And last week…
It had been a mess. A blocked tunnel, part of the water and sewage system that had been shut down for security’s sake, had been opened. No one saw, no one noticed, until the Can Heads began clawing their way in, rising up from the ground inside the building’s fence.
The Can Heads had been minutes away from getting inside the building. And all those residents sat, waiting—some with guns, some not—all knowing that if the building came under a full-blown Can Head attack, it would take a shitload of cops to save them.
An army of cops.
That night, they got there in time. Killed the few Can Heads who had gotten out. Blew the tunnel opening, sealing it.
Jack clipped on the protective vest and leggings, and then the new Kevlar shield designed to keep the lower head and neck safe.
In case one got too close, jumped on you, and dug its teeth in.
“We got any support from the neighbors? Maybe the Six-three? Been quiet over there. Maybe they’d like some fun.”
“Not tonight. They had two incidents already.” Miller just shook his head. “Captain says you two are all on your own.”
And Jack guessed that the Six-three’s captain didn’t want to leave his precinct low on firepower. Could be the start of a busy night.
You never knew.
Either way, it would be just him and Rodriguez facing whatever the hell was going on in the Van Hove Apartments.
“All set?” Rodriguez asked.
Jack nodded.
Rodriguez clapped a hand on Jack’s back. “Good. I’ll drive. Now let’s go kill some Can Heads.”
As they navigated the passable streets of Brooklyn, following a maze of detours made by the security fence, Jack thought of the call from Christie.
When she had called, everything had been quiet.
Now, just past three A.M., they were driving through empty streets. Dead streets, heading to a godforsaken place where—incredibly enough—people lived.
Rodriguez dug out a cigarette. The smoke soon filled the interior even with his window cracked. Sometimes Rodriguez would ask Jack if he minded. Tonight he didn’t.
Certain open spots were lit by massive tungsten lamps; other streets were islands of darkness, the high-intensity lamps never installed at all or smashed by the Can Heads.
They liked the dark.
From the outside, their squad car didn’t look all that different than one from a decade ago. Still almost like a normal patrol car, white with blue markings.