SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

Extract from ‘Bonked’ by Patrick Freivald, featured in SNAFU: Hunters (November 2015)

Flynn jerked his thumb toward the back. “You want me to get the trunk?”

Matt shook his head. The REC-7 carbine and Auto-Assault 12 combat shotgun could stay where they were, in the trunk under lock and key. If worse came to worse he had his personal Glock 9mm in the glove box. But it wouldn’t. They’d been made as cops in a no-go zone, but hadn’t done anything to justify a murder, even from a gang as vicious as the Camino Reals.

They blew through two red lights, the jeeps swerving and honking behind, but as they passed from one turf to the next the pursuit broke off and didn’t return.

“You sussed those out pretty fast. Precog, yeah?” Flynn asked.

Matt nodded without taking his eyes from the road.

“Brilliant, brilliant. They wouldn’t clear me for it, said I’d had enough. I’m thinking what’s the harm, right?”

“The harm is you go bonk and kill everything around you until other people like you put you down.”

Flynn chuckled. “That’s what I mean, right? The side effect is ‘fun.’”

“Just keep your pants on.”

“Aye, Sergeant.”

Ten minutes later they rolled past the Marquee, a modern glass-and-steel structure at odds with the dilapidated neighborhood. The fading day washed the neon lights to a pale glow but did nothing to hide the ultraviolet paint across the front windows, a cartoon shark swimming through a golden crown that would be invisible to unaugmented eyes.

“See that?” Matt asked.

Flynn nodded. “Fancy. You think the Shades don’t have blacklights?”

Matt shrugged. “One cop in fifty might have augged vision, maybe. Not like the Mako Kings don’t know the police know where they hang out, anyway. As long as they think we’re just cops, we’ll—”

Flynn popped his handle and stepped out, the car still rolling at fifteen miles an hour. He hooked a parking meter with his right hand and used it to spin himself around, stopping with a flourish with his toes balanced on the edge of the curb. As Matt slammed on the brakes and swore under his breath, Flynn took a bow to the wide-eyed onlookers. Flynn waited behind the car for Matt to pull over, put on the brake and get out.

People milled the streets, heading home from work or out for a Friday on the town. As one they gave the car a wide berth, eyeing both newcomers with open suspicion or naked hostility.

Matt stepped up to his friend with his jaw clenched in frustration. “Dammit, Conor, we’re supposed to be scoping the place, not painting bullseyes on our heads.”

A seven-foot tall bouncer, rippling with muscles impossible through normal exercise, eyed them from the front door across the street. Taking in the sea of Hispanics, all either staring or trying too hard not to stare, Flynn ran a hand over the stubble on his pasty scalp. “See, we fit right in, sunnies and all.” He put on his shades and sauntered across the street.

Music trickled out behind the double-doors, Latin horns over a hip-hop beat, death-metal Spanish growling from a microphone. They approached, cop-casual, Matt two steps behind. The bouncer moved to intercept them. His voice rumbled an octave lower than a normal man’s, his accent a blend of Mexican and south Florida. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“Yes,” Matt said. “We—”

“Looking for a drink and twirl is all.” Flynn spun, an elegant pirouette that ended in a curtsey. He held the pose and looked up under his brow into the bouncer’s eyes. “Heard the Marquee had it happening, am I right?”

“You’re not our target clientele, ese.” The bouncer put his hands on his hips so that his massive frame blocked most of both doors. Matt winced as Flynn’s eyes flashed, an almost imperceptible twitch that showed not the slightest hint of fear. The bouncer put his hand on Flynn’s chest, fingers splaying almost to his shoulders. “You’re going to have to leave.”

“What, because I’m white? You discriminating here? You think the Irish haven’t faced—”

Matt put his hand on Flynn’s shoulder. “We’re not here to pick a fight, Conor.”

“—their share of discrimination, you racist prick? Why don’t you make me leave, big guy?”

To his credit, the bouncer didn’t take the bait. Much. He extended his arm, slowly, forcing Flynn several steps back on the sidewalk. “Move along, little man. This isn’t the place for you.” He extended his fingers and Conor stumbled back two steps.

Matt moved between them and Conor rebounded off of his back. “We’re sorry, sir. We’ll be on our way.” He stepped back, bumping Flynn toward the street, then turned and backed him off the curb and into the road. Through gritted teeth he mumbled, “The point was to maintain surprise, moron.”

Flynn almost frolicked toward the car, locking eyes with anyone and everyone who dared challenge his right to be there. “Nah, there’s no fun in that, and he thinks we’re cops or feds or something anyway. The point was to size that meathead up. You see what I saw?”

Matt recalled the scene, his eidetic memory enhancements bringing to crystal-clear focus details he hadn’t seen in real time. “Tracks?”

“Right is right. He’s on the H, not just Jade. We follow him home, wait for him to snow out, bangers and mash,” he mimed tossing a flash-bang grenade, “black bag over the head, voila. New toy for the intel department.”

Matt tried not to smile as he gunned the engine. “Call it in.”