07-21-2017, 01:56 PM
The two cops leaned against the brick wall of a shaded alley, huffing for oxygen. Reyes pressed his fingers against the knife puncture and grimaced when he withdrew bloodstained fingers. The side of his blue police uniform was soaked with sweat and blood that was making an increasingly large, blackish stain that covered his left ribs. Fear and panic were barely contained within the deathly pallor of his face. Mad Bull studied the alleyway with the careful eye that came with his many years carrying a badge. The alley was a tiny 8 foot wide canyon between two towering brick building. Commercial dumpsters lined the three walls that made the dead end. The shadow of the buildings kept this alcove perpetually shaded, and almost as dark as night. Gnats buzzed around a white fluorescent light that was hung over a metal door that stood between two dumpsters. Black plastic bags that smelled of food waste were discarded in a clump near the door. Satisfied the coast was clear… for now… Mad Bull crept to the edge of the alleyway wall and looked into the streets from which they came.
After firing into the crowd, Sergeant John Estes had sprinted off with Officer Carlos Reyes in tow. The mob had scattered and during the chaos the two cops had beaten a path through the fleeing citizens of the 12th Ward, eventually finding this hiding spot behind a pair of dumpsters in a forgotten street alley. From his hidden vantage point, Mad Bull could see the crowd reconverging by the abandoned police cruiser. Wounded onlookers were assisted and the dead left for relatives to pick up later. A gang of youth had set the cruiser ablaze with a Molotov cocktail, and men were returning to the scene of violence, but this time armed with guns and knives they had retrieved from their apartments.
Sergeant Estes ducked back into the alley and checked on Reyes. The man was in a sorry state and probably wouldn't last another two hours without some help. “If this lout hasn't got sepsis from that pig-sticking knife, he sure as hell will mucking around in this fucking cesspool,” Mad Bull thought. He scowled, disgusted by the rancid trash rotting in the dumpster and the coward still clutching at his ribs. He wracked his mind for ideas on how to escape this pisscutter of a situation Reyes had involved him in.
As it had been all day, the power remained out in the 12 Ward. The two cops had originally been sent here to prevent any looting during the outage. The community was poor, but instead of taking advantage of the situation, the locals had celebrated the occasion like a neighborhood block party. Like many poor communities however, there was great frustration between the ruled and ruling classes. Rather than acting as a symbol of law and order, it seemed the two cops had only inflamed the locals who hated an authority that couldn't even keep the power running during the summer heat.
“What a mess,” Mad Bull complained inwardly. “We got no chance making it to a police station as long as the mob is out there wanting to skin our hides.”
“Carlos!” Mad Bull hissed, “I'm gonna radio the station for some backup.”
Reyes chuckled with the grim humor of a man walking up the gallows’ steps. “Imagine that, the legendary MAD BULL callin’ for backup. We must be really fucked…” The injured cop covered his mouth and coughed quietly. Blood trickled at the corner of his thin, tanned lips. He wheezed, and his voice was barely a whisper. “I think he stuck me in the lung, John…”
The sergeant ruffled the hairs of his thick mustache with one meaty finger. He bent over and leaned the Remington 870 shotgun against the brick wall and groped into his breast pocket. “Three shells,” he determined after a silent count. “And I got one left in the chamber.” He unholstered his Smith & Wesson revolver, flicked open the cylinder and checked the rounds. “That's six more shots. Better make 'em count,” he thought.
As he shoved the heavy sidearm back into it's hip holster, his nightstick faintly clanked in the little ring that kept it tethered to his belt. Unlike Reyes’ straight style truncheon, Estes’ stick was painted black and shaped like a tonfa. The sergeant unclipped his radio from the back of his belt and spoke into the receiver.
After firing into the crowd, Sergeant John Estes had sprinted off with Officer Carlos Reyes in tow. The mob had scattered and during the chaos the two cops had beaten a path through the fleeing citizens of the 12th Ward, eventually finding this hiding spot behind a pair of dumpsters in a forgotten street alley. From his hidden vantage point, Mad Bull could see the crowd reconverging by the abandoned police cruiser. Wounded onlookers were assisted and the dead left for relatives to pick up later. A gang of youth had set the cruiser ablaze with a Molotov cocktail, and men were returning to the scene of violence, but this time armed with guns and knives they had retrieved from their apartments.
Sergeant Estes ducked back into the alley and checked on Reyes. The man was in a sorry state and probably wouldn't last another two hours without some help. “If this lout hasn't got sepsis from that pig-sticking knife, he sure as hell will mucking around in this fucking cesspool,” Mad Bull thought. He scowled, disgusted by the rancid trash rotting in the dumpster and the coward still clutching at his ribs. He wracked his mind for ideas on how to escape this pisscutter of a situation Reyes had involved him in.
As it had been all day, the power remained out in the 12 Ward. The two cops had originally been sent here to prevent any looting during the outage. The community was poor, but instead of taking advantage of the situation, the locals had celebrated the occasion like a neighborhood block party. Like many poor communities however, there was great frustration between the ruled and ruling classes. Rather than acting as a symbol of law and order, it seemed the two cops had only inflamed the locals who hated an authority that couldn't even keep the power running during the summer heat.
“What a mess,” Mad Bull complained inwardly. “We got no chance making it to a police station as long as the mob is out there wanting to skin our hides.”
“Carlos!” Mad Bull hissed, “I'm gonna radio the station for some backup.”
Reyes chuckled with the grim humor of a man walking up the gallows’ steps. “Imagine that, the legendary MAD BULL callin’ for backup. We must be really fucked…” The injured cop covered his mouth and coughed quietly. Blood trickled at the corner of his thin, tanned lips. He wheezed, and his voice was barely a whisper. “I think he stuck me in the lung, John…”
The sergeant ruffled the hairs of his thick mustache with one meaty finger. He bent over and leaned the Remington 870 shotgun against the brick wall and groped into his breast pocket. “Three shells,” he determined after a silent count. “And I got one left in the chamber.” He unholstered his Smith & Wesson revolver, flicked open the cylinder and checked the rounds. “That's six more shots. Better make 'em count,” he thought.
As he shoved the heavy sidearm back into it's hip holster, his nightstick faintly clanked in the little ring that kept it tethered to his belt. Unlike Reyes’ straight style truncheon, Estes’ stick was painted black and shaped like a tonfa. The sergeant unclipped his radio from the back of his belt and spoke into the receiver.