?”
“OK, you.”
“Three. Two males and one female.”
“Did it cover the repair you requested?” Flynn asked, washing her hands in the kitchen sink. The water spun noisily down the drain.
“Knee isn’t as good as new,” Mara said, shrugging.
“Well you’re going to need it tonight. I got word that we have three more down in the squals. Two simple tracts and an all out Victor.”
“A full Victor? Is the disease spreading?”
“Well, apparently we’re not clearing them out as fast as we thought.”
“But a full Victor,” Mara asked, “how strong are we talking?”
“Are you afraid?” Flynn laughed, shaking her head. She poured a cup of coffee and ran her hands through her hair.
Mara put the gun down. She had been holding it, bouncing it on her lap, and now her hands were sweaty against the black metal. A Victor. Only last month she had faced a Victor. It had almost become her last tract.
“Well, don’t worry,” Flynn said, turning to walk into the bedroom again. “This time you won’t have to face the Victor alone.”
With a sigh, Mara reached under the table for the bullet she had ejected. It rested on the floor next to a tuft of hair, beautiful hair, brittle to the touch.